dismantling of the boat continues.
Bringing elements of it into my home is like finding a poem inside a chocolate cake: not entirely surprising, but a discovery that casts new light on both things. Home suddenly seems even more safe, static, contained, while the boat more vulnerable, easily dismantled.
The boat is more than the sum of its parts, it is a constantly shifting equation, within which I'm p (person), embedded somewhere in the middle of ropes, sails, rig, hull, weather and sea. Combine all these and I get something more than movement, I get a mythologising. A sense of the epic. Fragments of story, history, channels and myth that don't occur for the most part in my daily life, that, for the most part, I don't think about, which become consuming for a few weeks a year, so changing the chemical make-up of my blood in ways I can't pinpoint but know have skewered my perspective on everything, from clouds to crochet.
No wonder the ropes don't hang naturally alongside bath towels. It's good to be reminded.