I first saw the Southern Moon while standing on the deck of a merchant ship, the Lord Triton, she was beautiful. The night's shading, hazard and strong, only added to her mystery and wonder, the incredible beauty radiating out with that pale light.
Soft moonbeams shone through the mist--I gave my thanks for protective vision during the time I lost myself in the Mid-Earth Jungles.
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I came to France bright and with a ready shine. Once arriving in Marseilles, I managed to attach myself to a group of 'artiste' Frenchmen I met at a cafe by the docks; a gloomy author, Cyril, a painter, Etienne, one who drew landscapes to accompany self-penned poetry, George, and a persistently alc-loosened fellow, Henri, all on a voyage to explore 'the Orient' (this they planned, although they didn't plan on going east of the Ottoman territories). They got me onto the ship by playing the Captain--saying I was a personal bartender who--this I devised, to cover my accent, suspicious to insolence (the result of actively abandoning my boarding school polish years ago)-- was tragically deaf, and could only be communicated with via a set of unique (i.e. blatantly improvised) hand signals. Our ruse sailed set until about mid-evening that day. It was only after learning that one cannot mistake dessert liquors around rich, drunk--very easily angered Frenchmen, and remain unberated by men; it became grounded, and thus sank.
Fortunately, a storm quickly forced the Captain to save my 'unmasking' for the morning. I quickly made my way to the deck, tossing and turning about, but, seeing it was mostly deserted, made my way to the bunks and set myself at the Frenchmen's settlement, marked as such by their luggage.
I was awoken by George, or more accurately, his sour breath; frantically informing me that Cyril, taken again by a fit of grainy melancholy, rushed to the top and threw himself overboard. As their illegitimate guest, since he owed his fellows some sums from nightly round of poker; it had apparently fallen to me to follow him in and fish him out. I was quite hesitant, to say the least, this was the Mediterranean in black-night, and I wasn't keen at the prospect of the chilling, churning shock of the expansive wetness.
On land, the shock would've plowed through me, but in water, it was just damn cold, the jolt made me glad that there was a very, very long rope tied to my wrist. Soon after, I spotted the thrashing author, yelling and cursing at an assortment of obscure mystics and between the falls of water. I swam over to him, and, alerting him, grabbed an outstretched arm and pulled him, back to the
Soft moonbeams shone through the mist--I gave my thanks for protective vision during the time I lost myself in the Mid-Earth Jungles.
********************************************************
I came to France bright and with a ready shine. Once arriving in Marseilles, I managed to attach myself to a group of 'artiste' Frenchmen I met at a cafe by the docks; a gloomy author, Cyril, a painter, Etienne, one who drew landscapes to accompany self-penned poetry, George, and a persistently alc-loosened fellow, Henri, all on a voyage to explore 'the Orient' (this they planned, although they didn't plan on going east of the Ottoman territories). They got me onto the ship by playing the Captain--saying I was a personal bartender who--this I devised, to cover my accent, suspicious to insolence (the result of actively abandoning my boarding school polish years ago)-- was tragically deaf, and could only be communicated with via a set of unique (i.e. blatantly improvised) hand signals. Our ruse sailed set until about mid-evening that day. It was only after learning that one cannot mistake dessert liquors around rich, drunk--very easily angered Frenchmen, and remain unberated by men; it became grounded, and thus sank.
Fortunately, a storm quickly forced the Captain to save my 'unmasking' for the morning. I quickly made my way to the deck, tossing and turning about, but, seeing it was mostly deserted, made my way to the bunks and set myself at the Frenchmen's settlement, marked as such by their luggage.
I was awoken by George, or more accurately, his sour breath; frantically informing me that Cyril, taken again by a fit of grainy melancholy, rushed to the top and threw himself overboard. As their illegitimate guest, since he owed his fellows some sums from nightly round of poker; it had apparently fallen to me to follow him in and fish him out. I was quite hesitant, to say the least, this was the Mediterranean in black-night, and I wasn't keen at the prospect of the chilling, churning shock of the expansive wetness.
On land, the shock would've plowed through me, but in water, it was just damn cold, the jolt made me glad that there was a very, very long rope tied to my wrist. Soon after, I spotted the thrashing author, yelling and cursing at an assortment of obscure mystics and between the falls of water. I swam over to him, and, alerting him, grabbed an outstretched arm and pulled him, back to the
