Friday, 5 September 2008
ť ...As Autumn stretches her wings, as these wild driven seas drum in rhetoric motion, shifting stones & sands white streaked, tattooed in ancient cipher...Nosce te ipsum...As the playground jaws of this Western abyss grind gently, half aware of whispers leaking from the world, a murmur of rhythm deafening to the eighth hunter. Yes you children in kayaks - war is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things...not by far. The decayed & degraded state of moral & patriotic feeling which thinks nothing worth a war, is worse. A man who has nothing which he cares more about than he does about his personal safety is a miserable creature who has no chance at being free, unless made & kept so by the exertions of better men than himself...Nosce te ipsum, promove, vetustas occaecabis solum puer aeternus
& scything swiftly through & turning high I reach a crest of distilled motion & ready myself & everything hangs momentarily, silent, as if the tongue had already been cut from the dragon by my audacity alone - & the beast looks back at me & rears up & I hear myself say...
Now, let us dance...you & I •≈
Trivia & further trivia: After each knife party, I'll invariably return to the outskirts of my village, harboured into its shoulder of basalt, avoid the crowds & stare back at the loch following its lead edge to those Western shores of Atlantic kayaking poetry. Out there is where we each converge to recite & eviscerate & rampage, hand in hand with great breakers & night patrols of whales as we spit back smiles full of blood & teeth. In here I nod at familiar faces & retrieve supplies. In here, is for sleep, & sometimes inbetween that sleep & the doing of life, I wonder why I write here, if anyone ever really visits this...But, I have this ability I guess, of clicking my heels 3 times & relieving myself of this awkward & floundering affiliation with dry land, the preservation of uselessness it tattoos me with...I grab a bag of chips, vinegar leaking from the paper, & climb the creaking pathway through the storm pines, my head still swaying with wave motion, my nose still leaking saline enigma, the collie zig zagging for large eared vermin & idly take this photo from what we call, The Lump. Here, on the 18th of June 1742, the last hanging & public execution on Skye took place. Angus Buchanan, for the murder of a peddler. A peddler being a trader of illicit or legal goods rather than a random cyclist...
posted by •≈ Sgian Dubh at 02:45:00 | 
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