[Then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can, he says]
Then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can, he says,
quoting Moby Dick. I’m tired of a sedentary life, he tells me. I’m ready
to knock people’s hats off in the street, again paraphrasing Melville.
The sea is a place to go when your mind wanders so much that you’d
like a place to be able to look around and think or say, I can’t wander
anymore. What is a dog, he says, if not the whole sea? One dog is a giant
in comparison with the lot of seas. Why don’t you get a dog, I ask. I’m not
the caliber of person who has the capacity to take care of a dog, he tells me,
and there’s no arguing it. I miss shooting dope so much, he says. I’d never
do it again because my heart would give out but I miss it. I’d never do it.
I want to live. I like it here. I like living here with what I have. This apartment.
The lake. The relative solitude. The cold when it gets here. The sounds
of the ships. That is a very short list, I realize, he says. I must go to sea,
he says. But I’ve been to sea (a very little). And I still feel no contentment.