I got a new job.   I'm now working full-time (as compared to part of my responsibilities previously) on renewable energy and carbon asset management projects.  I've been at it almost full time for about 6 months now but the weather seems pretty much the same.

Ulysses to Persephone, Journal Entry, 15 September

Dearest Persy,

We've brought the vessel in for minor repairs.   It's still raining here in Corsica.  We've once again lost a second mate (sent on a shore errand and never to return) and it's difficult at best to find any reliable help here. It is in my best estimation the Southern Mediterranean influence; it inures a certain contentment that dulls the senses and indeed I feel the laconic island air dulling my senses as well as the keen spirit of the men.  I at times and increasingly more often feel the onset of torpor here and it's only with vigilance to our bound duties that we press on.

And so, with some good fortune bestowed by favor of the Gods and the enlistment of some fine crafts and tradesmen here we will at first light set sail for the Southern Ocean.  Despite the season we do expect rough passage and I harbor some concern if the traverse timbers at the keel are up to the task.  We are applying pitch and rosin at all joints we have found weak but it's the stresses below waterline that give me some pause.   Tomorrow we attempt a trial of the sails and timbers and if all goes well we will reach Porto Vecchio by nightfall.  After that and upon taking on much needed supplies and six more men commissioned to me in an agreement with the local Consulate we will tack westward through the Strait.   I find it helpful to focus only on the known and not the unknown.  There are others surely more experienced and braver than I; and I have benefited from the accounts of a few sailors that have successfully passed the Cape Verdes and returned to recount their travels.  They are few indeed, and from my encounters, those that are eager to talk have almost certainly never made the journey; I have found it a far better measure of the worth of their advice by their reluctance to discuss the trip at all. It is to be expected given the privations, and loss of men, and constant punishment from wind and swell that are the hallmark of the southern latitudes. 

Still, do not darken your spirits or your thoughts with such troubles; we are an able-bodied and skilled crew. As our vessel will soon be sound and we have only now left to put our faith in the parchment maps we have assembled, and the winds and each other, I bid you my deepest and warmest blessings and trust that you find comfort in our thoughts of each other.

Ulysses

Leaving does that
like the slow drip of the big guns
hurtling their payload into the darkness;
 
the tired calving of an ancient glacier
that slips its bonds and hefts its weight
into the frothy night waters; 
 
roiling the smooth surface below
of the unseen and unforeseen
leaving does that;

an irreversible commitment
surrendering the dimension of millions
in one final exhale;

the slow curve and rugged sluice
are sent forth  - as for the icy flotsam
somewhere in the far off distance
a silent shore waits to receive
 
the big guns are silent now, cooling
still remembering the shock of
sharp crack and jagged thunder
the whistling of the ballistic sear
 
somewhere in the far off distance
a silent shore waits to receive
leaving does that

Tabula rasa (Latin: scraped tablet or clean slate) refers to the epistemological thesis that individual human beings are born with no innate or built-in mental content, in a word, "blank", and that their entire resource of knowledge is built up gradually from their experiences and sensory perceptions of the outside world

                                                                                    -- Wikipedia

Estragon (aphoristic for once): We are all born mad. Some remain so.

                                                                        Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot

what should now be said

to the young man grown old

what charmed wind

struck and calendered his days

and left his songs unsung

whilst the slow scolding etch of time

utters its sole remark

into the vibrant air

Estragon to Vladimir: I've found a grass path I'll follow to its end

what torn loss

squirming with intellect and wonder

was ushered to the door

and left standing there;

how unrolls now the pinch of pain

left there by its charges

what hurt thing

now arches its back lazily

builds a fire de facto over the head

and asks: why is it?

Vladimir to Estragon: I've found all manner of speaking no cope for words

whose yearning was it

that held its breath easily

which lie

spread amongst all the old lies

left its mark of grief

coloured clouds of despair

and launched the breach

of air

Vladimir to no one in particular: I've found what fullness of self was left hiding there...

what trial is still held between clenched teeth

and chasms of silence

what cavernous vent

tears again this way

where sour history gives foaming rent

all beliefs contain some form of lie

hidden deep beneath their meaning

Estragon: I've found it's not enough to be worldly in affairs....

there wandering child goes I

little and innocent face washed clean

I was held mortal brief by hollow stem

and quite simply, plumply

lowered gently into the ground

The smooth west wind
pulled your silver side to the sun;

At seventy miles an hour
there wasn't time

to know you;

it creased my hair
and sent my deciduous love flying....

where these tiny boats

curled

into a fold of air;

conspired

to let me

love you

the only way I know how