Mercy on me’Lard

The frost hides in the shadows, just like the Devil.
Thanks to some burnt toast, the cabin takes on an eerily warm ambiance.

Writing the Waves is my stream of consciousness journal while living aboard my new home, this vintage, 50-foot wooden sailboat known as Persistance, situated in the salty B.C. air along the coast of Vancouver Island.

Day 25

My butter is hard. Not trying to be Mister Metaphor Man here.  I Literally mean to say: my butter-aboard the boat-on the counter-in the bowl (sitting out for a week) has not softened over time, it’s only gotten harder.

I know, I know. I wanted to find out all about Winter on the island. By jove; hear ye hear ye; ‘this just in,” … I’m congealing along with the other stick of fat on board.”

A wayward star fish was left next to a dumpster ... I returned the little dude to the water, still alive.
A wayward star fish was left next to a dumpster … I returned the little dude to the water, still alive.

Olive oil as cloudy as harbor fog. Butter like a brick. Like finding the canary in the coal mine laying at my feet. My breath hovering before my face in gasps of grey-blue exhaust; and that damnable yellow cube, mocking me. Riga-mortise sat in while I slept. I estimate 5, 6-hours by now.

I was raised with the notion that it’s O.K. to leave a stick or two out at room temperature–for a few days–keeping it always ready to spread like … well, like itself!

Now, I’m thinking you lose your ranking as a First World citizen once you find that your room temperature means your butter gets hard.

Remove a flush toilette from the equation and you skip Second World status and go directly to Third.

A frosty crucifix about my neck, the skylight above my window can’t hide the weather from me.

Cold butter means the end of many things. No behavior that would use the word frolic, lounge, or linger is available any longer. Things you once thought exciting, hard nipples let’s say–now just seem to hurt for no good reason.

You can forget about reading, writing, fucking AND arithmetic.”

When bodily fluids congeal and become as murky as the harbor mist surrounding you, all the spreadable, pleasurable options affluent living once provided are soon no more–once your butter freezes.

“It’s like the old, old Proverb I just made up: Life is equally as hard as one’s butter.”

You may not want to even write another blog post from the boat you said you wanted to winter on … as I write this, I’m in the Swans Hotel in Victoria. I’ve not been able to write more than a few lines all week on the boat so I took a break, took a bath, turned the switch on the wall all the way to the right and went downstairs to the only icy thing I want in my life now–a cold ale served by a pretty bar maid who knows it.

Cold beer and then warm bed, in that order. Pubs are my way of life out here and my belly shows it.
Pubs are my refuge. If you have to pay by drinking to stay warm, the many pubs on the island pour many options.

So what’s my current status? I’m somewhere between going full-out Amish, or simply settling for the ranks of just another Bigfoot.

“Look Henry, what’s that hairy, nasty thing shivering across the road–a male Bigfoot?

“Hard to say Doris, but on a night like this, I bet his butter is hard.”

“Henry.”

“Doris.”