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When Being is an Act, Not a Quality
4,500nm sailing across the pacific
Matias Botero
The journey continues West
A parenthesis for the on-board logbook: (03/19/14 10:23 pm)
20 knots (wind) for the first loop
25 for the second
Azimuth: 224
Boat Speed: 8 knots
Wind speed: 21.7
Water temperature: 32.1 C
Swell: Undulating and entertaining
Moon: Decrescendo
Other notes: Three black birds would take the same notes.
(03/15/14) - The problem of fishing with a magical lure is that I already have two little cuts on both of my index fingers, on the first knuckle (from the nail) on the side facing the thumb. - What would he think if the feast he just caught gained its own prowess? “Damn this sardine for having such strength!" 'Well ... where did I put those Band-Aids?
Son, to cook the lentil soup… (Recipe for five hungry men) 1 - Sauté onions. Add two of each ingredient. 2 - Tomato, ham, paprika, and a head of garlic 3 - A little coriander 4 - Pepper, of course, a la Eric. And thyme, a la Eric. And Rosemary too. 5 - Spicy as Hell. 6 - And immediately add, without water, 1½ cups of lentil. 7 - ... Note: If you forget what "a la Eric" means, add ingredients until it seems to be too much... and then add what you would have considered to be enough.
Ode to the Saquerlotte (03.19.14 10:23 pm)
Ah, how pleasing to feel your roar, Saquerlotte, how you gallop!
A resounding flood; hysterical, ravenous, detonating liquid matter.
And your sails, oh Saquerlotte, they want nothing more but to feel the constant caress of the wind.
How you have learned to predict the evolutions of this changing terrain!
You navigate it skillfully, like a gentle finger sliding along the unruly body of this woman!
Ode to Saquerlotte 2 (05/05/14, 12:33)
It seems to me now the Saquerlotte moves like birds singing in the new morning air. Darkness blurs. Before and after time but not during: the wake of the past and what will come, deceive and confuse one another.
On-board Logbook: (18/03/14, 4pm, STORM!)
...But our courses did not coincide and we ended up eating outside—some nice baked tuna with a sprinkling of paprika, garlic, onion, tomato and a little white wine—while we watched that mighty gray monster roaring at us through an invisible barrier; it stepped on the shadow of some heels that would never again be there. ... And full belly, happy heart, celebrating Phillip’s birthday, I was enjoying a meal with a surreal tint because five boat-lengths or so away, I saw the sky falling apart over the sea.
Here's a little anecdote: I stopped for a while to meditate on the possible relationship that could connect one of the "dispensible" chapters with that which preceded and indicated it was one of the “mandatory” chapters. My distracted eyes saw my hand holding the closed book, with two of my fingers submerged inside of it, and such penetration seemed weird to them.
In the space between the two blinks during which my surprise lasted, my eyes saw that my fingers held a much warmer and wetter surface, agile and delicious flesh.
I cannot remember clearly having felt such disappointment as I feel now re-imagining how it would be to experience the metamorphosis of vagina to book. Disappointment upon the realization that my fingers down there did not unbind hurricanes of pleasure but only identified pages 30 and 300.
Rayuela will stay on its pedestal of “mythical novel” because it is impossible to denominate. Paf, my verbosity is over.
(03/29/14 2:21 AM)
Any fool can deny it but let’s be frank: there is nothing like picking your nose. Of those in which the finger goes to the second knuckle and, having the fingernails short to prevent bloodshed, removes subtly but surely all the matter, whether it is sticky-humid-green or crusty-perfect/to/roll/up-black/toned or slug-transparent-fleeting-salty or (the ones I love the most) the flu/snot-fluorescent/green-highly/malleable... in any case, and as I said, all that stuff that prevents the optimal functioning of the nose.
The recreational nose picking, seems to me, to be a very good way to invest in leisure time because, as much as it entertains and delights, it also has a positive connotation for other activities involved in human life; that is, when removing and disposing of that organic matter as you wish (it could be by throwing it at your neighbor in the shape of a little ball, or ingesting it, or sticking it to the closest right-angled edge, or simply putting it in the other nostril for future usage—as they say: “for resource management”); anyway, I was saying that when the mucous is removed, by cause and effect, the oxygen intake to the body increases.
A surreal thought to the on-board logbook (03/04/14, 3:49 pm or 6:49 in Colombia)
In the distance a little dot can be seen a sail can be distinguished It’s a windsurfer! He overtakes us and disappears in the horizon.
(04/04/14 8:21 pm)
THAT TALKS ABOUT ANOTHER REPETITIVE AND PROBABLY POORLY ACCOMPLISHED, BUT NO LESS SINCERE, REAL AND TRUTHFUL REVIEW THAT WILL BE MADE ABOUT "THE INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN DON QUIXOTE DE LA MANCHA"
So far I haven’t slept very well in the night. Why? We ate a lot and late. The mixture yields insomnia. This is the behavior of my sleep: Normally I imagine myself, I dream of myself, resolving an impossible task, a cyclical one, like undoing a 100 km tangled fishing line, or imagining every star in the universe. Time is a thick matter that nourishes my frustration; my mind will not surrender to accept the impossibility of its quest (does not consider it). Since my sleep is shallow, each movement surfaces my wakefulness, how thirsty I am, that my muscles won’t take me to the bathroom, that the heat in this cabin is melting my skin and that there is not a single ounce of peace to stop the fire in my body. I am tense and uncomfortable, so I move often. So far I haven’t slept very well in the night. Why? Eating late and a lot is the perfect recipe for insomnia. My fragile sleep behaves as follows: I imagine myself resolving an impossible task, a cyclical one. There I am, in that limbo, trying to undo a tangled fishing line that is 10,000 fathoms long, or imagining every star in the universe. My mind is working uselessly, stubborn to apprehend that it always returns to the starting point. STAGNANT. Since my sleep is shallow, each movement surfaces my wakefulness, how thirsty I am, that I need to piss, that the heat is melting my skin and that there is not a single ounce of cold to succor the fire in my body. And since I am tense, frustrated, uncomfortable, I move often. So far I haven’t slept very well in the night. The reason being I ate late and too much. This is the behavior of my “sleep”: I am resolving and impossible task, a cyclical one…