Introspect; Longing

There's still a little bit of your taste, in my mouth

There's still a little bit of you laced, with my doubt

It's still a little hard to say

What's going on

Days gone by. Hands. Months. Years. The pasangs behind me never surpass the distance laid out before me. And the farther I travel, the smaller the world seems. Most days it is little more than this modest stretch of canal, where only rowers, canoes, and gondolas navigate. It is a humble view of the world, from the window of my rented room, but enough for now. Vendors laden down with their goods of trade, slave girls hanging laundry. All of this under the complimentary haze of a midmorning sun, before the full light of day brings an honest clarity to the muck and the mire, the myriad sins of lies, deceit, debt, and betrayal.

There's still a little bit of your ghost, your weakness

There's still a little bit of your face, I haven't kissed

You step a little closer to me

Still I can't say what's going on

A prisoner of the city, in his chains and manacles, under guard, scrubs the same stretch of cobbled pathway each day. I sometimes wonder where he is from, how he came to this predicament. He weathers the blows of the guards, sometimes a fist to the back of his head, other times a kick at his legs, with a patient resolve. Wretch though he may be, he does not seem to be a slave. Perhaps he will find a way out of this morass of circumstance.

Stones taught me to fly

Love, it taught me to lie

Life, it taught me to die

So it's not hard to fall, when you float like a cannonball

I have fallen into a comfortable routine in this city, famed for its infamy, and also for its courage to overthrow the chains of despots. Free men did not build her walls, but she is free nonetheless, grand in a way that is best understood by being here. And a power to be reckoned with. Though I long for home, for the beauty of the Theater, the adventure of the Anbar, and the simple pleasure of being amongst the People, I am starting to wonder when I will return, if I will return. I do not believe in the maxim, 'you cannot go home again,' as I have gone and returned dozens of times, but I understand the meaning of it. One changes. One grows. One evolves with the passage of time, and the experience of life. If one is truly 'of' a place, as I am of Ar, I do not believe one changes into something incompatible with his origin, nor does he outgrow it, or even evolve past the intangible part of his being that defines him. I suppose I will return home, but I cannot say when.

There's still a little bit of your song in my ear

There's still a little bit of your words I long to hear

You step a little closer to me

So close that I can't see what's going on.

lyrics by Damien Rice - 'Cannonball'

The Wisdom of Wanderlust

I have considered starting a theater troupe on the wharves of Port Kar, thinking it might be a way to earn a living during my stay. I have a few plays suitable for street actors, the vulgar wit and sensibility appropriate for the venue. However, my relative anonymity here is something I have come to value. I am not Szol of the Poets; a whoremonger, playwright and politician here. I am merely a foreign tenant, renting a room in a tavern on a canal.

"Looking out that window...again," the Tavern Master remarks, interrupting my train of thought as he sweeps the landing below. "Writing your life story?"

"Are you lettered?" I ask him.

"And just what would I write?" he asks. "And to whom?" he says, not really answering my question.

"Do you not have thoughts or notions from time to time worth writing down," I ask, "for the sake of prosperity?"

"Anything thought up worth rememberin'," he says to me, "doesn't need to be written down."

I smile, outmaneuvered by the logic of a Tavern Master once more. I see no need to debate the merit of my argument further. I see him as a teacher, someone to learn from, a mentor of sorts. Like Rufus the Player, now Rufus the Vagrant holding court in a narrow Anbar alley, there to impart wisdom to anyone willing to sit across a Kaissa board from him for the price of a moment in time, the Tavern Master is a wise man. Wisdom, you see, has many faces, many names. I have spent a fair amount of time perusing the dusty shelves of Ar's library, but gleaned only a finite measure concerning the nature of men, or the nature of myself in doing so. This is why I wander.
It is a sad irony that I am never truer to myself, never truer to my caste, than when I wander, when I roam afield from the city of my birth, the city I love.

