![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Written in my Moleskine on:
Wednesday, Day 4, Mazatlán
I've left Devon sleeping in the room. It's just past 7a. I've gone up to the buffet room and I'm hardly alone—we dock again today, so I imagine this crowd is even larger than usual, as people make an almost-early start to their day so they can go ashore. I've come because I'm wakeful and—despite the crowd—to be alone, for a while.
Land is visible from one side of the ship, but my current view out the back shows, for now, only water. Boats, too; a few seabirds—you can tell we are not far from shore. But most of the view, miles and miles of its majority, is water—only water. It's gray today (the sky is cloudy white); waves texture the surface as rain does a lake: constantly moving yet somehow permanent—permanent in the constancy of its movement. The water flows away from us as we sail forward.
A jetty has just come into view, scrolling up the lefthand window, followed by a cliff with scrubby green trees clinging to its ridge. To the right its pair, the other half of the cove's boarder, a church or lighthouse topping the ridge which stretches furthest into the sea.
The places we visit are interesting in that they are places, lands, climes which I have never seen before and perhaps never will again. These red-gray lands—land like clay, like brick: terracotta to the left, paling to yellow on the right, sandy, rocky, crumbling, dry even amidst all the water. Buildings built of planes, flat, long, layered, windowed, roofless. Scrubby gray-green pines and tall lean palms.
But it is not the land that interests me. Not the locations, not the signs of life.
It is the sea.
I feel it best at night. At day, you can see for miles—miles and miles, miles of water, just water. It's a navy blue, most days, a deep dark blue with just a few crests of white and the sea-green foam of the ships' wake. It's deceptively lifeless, when we're far from shore: deep, dark, still. Only a few flying fish, skipping like stones over the surface, give away the truth. But it's at night that I feel it best. Then the waters go black, shades of black beneath a black sky, and the near-full moon crests the waves and ripples along those miles, miles, miles to the black horizon. Then, things seem endless. The distance stretches further in its night-obscurity. The water dives deeper in the dark. Moonlight draws the eye out, out, out, farther on than it can see, and the effect—the effect is terrific.
Terrific: with terror, but the connotation these days is positive. Awesome: with awe. Amazing: it amazes. Wonderful: full of wonder. Incredible: beyond belief.
Not because it makes you feel small—it does, but it's more than egocentism, more than an observation of one's own size. It's that it makes the world seem large. Not "seem"—these things are this way. It is a realization.
Not a realization, either, because it is defined by what cannot be fully conceived: a world too far, too dark, to deep to understand. It is knowing defined by unknowing.
These are things for which language fails.
Further thoughts, two days after the cruise
We put gods and goddesses there, we place elder gods and the tentacles of Cthulhu, we try to give the sea's endless depth a face and a name and an identity because—even when they are beings of unimaginable power, even when they are avatars of that terrifying unknown—it's a little easier to understand when it's a little more concrete; because the concrete gives us a view into, a way to explore, that endless unknown.
When the sea stretched before me, I could not find the perfect words to express what I saw and felt. Back on land, the words are no more willing to come. Perhaps they don't exist. Language fails. Even the icons, faces, imagery fails—even Cthulhu is defined not by the tentacle we see, but by the unseen, unseeable beast that lies behind; witness it, and it will strike you dumb and mad. It cannot be expressed.
The best I have are descriptions of the images, hinting at the feelings they conjure. The best I have are more images:
Stormglass #2 by Wyrding Studios
The manmade made new by the sea: its still surface, its endless depth, its waves—agitating, grinding, altering—spitting back out, changed. And I, amber glass under silver seas. This piece went up when I was gone and, though I've never had love for sea imagery or materials, it strikes a cord with me now.
( With nothing but flat empty water as far as the eye can see. )
What's already there. Deception. Stillness, endlessness. What we do not see.
Oh, I am not magically changed. I am still a being of land, of trees, of mountains—of measurable distance. But I was awed and touched, by those wide midday seascapes, by those dark distant nights. That stays with me, even if—for once—I cannot find all the words to express it.
