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[15 Feb 2003|12:15am] |
I've been neglecting my journal. Worse, I've been neglecting the ship. I explore the port and take my time and expect the lovely RLS to wait for me as if it were my personal yacht and I could command with the wave of a finger. I wander for days without checking back, arriving at the gangplank when I feel like it and leaving again on the same motivational drive that drew me back in the first place. Indecision and the faint hope that perhaps I'll wander too far and by the time I'm back she'll be gone.
Yet here she is, deck firm beneath my feet, the timbers groaning every now and again, every bit of her screaming all that I've come to love about life. Excitement, adventure, danger, fancy and joy. I am glad, in retrospect, to have selected her to dally my services aboard. I've been wondering these past days, biding my time in reclusive pubs, laying company with lonely shop keepers as they boast their wares in hopes of a small purchase to take home to their homes and their families. Aye, I doubted, pondered, contemplated... It wouldn't be difficult to find myself a pirate vessel. Flash my old captain's name and find myself a new crew to adopt as family, let my hair down and forget about censoring my stories, cutting out the shady histories and glossing over reality.
But what of Jamie? I'd ask my drink, or the item I was pretending to hold interest in. What of Anthony, and Shin-sin-fa? The captain and First Mate Tag? What of Xan, and all the rest of the crew I haven't yet had the guts to lend a smile to and salute with a greeting? Like it or not, I find myself growing fonder of this hodgepodge mix of ex-cut throats, veterans, children and lovelies. It simply wouldn't be right to leave them.
So I bought myself a wood flute and paid for Haggle's repair. Both were overpriced and sold with too much enthusiasm for me to expect the craftsmanship that went into them was anything close to top notch, but I appreciate them none the less, and as soon as I have a short nap I think I'll find a place to sit on deck and try to puzzle out a tune. Perhaps I'll even find the courage to meet the rest of the crew, antisocial coward that I am.
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| ooc |
[08 Feb 2003|01:46am] |
Ohmygod. I suck so badly it burns. I have been so insanely busy lately what with this great load of work I've found dumped upon me that I've been neglecting Etherium. I'm sorry!
If all works out I'll have some time to play this weekend. If not, the concert I'm preparing for that's eating up my time is this wednesday, after that I've got free time for weeks.
Forgive me! *sobs*
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[29 Jan 2003|10:53am] |
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It turns out Haggle has to be "operated" on to get him functional again. By mas reyt Da'an could things get a little more inconvenient? I feel like a regular cripple wandering about with only one eye good for anything, and Higgle's always been the more useless of the two. I'm entertaining thoughts on the notion of changing their names to Puss and Scab. That'd teach them to spring cogs and gears and go out of commission on me.
Walking back from the repair shop I stopped in on a little book store long enough to buy something to ease my boredom during the long hours it takes between when the last crewman goes to bed and the first wakes up. The owner of the establishment was a grizzled old woman who spoke a spacer's concoction of at least fifty languages, only a fraction of which I could understand. I tried to ask if she stocked anything written in Hassh, but all she offered was the book I ended up purchasing merely to get her off my case. It's written in common, which is my first problem, my grip on the language is passable, and I can write it better than I can speak, but leafing through the first chapter reaped half a dozen words I'd previously never seen before. Perhaps I could take it to Anthony and beg him give me a definition I'd understand. He'd probably find it more of a bother than a joy to help me on such matters, but I'm not about to return the book to that old hag. I'm sure she'd have one of my arms and both my ears if I tried to sneak it back onto her shelves.
My throat's aching something terrible from whatever I drank at the pub I spent more than a healthy spell of time at. Why do I always find myself attracted towards the less inviting slums? I'm sure if I'd not walked by twenty feet more I would've found a lovely, quiet bar with a great tasting brew and no one looking for any trouble at all...
Oh, but I lie horribly to myself. It's the most fun I've had the thrill of enjoying since I signed on to the RLS. A hole for pirates, nay, the place must've been built for them. Not since my days with Ambiguity have I seen so many sea hardened men looking to swap stories and drink themselves into a stupor. I suppose I wouldn't've enjoyed myself quite so much had not I had the luck to run into Mr. Shin-sin-fa, who I pride myself for having hesitated throwing my deciding opinion. He's a pirate. Or at least a retired one, like myself. At first I thought him playing an act in order to avoid losing his life, but the more sloshed he got the better his attitude towards the idea seemed, and he exhibited his scars like the true article. The irony shoots me between the eyes and I can't help but laugh. Imagine that, on the ship I take in order to get away from all memories of pirating I find myself in the company of a like minded soul.
