↑ 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
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Das Boot (9/33)
December 10, 1990
Choose a different dreamscape
Day began with, as I mentioned, absence of scabies. Wonderful feeling to be well again. Oh yes it ‘tis! Never shall I again take for granted the glories of unmarred health.
Day progresses to the most flavorful, sabroso, delicious slices of nutmeg french toast. A swim. More revelling in the delight of my lightning convalescence. Trip to town to buy all sorts of goodies, and you could see it! As the road curved + twisted, climbing climbing, suddenly we broke off, standing close to the edge of a precipitous drop in the hot sun, sweating, breath catching from the climb, in the sun-burnt grass by the side of a rutted, pitted “main road,” looking all the way down to the bay and the miniature St. Alemé docked near the thin line of the beach. Returning, we ventured again to the edge and, stoned, it reminded me of another time, stoned, with S + T in VT when we pretended to be looking down at a tiny village of pebbles below us, and as I saw it as a full-scale village, just mini through distance and we were returning after weeks, months, years to our village, coming over the last mountains and we could see it, so far below, and there was St. Alamé, similar, so far below.
We cooked and ate an iguana. Dexter commissioned himself to clean + slice + boil the horrid-looking, neon-lime creature. With onions + rice and veggies. And then we all ate it! Teasing the chicken-like flesh from craggy, fish-like bones. Chewing, swallowing… The rice was good 😉
And swimming and reading, and while Dexter was cooking, he was also moonlighting as a romantic in the bathroom of the boat with his 13 year old girlfriend and returning with a hardon that Nattie mistook for oranges in his shorts. Wow! Prodigiously endowed at 12 years old. And it seems that 1st encounters with the idea + actuality of sex has been fodder for much debate over the past few weeks, originating, I believe, from Ben’s show and my friendship with Annette to whom I have been dedicating a substantial portion of my thought time.
Ah, the ocean. And the peachy (absolutely not!) and the peace and quiet. And the serenity. And it all aids in thoughts of the future for myself, for Sebastian. I love it here. Three months would be possible. But home is nice too, and relaxing in a cool bed and hot showers type of way, and all comforts usually attributed to such dwelling. New York?
Comments (1)
Iguana? :-/