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↑ Vantage pt for Jay Levine at tippity top of crow's nest before he jumped.

Das Boot: the first and perhaps most profound of the Dreamscape categories in that it describes not only the day-to-day adventures of a Caribbean escape, but also a moment that was much of a fulcrum or a rubicon for everyone involved, both a gathering and a dispersal. They were all twenty-four or twenty-five years old, an age where everything in the past seems like prologue and the next turned page is where the story really begins. There was a lot of debate about what comes next: plans hatched, destinies reconsidered. And soon after: Sebastian heading for Brazil, Christoph to Argentina, Helene to New Zealand, our pal Jayson and Natalie both to New York City. And the more we studied these pages, the stronger the urge became to apply allegory and deeper significance to everything that was written. And although 'reality' strongly resists such neat and tidy structuring, nonetheless here it is.

-- Eds

Das Boot i (23/33)

December 20, 1990

Choose a different dreamscape

What I saw as sweet has turned oh-so-sour. Originally budding + limited + curious + innocent, I now see as conniving + manipulating, sly + devious, self-centered, self-serving + selfish and lazy. And righteous. And streetwise (even for his tender age [12]; even for his limited island parameters). Driving me nuts, actually, with nagging negative feelings and suspicions. And assumptions. And presumptuous. And expectant. And demanding: of attention especially. Gaaaa! His fuzzy head brushing my hand as we both stood on the entrance ladder watching Sebastian fiddle with the radio filled me with an acrid repulsion. I swallow it. Tonight we went out to eat, and of course, not seeing what I see, Helene purchased his meal. Another victory for Dexter. This morning, I handed him ½ full coke, offering him a sip, and with 3 tremendous swallows he drained the bottle. Then smiled at me not quite innocently. He feels my disdain and he knows that I know and he allows me to see that he knows and doesn’t care that I know w/slight ambiguous expressions and gestures. Just let it go. Tomorrow he will be gone and hopefully not w/my wallet. Even now he fiddles + bumbles + fumbles uselessly w/the stove, then the stereo and, as his tea bubbles over, w/the stove again. His giggle, which at first seemed cute and expressive, now fills me w/desire to strike! He reminds me increasingly of a streetwise punk endearing himself to wealthier patrons, then spending their bequeathments on drugs and laughing up his sleeve. Telling his dirty, punk friends how he could have had the wife whenever he wanted. How she paraded nude around the house, no doubt for his benefit. Now he rattles cupboards and crinkles cookie wrappers and breathes wet and loud w/expectant desire. And can you believe I’m donating so much paper to this cur?

12 hours + more! Spent floating + sailing + drifting + motoring from Tobago Cays back to St. Vincent: Kingstown: capital of St. Vincent and the Grenadines. A full day: sunup → sundown w/golden glory in every direction. And now: I near complete exhaustion… sleepsszzz reaches her cool fingers through the sweat of the tropics toward my soul. And Dexter stretches himself luxuriously on his shelf/cot. Snorts. Breathes wet + deeply. Satisfied, like a cat, w/the day’s accumulation of petty triumphs. He has spread Christoph’s leather jacket across his feet, no doubt devising in his mind a manner of suggesting why he might keep it forever.

And on that note… g’night.


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  • baaahahah – I totally saw this coming. I swear to SM we sailed there in 1994 and probably met the same kid! I swear his name was Dexter too. Went with us to Barbados. He was just like that. But this kid was like 12 years old also so maybe it was his younger brother. Hoot!

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