He was wary of being ambushed by the mates of a bloke he'd had a tiff with, and though he's still more stranger than friend to me, I would've fought tooth and claw to keep him safe. If we hadn't been playing the act and passing ourselves as pirates of the worst sort I would've pressed him for the name of his ship, how long he served, why he did it, why he stopped... Indeed, finding out about this facet of his past leaves me reeling with more questions than before. But by the rigging, it was terribly fun. I'm afraid we've made our captain and first mate out to be wolves and sharks eager for blood and scurvy.
I only hope Shin will have enough sense to keep what I said on the quiet. The last thing I want is this crew knowing where I learned my love for sailing. Maybe the fates will be kind and he'll have been so drunk he won't remember. I'm sure that'll be the case; he's not built for handling more than a glass of wine on his birthday, that cat. He was so pissed when we finally took our leave that it was downright laughable. My, but if he's anything like I hazard to guess he is, he'll have a hangover of murderous proportions early tomorrow morn.
He's a good lad, though, and my opinion of him is fond in its complimenting.
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| Whoo! |
[27 Jan 2003|12:15pm] |
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Muchos lovin' to ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=88.8) jamie_solaris for two months of a paid account. Danke, my friend! Your gift is well received!
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[23 Jan 2003|11:03am] |
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Would I believe myself, reading this at a later date, if I wrote that the lack of recent entries is only because I've been too busy to write?
No, I wouldn't. It's not true, either, I'm afraid. I'm a horrible procrastinator, is what it is. I tell myself it's not important and writing anything becomes a neglected task, shunned for weeks. It's a habit I ought to get out of.
The crew on the RLS Etherium seems to need all of half a day to sleep, which is an amusing trick, and a great sight to see.* While they're catching up on their beauty rest (I've never seen a crew quite like this. There's more beauty laying about than one would often see at a house of ill repute in Thera.) I should take the time to write. I must remind myself the purpose of buying this journal was to write in it, not leave it to rot in my possession.
I can't quite decide whether I'm enjoying or despising my time spent on this ship. I like the people; the captain is an agreeable sort of fellow who seems like he might be better suited writing novels in a warm study and enjoying a stress free life, than dealing with the ulcers he must be getting from a few happenings amidst the crew, the likes of which I've managed to avoid. Indeed, it seems I've only been exposing myself to the better facets of this particular trip, which leaves me even more perplexed when I begin to wonder if I'll reboard once we pull into our next port. It just takes time to adjust, I have to tell myself. You can't keep holding your breath for a raid when one will never happen, just as you can't suggest the stow away be made to walk the plank. The likes and happenings common on a pirate vessel simply don't happen on an honest ship. Though it's not the bad that I miss, as much as the good. Why, I remember on the Shameless Ambiguity**, on eves such as this, when there was a pleasant hush all around, the etherium without disturbance, the soft glow of stars and planets seeming to hush in respect for the sleeping and the tired, the crew would gather up on deck and we'd all sing. Captain Muir used to play the accordion, and Lane Trzahl the Miskritc ***. We'd all gather ourselves on barrels and crates, drink more than we ought to've, laugh, enjoy ourselves, and take turns singing rounds of songs that seemed older than time. I was always too afraid to bring my flutes or pipes out and never joined the songs in more than voice. They were good times, though, great times.
On this ship there isn't much in the way of singing. Instead, they make a planet's worth of ice cream, which was an amusing adventure in itself. I'd never had the stuff, but it was mighty fine. Perp flavoured, though I'd hazard to guess you could alter the ingredients to have it taste like whatever you please.
When we get to port, the first thing I do after buying a screw driver to fix the twitch Higgle's adopted in his left wing, (it's terribly annoying, the sight in my left eye keeps shaking repeatedly and I've had to send him to sleep until we get into port.) will be to find and purchase a new wood flute. I've got no inclination to restock on a set of pipes, I never liked the sound they produced, but a flute would be nice to have around again. I had a most fantastic one gifted to me by the helmsman on the Ambiguity, but it never made its way off the ship. It's been years since I entertained a spot of music aside from singing old sea dog tunes when the mood strikes, it’d be good for me if I picked the hobby up again.
After I get my purchases sorted out, it'll be to a pub with me. Numb my nerves before packing myself up on the RLS Etherium again. Honestly, though I hum and haw over the outcome, this ship is a godsend to my poor restless soul. Just being on deck makes me feel young and giddy again.