Wednesday, Day 4, Mazatlán
I've left Devon sleeping in the room. It's just past 7a. I've gone up to the buffet room and I'm hardly alone—we dock again today, so I imagine this crowd is even larger than usual, as people make an almost-early start to their day so they can go ashore. I've come because I'm wakeful and—despite the crowd—to be alone, for a while.
Land is visible from one side of the ship, but my current view out the back shows, for now, only water. Boats, too; a few seabirds—you can tell we are not far from shore. But most of the view, miles and miles of its majority, is water—only water. It's gray today (the sky is cloudy white); waves texture the surface as rain does a lake: constantly moving yet somehow permanent—permanent in the constancy of its movement. The water flows away from us as we sail forward.
A jetty has just come into view, scrolling up the lefthand window, followed by a cliff with scrubby green trees clinging to its ridge. To the right its pair, the other half of the cove's boarder, a church or lighthouse topping the ridge which stretches furthest into the sea.
The places we visit are interesting in that they are places, lands, climes which I have never seen before and perhaps never will again. These red-gray lands—land like clay, like brick: terracotta to the left, paling to yellow on the right, sandy, rocky, crumbling, dry even amidst all the water. Buildings built of planes, flat, long, layered, windowed, roofless. Scrubby gray-green pines and tall lean palms.
But it is not the land that interests me. Not the locations, not the signs of life.
It is the sea.
I feel it best at night. At day, you can see for miles—miles and miles, miles of water, just water. It's a navy blue, most days, a deep dark blue with just a few crests of white and the sea-green foam of the ships' wake. It's deceptively lifeless, when we're far from shore: deep, dark, still. Only a few flying fish, skipping like stones over the surface, give away the truth. But it's at night that I feel it best. Then the waters go black, shades of black beneath a black sky, and the near-full moon crests the waves and ripples along those miles, miles, miles to the black horizon. Then, things seem endless. The distance stretches further in its night-obscurity. The water dives deeper in the dark. Moonlight draws the eye out, out, out, farther on than it can see, and the effect—the effect is terrific.
Terrific: with terror, but the connotation these days is positive. Awesome: with awe. Amazing: it amazes. Wonderful: full of wonder. Incredible: beyond belief.
Not because it makes you feel small—it does, but it's more than egocentism, more than an observation of one's own size. It's that it makes the world seem large. Not "seem"—these things are this way. It is a realization.
Not a realization, either, because it is defined by what cannot be fully conceived: a world too far, too dark, to deep to understand. It is knowing defined by unknowing.
These are things for which language fails.
Further thoughts, two days after the cruise
We put gods and goddesses there, we place elder gods and the tentacles of Cthulhu, we try to give the sea's endless depth a face and a name and an identity because—even when they are beings of unimaginable power, even when they are avatars of that terrifying unknown—it's a little easier to understand when it's a little more concrete; because the concrete gives us a view into, a way to explore, that endless unknown.
When the sea stretched before me, I could not find the perfect words to express what I saw and felt. Back on land, the words are no more willing to come. Perhaps they don't exist. Language fails. Even the icons, faces, imagery fails—even Cthulhu is defined not by the tentacle we see, but by the unseen, unseeable beast that lies behind; witness it, and it will strike you dumb and mad. It cannot be expressed.
The best I have are descriptions of the images, hinting at the feelings they conjure. The best I have are more images:
Stormglass #2 by Wyrding Studios
The manmade made new by the sea: its still surface, its endless depth, its waves—agitating, grinding, altering—spitting back out, changed. And I, amber glass under silver seas. This piece went up when I was gone and, though I've never had love for sea imagery or materials, it strikes a cord with me now.
What's already there. Deception. Stillness, endlessness. What we do not see.
Oh, I am not magically changed. I am still a being of land, of trees, of mountains—of measurable distance. But I was awed and touched, by those wide midday seascapes, by those dark distant nights. That stays with me, even if—for once—I cannot find all the words to express it.
