Monday, December 28, 2009
the barbaric sea
Surfing and painting are all that move me at the present time. Work seems a distant nuissance, though admittedly I will have to engage in the capitalist endeavors that drive the human race sooner than later. I've honed my skills with an axe. Too bad I can't make kindling for a living. All pretentions aside (and to think that living can be done without money is just shy of extreme pretention...) the savings account is running dry.
The "new year," as it is called, is a hoax. Each day is a chance to start over, begin something, take a bite, drop in, bury the hatchet, shed the coat, spray paint the garage door bright neon orange....
As for the thoughts I've been mulling over in this somewhat hungry brain of mine, here is a quote that epitomizes them quite perfectly...
"To what avail the plough or sail, or love, or life -- if freedom fail? Freedom. Freedom to what? Escape, run, wonder turning your back on a cowed society that stutters, staggers, and satnates every man for himself and fuck you Jack I've got mine? To be truly challenging, a voyage, like life, must rest on a firm foundation of financial unrest. Otherwise you are doomed to a routine traverse, the kind known to yachtsmen, who play with their boats at sea --"cruising" it is called. Voyaging belongs to the sea men, and to the wonderers of the world who cannot or will not fit in. Little has been said or written about the ways a man may blast himself free. Why? I don't know, unless the answer lies in our diseased values....Men are enmeshed in the cancerous discipline of "security", and in the worship of security we fling our lives beneath the wheels of routine--and before we know it our lives are gone.What does a man really need --- really need? A few pounds of food each day, heat and shelter, six feet to lie down in ---and some form of working activity that will yield a sense of accomplishment. That's all --- in the material sense. But we are brainwashed by our economic system until we end up in a tomb beneath a pyramid of time payments, mortgages, preposterous gadgetry, playthings that divert our attention from the sheer idiocy of the charade. The years thunder by. The dreams of youth grow dim where they like caked in dust on the shelves of patience. Before we know it, the tomb is sealed. Dedication to the sea is the symbol of migration and movement and wondering. It is the barbaric place and it stands opposed to society and it is a constant symbol in all of literature, too. As Thomas Wolfe said, "It is the state of barbaric disorder out of which civilization has emerged and into which it is liable to return."----Stearling Hayden, Wonderer, 1964
Happiest of new days, every day.