Shin-sin-fa found a puzzle, did I mention that? I never gleaned more than a few words, mostly by accident, but 'treasure' was mentioned. I'd bet my third arm I heard the word. My, but did I have to restrain the urge to suggest we abandon ship and go treasure seeking right then. How long has it been since I actually took part in the search for hidden booty? Ages. Ages. And my, but wouldn't it be fun to tromp about with this crew, get high on our hopes and dreams, scheme about what we'll do with our share, fight the bad guys and booby traps and end up with a few gold coins and a wicked story to tell at the next port. By the top sail, there doesn't have to be a real treasure. The adventuring, the hoping and praying, the baited breaths and whispers of greed and mutiny the closer you pull to the hidden goods... that's the part I enjoy. That's the part that you can sit back when you're safe, pull a draw from your pipe and smile with melancholy peace. 'Yep,' you'll sigh, nodding your head sagely. 'That was life, there. Unaltered and beautiful.'
Were I not certain he was asleep I'd go search out Shin-sin-fa and ask him his thoughts on the subject. There's more to him than meets the eye, I've decided. I wonder which sort of vessel he served on before this one?...
* Hashhii are naturally light sleepers. They only need two or three hours to set them up for a day of work.
** The pirate vessel on which the mutiny that cost her her eyes took place
*** similar to the violin, but with five strings, and a slightly lower, more resonating pitch. Constructed to rely on the echoing capacity of the exoskeleton of the alien species that invented it. Depending on the age and strength of the player, and how well they've taken care of their outer shell (which magnifies the sound vibrations of the instrument) over their life, the melody will either sound soft, haunting, sharp or muffled.
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| ooc |
[18 Jan 2003|07:40pm] |
I have about twenty minutes between now and when I'm supposed to go to yet another band shpeal (I'd like to know what happened to 'free time' on weekends...) so instead of studying or practicing I'll use my time to write out the page or so of notes I have on Harpy's home planet. The idea for writing such a thing, of course, was stolen from Jill.
( Notes on Hassh )
Yey.
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[13 Jan 2003|02:37pm] |
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All my life I've pulled faces at believers in fate. My parents raised my siblings and I lecturing that all life has been and will be guided by a scripted destiny to which we have no say nor influence. There is a plan, they informed us with the authority that a life of devotion to a belief yields, and in this plan you can do not but play the role assigned to you.
When my brother Minago was stabbed and died of infection they resisted mourning and spoke of a Plan that meant for his life to have been taken. That was what originally began to shake my faith. How could you watch with dry eyes as your son was taken from you, merely relying on your unfounded trust that it was meant to be? If that was the case, then why live? Why enjoy life if all you are is a puppet? It ceased to be a comfort to tell myself that all troubles were meant to happen, and instead I grew bitter to the notion. It wasn't fair. My brother had been an outstanding creature, always amiable and smiling, taking what life gave him with laughter and a hearty 'thank you', never once ungrateful of the toils he had to wade through. We lived in harsh circumstances where the rich had power and the common did not, and every season the bar for fees and taxes would be raised, labour payment decreased, new laws implemented that made living more difficult, but every announcement of a new rule that sent my parents into fits of woe would make him smile. He'd sit back and light his pipe and ask the ceiling what was to happen next. Would they charge us for the dirt that collected on our unswept floors? Tax the hours we slept and make laughter a crime punishable by heavy fees or labour in a harvesting camp? He died telling my younger sister to stop her weeping and tell him a joke, and saying it was an excusable death because fate had other plans was just... an empty justification without support.
I left home shortly after. Without Minago helping to plow the soil and telling me fanciful stories, living without freedom seemed dismal and bleak. I guess I fashioned my life after how he had lived, laughing at the worst and listening to others without prejudiced notions and ill intent.
"Lenada," he once said, leaning against a barrel as I pulled buckets of water from the river to take back to the home. "Promise me you'll grow up to be more than a kitchen slave." I had been just shy of 12 when he said it, and the only life I expected to live was that of one who slaves for her home. His request seemed absurd and sent me to fits of laughter. Now that I'm away and much older I can look back and smile. Without consciously setting out to do so I did just as he asked; Adventuring, danger, playing pirate, education, honest and dishonest work, good times and bad, I've done it all. Indeed, my life is so full I could lay down and die right now and never once regret not living a day longer.
But I digress horribly.
My original intent was to express that over years of frowning upon fate, today I've rekindled what might be a glimmer of the faith I once had. It took a great amount of personal cajoling, but luck has found me employed on a ship, the RLS Etherium, and a fine ship she is, with a crew as quirky and original as is to ever be imagined. I met a lovely young man on the gangplank who goes by the name of Jamie Solaris, and a short while ago was introduced to a Mr. Shin-sin-fa, who is either a bruising bully, or a kind hearted sissy, I've not yet decided. Still, they're both pleasant young men, and if it weren't for racial differences I'd mistake them for brothers. My biggest surprise, the doozie that's sent me scrambling to the deepest depths of befuddlement simply by the outrageous coincidence, is the linguist expert on board. Anthony Vega, the very same man I mentioned from the tavern.
