Sitting close to the low burning fire I look upwards slowly, the universe again expanded above me. I turn my gaze back to the fire, flickering gently against the desert sand below, licking quietly into the darkness above. The water is boiling noisily; I pour out coffee, thick, strong, black. I stare into the fire, bright orange embers fly upwards and the glowing wood sits beside the blackest of black. Blue flames dance reaching to the stars turning orange and yellow as they lick the frigid desert night. Around the campground orange dots glow where others sit beside their warming fires; they laugh and joke, tell stories, play off-key tunes on battered old guitars. I turn away from the dying fire as the first drops of hot rain hiss into the fire and explode against my face. I sit beside the dying fire, rain rolling down my face as I drink my coffee slowly, staring with unfocused eyes at the glowing logs. The coffee becomes thick. I throw the grounds to the last, fighting remnants of the fire hissing loudly behind me as I retreat into my tent. Everything is changing.
The service station is bright and loud and alien. I use the toilets and pay too much for a tepid coffee that is too small. I walk outside, stamping my feet and lifting my knees high to get the blood flowing as the horn blasts once loudly on the bus. Passengers run past me frantically, dropping chocolate bars and pre-packaged sandwiches. I finish my coffee at the door with the driver sucking hard on the filter of a cigarette. I settle down to watch the dark before the dawn roll, breathing the empty earthy scent as I roll the cup mindlessly around my hands, licking my lips and sucking the coffee from my tongue.
The coffee does not reach the ocean. Spray leaps wildly into the air consuming the gentle brown arc. I stand alone outside the galley door, arm hooked over the handrail to steady myself, and out of reach of most of the spray. I watch the rolling, boiling, angry, white emptiness of ocean. We travel slowly, imperceptibly, in a fashion outdated two centuries earlier. Modern man lives in a far smaller world than ever before. We exist in a world where the furthest corners are twenty-four hours away, where communication is instant and life speeds by us, constantly. Here on the ship, watching the sea I realise the true immensity of Earth, the horizon, the single circular line of the sea is unbroken, as it has been for a week, no land appears to ease the view. In this ageless, changeless world we wake and sleep, eat and laugh. As the ship sails onwards through this monotonous view. The whole world could be different, past that line of horizon, or it could be exactly the same, I know nothing of the events, nor do I want to. The isolation comforts me from the unimportant events of the world. The politics, television shows, everything alien and unnecessary, standing here on the wooden deck salt water dying tight on my face. I watch the ocean boil itself to frenzy, as we sail onwards. Everything is changing.
A shout goes up, the sails need stowing for the night. I volunteer quickly. It is calmer high up the mast, quieter, freer, simpler, easier. Almost tranquil. Less running, less ropes, less shouting, less laughing, less chaos, less life. Climbing the rigging the world expands slowly. At top of the mast, I inch out sideways from the apparent safety of the mast to stow the sail. Looking out across the grey ocean; miles away the horizon is the same perfect circle that it is down on the deck. Our little ship move invisibly at the centre of a circle of oceanic nothingness. I look down to the deck far below, those working ropes and behind where people work on the main mast. Across from me someone works on the other half of the sail. We have a casual conversation, shouting against the wind as the ship far below us bucks and our height on the mast magnifies the sway of the deck dramatically. I look at the horizon, appearing to be rising and falling steadily as we rock through the waves, again, the sky tinted pink with the first threads of sunset. I can think of nowhere I would rather be.
I sit in the mess hall with my opponent opposite me. We concentrate on the backgammon board between us, shuffling pieces around and replacing them after particularly big waves knock them. We smile jubilantly or mutter curses as the dice play their own game regardless of our plans. Other crew members play cards; fall over across the room, spill drinks, dash outside to be sick. We play on through the storm, the board sliding on the table, holding cups of tea swaying, spilling scalding liquid across our fingers. The dice flying from the table and rattle across the floor.
A die bounces against my bare foot. I turn from the window slowly to the nervous boy in the aisle. I reach down slowly to retrieve it. Turning the small wooden cube in my fingers I study it. Smooth sides, rounded corners, indented numbers. The boy is terrified, just before he flees I hand it to him quickly. He retreats as it hits his hand, back to his mother. I tune into the sound of the radio playing quietly, a slow blues tune. I look at my clock; pull the frame gently to reveal smiling faces from the past; parents on holiday, the dog, hot summer days, friends with bikes all swim around me with a fuzzy-edged contentment of memory as I reassemble the clock carefully and close my eyes; hand tight over the clock, a corner digs sharply into my palm. The darkness of sleep takes me. Everything is changing.
Darkness enfolds me in an instant. The television picture dies. I get up to cross the room cautiously to retrieve my portable CD player. I sprawl across the sofa listening to music, close my eyes and the darkness goes unnoticed. Lying silent listening to music I close my eyes and see people in the houses around. They are panicking, stumbling blindly, fumbling for long since lost torches and candles and matches in black cupboards. They are crippled without this invisible power. The energy flows, pulses as we consume it mindlessly. When it is gone we see how it affects our lives and controls us. Yet we miss our master, we crave for his return. We yearn to fulfil ourselves and to consume. Cars pass, throwing erratic patterns across the darkened ceiling. The cat pads happily across the room, jumping delicately over the sleeping dog at my feet. We struggle through, shins crack on coffee tables; toes stub on invisible doors, stumble over discarded shoes. . I close my eyes and listen to my music, not caring if the power is restored. I can happily sleep on the sofa. The cat curls up at my feet and the music enfolds me in a brighter reality.