Poetry in the Margin

Spun drunk
Sunk, finally
This is how you
Left me, spinning still
Cupid from a distance
Damaged psyche, instant
Through the adoring throng
A poem unsaid
An unsung song
In memory of the day
I was too soaked to say
The Quarrel still marks me

Acquiescence

The tavern is not the nicest in Port Kar, or even in the area of the unnamed canal on which it resides. It is quiet, frequented mostly by regular patrons. The food, honestly, is terrible, but it is honest. Honestly terrible, even. There is no wine to speak of, but the keeper will augment the usual paga with a vat of kal-da on the weekends. One of the main reasons I chose to stay here was the keeper's acquiescence to boarding Tasta. "It is a quiet place, she'll keep it that way," he said. Of course the acquiescence, like the ability to tie my small boat to the dock at the side of the tavern, increases my rent a bit - but it is not unreasonable. I think, in addition to the security a sleen can bring an establishment, the keeper is allowing Tasta stay for one, overarching reason. She doesn't think his food is terrible at all. The monster still needs her exercise, so I make use of the few narrow passages and alleyways available to foot traffic in the vicinity of the tavern each morning. Once, I made the suggestion she swim alongside my small boat, thinking that might be fun for her. The sleen took one look and about half of one sniff of the canal and stared at me as if I had two heads. I am pretty sure she understood the suggestion, and her stare was an irrefutable refusal to entertain the notion. Cheeky monster.

Acclimation

Underneath this smile lies everything.
All my hopes and anger, pride and shame.
I'll make myself a pact,
Not to shut doors on the past.
Just for today, I am free.

"Why are you here, of all places?" is the question I ask myself most these days. It is not to say that my room above a non-descript tavern in Port Kar is not sufficient to meet my needs. I have a window that overlooks a long, winding canal. In the morning, before the fog rolls away, I enjoy opening the poorly painted shutters to watch the more industrious of vendors and merchantmen poling their little boats and gondolas toward another workday. There are few streets or land-based thoroughfares in Port Kar. Most own some form of watercraft, be it only a raft, to get from here to there. It is an adjustment for a man of Ar, used to tree-lined boulevards and impressively wide avenues, or even filthy, prostitute-filled alleyways, to get used to. You find, quite quickly, however, that the scarcity of sidewalks does little to impede their citizens. There is even a market, I am told, that gathers around a monument to the 25th of Se'Kara, the day Port Kar claimed her Home Stone. Unlike the impressive figure of Hesius in the Great Square of Ar, this monument is erected in the middle of a large, inland lake, in the the vicinity of the city's arsenal. The trades and bartering of market day are done almost exclusively from the decks and planks of the vendors various boats and rafts, each abutting one another in close proximity, the crowding an accepted and even anticipated coming together of humanity.

I will not lose my faith.
It's an inside job today.
I know this one thing well...
I used to try and kill love.
It was the highest sin.
Breathing insecurity...out and in.

I purchased a small boat yesterday. Nothing all that impressive. It is painted bottle green and is navigated with a single oar. Often, the oar is used as a pole, as many of the canals in the city are quite narrow, and some are deceptively shallow. Though it is unimpressive, the fellow that sold it to me pointed out the advantages. "Pretty floaters get to bein' stole tha' much quicker," he pointed out. It made sense. The rental of my room increased a bit with the privilege of docking my 'floater' to the tavern's moorings. Not that I have a private slip or anything. It just knocks around with the other boats, one more rope amidst many. Still, it makes me smile to see it bob in the shallow canal with the others. I suppose a sturdy boat in a city like Port Kar is much like a trusted pair of sandals in most other cities.

Searching hope, I am shown the way to run straight.
Pursuing the greater way for all...human light.
Holding on, the light of night,
On my knees to rise and fix my broken soul...again.

I will work my way out to the market around midday, acclimate myself further to the watery 'streets' of Port Kar on the way. There are literally hundreds, and perhaps thousands, of canals that bisect one another in nothing that resembles sensible right angles. This city is like most. It is illegal to create a map, and it is a capital offense. While the city is eager to welcome strangers, it is not so amenable as to let them draw up directions to their rich and famous. Not to mention their armory or other strategic points of interest. Most, despite their reputation for inhospitability, are more than happy to point you in some direction if you simply ask. You might not get where you intended upon going, but you will undoubtedly find yourself in some place of interest.

Let me run into the rain,
To become a human light again.
Let me run into the rain,
To shine a human light today.
Life comes from within your heart and desire.

*lyrics from 'Inside Job' by Pearl Jam