If there was ever a smile that reminded me of my late brother, it'd be Anthony's. I know better than to believe he hides no pain behind his good nature and pleasant grin, but in talking to him I can't help but think that perhaps not all is as shot to hell as I usually like to believe, and genuine people with good hearts are not as mythical as rumour is fond of suggesting.
I'm starting to think there was a reason to our meeting, if only that our companionship will lead to the prevention of both our minds going mad in the insane asylum that is life.
He can make a mighty fine omelet, too, which is more than I can say about my cooking skills. A man who cooks, and can cook well, happy thought indeed.
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[08 Jan 2003|05:29pm] |
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Had a chance meeting followed be a pleasant (albeit brief) conversation with an out of port gentleman, Anthony, last evening. We must have only spoken for ten minutes before what I assume was the wife he spoke of (and spoke of proudly. It's nice to see a man who appreciates his marriage and doesn't drag it about with him like a regretful ball and chain.) dragged him off for her own devices. It's a shame he left so suddenly. Chaps as kind spoken as he was are rare finds, and those that find time in their business lives to "mingle with the common folk" are a blessing indeed. And such a handsome smile! I do hope his wife appreciates the honesty that shone behind that smile.
My money's beginning to feel a bit stretched in my pocket, and if I continue shelling out for room and board in this inn I won't have enough to purchase a seat on a transport ship out of here. Not that it'll do me much good to leave Thera, the next port will have just as many shady characters as this, and I'm disillusioned if I continue to try and convince myself safety and a life of anonymity live just a spaceport away.
I really would like to sign a job on a ship again, though, but so few are hiring, and those that are appear either pathetic, decrepit or incompetent. Perhaps I'll shrug on a coat and take a turn down at the docks, see if there's anything that strikes my fancy. I may not be the most competent being to ever breathe air, but I can swab decks just wonderfully, and will do so gladly, too.
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| OOC |
[02 Jan 2003|06:57pm] |
Wow, without even officially 'joining' (being accepting isn't the same as participating, dontchaknow) I need to buzz off for a while. Hopefully the ship will still be in port when I return (Tuesday, we think) but the secretive way the family is acting is throwing doubts. Bah to that, says I.
Packing up tonight to leave to Ontario tomorrow, wish me a safe flight there and back again (and a short trip, besides).
Sophia
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| New start, new journal... |
[29 Dec 2002|10:24pm] |
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Thera. Darling Thera.
I've barely been here a week and already I feel the need to board the next ship that docks and get away from this port. Nothing sits right with me lately, and the growing unease and paranoia about the exposed manner in which I situate myself, boarding in the sort of places where the doorman cheerfully salutes and drawls "G'morning Miss. Staten" every time I exit, is slowly fraying my sanity. It's no wonder I've grown soft.
On the old ship, which seems a lifetime away now that I think about it, the navigator kept a journal, and it fixed itself as an undying romantic image in my mind. His journal was special, though, fashioned of paper, bound together with leather and documented with the ink of a pen. I used to sit by and watch him write just to absorb that antiquated ceremony and put it to memory. The journal I've bought for myself is nothing like his was. Mechanized and new age, utilitarian in appearance, with a projection screen that hovers above the opaque pad you "write" upon, drilling up the words to float before you like phantoms. It's quite ghostly, really, and had I not been so dulled with exhaustion and mellowed on successive pints I might find it queer enough to pack it away and never use it again.
The bar tender is down the other end of the tavern, making loud jokes about pirates and nebulas and how you can't trust a nine eyed Yveitt. Those closest to him are plastering their faces with smiles and forcing laughter in the vain hopes he'll take it upon himself to treat them with drinks. I've been sitting here all day for half a week, now, and I know he does it only for the attention, not to be a kind person and share his profusion of alcoholic swill.
I'm reading what I write and smiling, wishing I spoke as grandly as my words on paper. Perhaps if I did people wouldn’t eye me as suspiciously as they do, though I blame them not.
Whups. The master of this 'ere house has decided to grace me with some of his sneering attention. He must be drunk, usually I disconcert him merely by my appearance, today I'll have to lay some ol' sea dog charm to belay the blighter, it appears.
Tally ho.
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[29 Dec 2002|09:40pm] |
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Test, test, test.
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