helm

Starship helms are my only certainty. Though I suppose naval vessels are not far off. I see a page ripped out of a children’s book, perhaps it’s historical fiction having to do with pirates. These bandits are romanticized and glamorized because they do not exist anymore, at least, not in the living history of the western world. I imagine their world to be quite filthy and morally bankrupt, but also perhaps the best they could do with their lives at that given time. Individual tragedy and destitution can sometimes lead to less than savory opportunities falling into one’s lap, and with a low-life expectancy into old age, the offer must’ve been more appealing than undiagnosed depression. Wooden ships must creak often. They must be regarded as some work of art, at least beyond my capabilities. There at the helm, a steering wheel perhaps not as full of splinters as one might imagine. It takes great strength and fortitude to steer and direct a ship. The rudder must be operational at all times. That doesn’t seem to be a possible repair on a high sea voyage. I’d imagine the vantage point to be nice and serene, a glimpse at peace before a hellish, stormy hurricane. Shoes are worn. Beards thick and at risk of lice. The sun hot and promising sunburn. The interior cabins rank and crawling with … something better left unsaid. The brig must be a miserable place. And all for what? Gold? Humans value some kind of currency. Whether it’s paper or metal or goods in trade. There’s always something that somebody wants. The captain of this ship must have an eye patch and out of his one good eye he watches this helmsman closely so he may have the illusion of control. Peg-legs must’ve been difficult to maintain back then. Any sort of amputation. The rockiness of the seas must not have been kind. Sea air a combination of refreshing and sick. I’m not sure if I ever could have been one to gain my sea legs…Cannonballs as playthings, toys for men. Destructive and decisive with their direction and intention. How many last words never said, poems of the high seas never left the boat which the creator died on? To sink the bottom of the ocean, and to know this certainty is your fate, must be a terrifying concept to grasp.