Why my fixation on that first sepia of a great monitor, laid
up after the gunfire and sniper, in an estuarine anchor, quiet, peacefulled,
emptied and gutted to faux accounting and ersatz ledgering. Abandoned, purposefulness
evacuated. She had shelled and shelled and shelled. Great 12 inch shells, and
no victory was one. Why did that first scene direct my gaze upon, as I opened
the book, so many decades ago, in a library in Glasgow ?
The photograph haunted my young mind then and haunts me
still as I seek quietude.
The contract phase kicked in again as I reconnoitred the lie
of the land some years later when I read of the famous Prinz Eugen who had not sought
her final rinse in roiling hot water at Bikini .
CV3 caught it, a cherry tree felled at last after unstinting
service, in the well.
What to say?
As a forensic story teller I can cash in on the untidy
endings left naked shorted like the gold filings soon to be melted down in a
usury insurance fire.
Here we go.
The legend of our demise is not the truth of the given, it
is the realisation that all must be weighed under the heavy light of reality.
So I try to explain here only a tiny part of the unreality of our halted love.
If an infinite space can exist in a bounded state imagine
what we could achieve, as our selves, free of the monoheathen and their state
of poverty in every perverted way.
God or given debt god?
Our choice.
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Voyoy cheeky, leave us a deadletteredroped..