The service station is bright and loud and alien. I use the toilets and pay too much for a tepid coffee that is too small. I walk outside, stamping my feet and lifting my knees high to get the blood flowing as the horn blasts once loudly on the bus. Passengers run past me frantically, dropping chocolate bars and pre-packaged sandwiches. I finish my coffee at the door with the driver sucking hard on the filter of a cigarette. I settle down to watch the dark before the dawn roll, breathing the empty earthy scent as I roll the cup mindlessly around my hands, licking my lips and sucking the coffee from my tongue.
The coffee does not reach the ocean. Spray leaps wildly into the air consuming the gentle brown arc. I stand alone outside the galley door, arm hooked over the handrail to steady myself, and out of reach of most of the spray. I watch the rolling, boiling, angry, white emptiness of ocean. We travel slowly, imperceptibly, in a fashion outdated two centuries earlier. Modern man lives in a far smaller world than ever before. We exist in a world where the furthest corners are twenty-four hours away, where communication is instant and life speeds by us, constantly. Here on the ship, watching the sea I realise the true immensity of Earth, the horizon, the single circular line of the sea is unbroken, as it has been for a week, no land appears to ease the view. In this ageless, changeless world we wake and sleep, eat and laugh. As the ship sails onwards through this monotonous view. The whole world could be different, past that line of horizon, or it could be exactly the same, I know nothing of the events, nor do I want to. The isolation comforts me from the unimportant events of the world. The politics, television shows, everything alien and unnecessary, standing here on the wooden deck salt water dying tight on my face. I watch the ocean boil itself to frenzy, as we sail onwards. Everything is changing.
A shout goes up, the sails need stowing for the night. I volunteer quickly. It is calmer high up the mast, quieter, freer, simpler, easier. Almost tranquil. Less running, less ropes, less shouting, less laughing, less chaos, less life. Climbing the rigging the world expands slowly. At top of the mast, I inch out sideways from the apparent safety of the mast to stow the sail. Looking out across the grey ocean; miles away the horizon is the same perfect circle that it is down on the deck. Our little ship move invisibly at the centre of a circle of oceanic nothingness. I look down to the deck far below, those working ropes and behind where people work on the main mast. Across from me someone works on the other half of the sail. We have a casual conversation, shouting against the wind as the ship far below us bucks and our height on the mast magnifies the sway of the deck dramatically. I look at the horizon, appearing to be rising and falling steadily as we rock through the waves, again, the sky tinted pink with the first threads of sunset. I can think of nowhere I would rather be.
I sit in the mess hall with my opponent opposite me. We concentrate on the backgammon board between us, shuffling pieces around and replacing them after particularly big waves knock them. We smile jubilantly or mutter curses as the dice play their own game regardless of our plans. Other crew members play cards; fall over across the room, spill drinks, dash outside to be sick. We play on through the storm, the board sliding on the table, holding cups of tea swaying, spilling scalding liquid across our fingers. The dice flying from the table and rattle across the floor.
A die bounces against my bare foot. I turn from the window slowly to the nervous boy in the aisle. I reach down slowly to retrieve it. Turning the small wooden cube in my fingers I study it. Smooth sides, rounded corners, indented numbers. The boy is terrified, just before he flees I hand it to him quickly. He retreats as it hits his hand, back to his mother. I tune into the sound of the radio playing quietly, a slow blues tune. I look at my clock; pull the frame gently to reveal smiling faces from the past; parents on holiday, the dog, hot summer days, friends with bikes all swim around me with a fuzzy-edged contentment of memory as I reassemble the clock carefully and close my eyes; hand tight over the clock, a corner digs sharply into my palm. The darkness of sleep takes me. Everything is changing.
Darkness enfolds me in an instant. The television picture dies. I get up to cross the room cautiously to retrieve my portable CD player. I sprawl across the sofa listening to music, close my eyes and the darkness goes unnoticed. Lying silent listening to music I close my eyes and see people in the houses around. They are panicking, stumbling blindly, fumbling for long since lost torches and candles and matches in black cupboards. They are crippled without this invisible power. The energy flows, pulses as we consume it mindlessly. When it is gone we see how it affects our lives and controls us. Yet we miss our master, we crave for his return. We yearn to fulfil ourselves and to consume. Cars pass, throwing erratic patterns across the darkened ceiling. The cat pads happily across the room, jumping delicately over the sleeping dog at my feet. We struggle through, shins crack on coffee tables; toes stub on invisible doors, stumble over discarded shoes. . I close my eyes and listen to my music, not caring if the power is restored. I can happily sleep on the sofa. The cat curls up at my feet and the music enfolds me in a brighter reality.
The next part is due for release tomorrow.
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