My life as a sailor

After Sarte, I’ve devoted my life to building small models of what it looks like to be lost at sea.

“Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance,” he says.  I decided, researching Mishima for parlé with a friend over his Fascism/Anti-Modernism paper, that my models then must include the sly recognition of this through conscious limits concerning the sailor’s death.  Chance is still a factor yes, but the outcomes are limited by environment and dignity.

You see, Sartre?  I made him a little waste land for him to cling to out of weakness to see if you are right.  You see, Pound?  My paradiso terrestre is beautiful in it’s limits.  There is indeed a pale flare over marshes.  My sailor cannot escape because there is only sea.  His boat may capsize, or he could die of scurvy – there are only flakes of tobacco for nourishment.  He may just die of loneliness.  My knowledge of biology is small, but I’m mostly certain his potentials still move toward a singular outcome.  Yes, the body languishes sooner or later, and since my world’s a faithless one, there shant be much a trade-off – unless he makes friends with the inanimate for survival.  The Sea-Dog’s an interesting wild-card.   Sometimes, when I gander view my models, I’m concerned that I haven’t provided enough opportunity for life though, i.e., a creative suicide to show just how strong my sailor is.  My worst case scenario involves him taking up the dangerous habit of thinking, inevitably driving him mad.

What a terrible waste of an afternoon.  It would better have been spent talking with the wraith I’ve locked in my closet.  Why, he does tell the most delightful stories!