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Board Administrator Username: mjm Post Number: 4046 Registered: 11-1998 |
Honorable Mention Moored Marty Abuloc A certain irregularity in the way the waves crash and move, create a curving shoreline of foam and seaweeds. Old men ponder on shipwrecks submerged in deep, unmoving silence behind madman's rock, itself an abandoned harbor teeming with ancestral ghosts. Generational tales are re-told to wide eyed half naked children made to assume their father's lives, and their father's father... here is a coastal town whose souls turn inland, always inland, or anywhere far from the sickening seaspray and sand... this is the coming storm that will loosen every mossy plank, and send every boat shattered on the beach head of oblivion, it is a calling for tall trees, and mountain peaks, away from the saline air that fills one's lungs with each inhalation, away from the monosyllabic lives of waking up and staring out into the endless sea. Away, anywhere out of the fishnets that sway to and fro, out of the huts where housewives and daughters spending fish hours and shored minutes preparing tables and beds for sea-tired men... away from the drowsy jellyfish mornings, foggy and stale, away from the smelling wharf where ale and salt and oil are mixed with left over innards... away from the regular horns at one and two and three a.m. of departing fish boats bound for blue fin point, away from all of these... anywhere, anywhere at all, the cold wind blows high enough and strong to carry sea moored souls dreaming inland dreams. gulls are erratic on wingtips, squawking, grotesque and terribly at peace with the monochrome sea sights, but children have eyes glossed over by nagging visions of elsewhere, of mountain tops, of city scapes. The men are hauling smelly barrels of the same catch day after dreary day as centuries ago, and gossips of the hometown queen running away into the vulgar city of her dreams float about and die in ebbtide. |
