I'm On A Boat!

I have slept in some truly sketchy places in my life (dubiously stained motel rooms with recently kicked-in door jams, mosquito-net-for-walls huts 100 yards uphill from alligator mating grounds) but last night's bunk may be the most conceptually frightening so far. I slept on the ferry to Helsinki, across the Bothnian Bay. I slept in cabin 2023, on level 2. That's at the bottom of the ferry, just above the deep-freeze food storage. So it's below the 5 people decks crammed with captains and cabins and casinos and karaoke bars and cafes. And it's right below the automobile deck, because this is a big ferry. In fact, now that I think of it, it's probably below the waterline.

The cabin was tiny, barely big enough to see carpet when the bunks folded down. There's no windows on that level, just a cute porthole-shaped photo of a lighthouse taken somewhere made of equal parts perfect fluffy clouds and minnow-calm water. But it was scrupulously clean, and had its own bathroom and hot shower. Which is saying something, given that there are only about 6 public restrooms for all the public areas of the ferry.

I'd recommend it to anyone! It's like a snug little womb room, where nothing but sleep lives. The weird rocking and rumbling of engines pulling weight over waves is kinesthetic white noise. If you've ever enjoyed falling asleep in the backseat of a car, summer evening wrapped all around you; you'll love it. Yellowing plastic light switches glow like distant dashboard lights, and the hiss of air conditioning is like radio static, the warm air barely moving. Every mutter of of foreign language passing by in the halls is like the murmur of adults in the front seats, driving home from a day in the sun. I haven't slept so well in weeks.

[My favorite Swedish word right now is Ochså, Also. (Say it oak-so, with the first syllable in the back of your throat.)  Och (said with so slight a k-sound that it's almost oh -- no Engineering Officer impressions, please) is And; I love the relationship!]

Falling Stars Know My Name

For many of my years now, nighttime has been for play. For dancing, for joking, for friends, for frolicking, for movies and dinner and parties. And for sleeping. Occasionally for fire. Very rarely, it is for fear and feeling small. (There is always the tricky 8 o'clock hour to be passed; somehow there is a door to depression waiting for between 8 and 9pm. (The Meridian Organ Clock points out that this bit of time is meant to be the height of activity for the precordium/heart/protection meridian, so This All may be part of the Opening Project.))

And then there's the moon. My body does know it's important to be under the moon. But that's a whole story in herself.

So, barring bonfires, owling, insomniac prowling, Halloween and the moon, it's been a long time since I put myself out in the night because of the night. For nearly as long, I've wanted to backpack myself to the Perseid meteor shower. To leave daytime to everyone else for a while, and give myself to some giant sky, the dark, and stars falling.

I always imagined hiking into the orange desert for it's unequivocable edges and purple sky. But it's August (maybe for the Leonids!). And I only have a few days. And I want grass beneath me. And N Dakota is exactly far enough, and dark enough. It's sky stretches forever and it's land is green. It's cities don't pollute the night sky with pale stains. And anyways, the summer's stress has finally crested. And my adrenals are exhausted. And my heart is stretched over many miles. And my camping equipment is perfect. And I've just mensed and danced my demons out.

And there is a bus leaving Tuesday.