Choppy Water
Variation on a theme
Hey! Where do we go now?
Stagnant summer heat feels extra dry once you’ve lived your fair share of time in the tropics — or even the sub-tropics, as it were.
Outside of the luxurious conditioned air that defined my modern Floridian life many beers ago, I’ve come to adapt to the climate and the weather abroad with middling success.
No matter how well I adjust on the inside, I’ll always have memories of fighting over the decimals of degrees on the thermostat. Comfort in close quarters meaning more than the shared moments together.
Not quite nostalgia but perhaps some saudade, my homecoming quest has reared its ugly head once again.
And if I stared too long, I'd probably break down and cry
No place like home
On topic, I was reading a recent post from one of my Substack friends,
, and she shared some of her thoughts on the experience of living, and often not exactly thriving, abroad.The disappointments and the muted colors of finding an elusive definition for success are highlighted once one’s life is uprooted so far away.
The full post goes into a few anecdotes and a lot of details of how Carla experiences that emotion. I highly recommend it, although you either need to know Spanish or need to know how to use a translator.
I would add there’s a unique connection between Carla and my new book, Significatorius.
When I shared the map my sister made for the setting of the story, she instantly recognized the shape despite the renamed locations. Of course, as an extension of Besnowed, I made the story take place across the strait in the unmistakable southern tip of South America.
An appropriate response, given the themes of the story. Palena, the protagonist, grapples with her own emotions regarding the acceptance and the loss of her home.
I strongly believe those themes are universal.
I hope everyone who finds themselves reading my words can feel a connection therein.
Otherwise, I’ll just make this a sloppy transition into a piece of flash fiction.
Another Life, Another Chance
“Watch the waves…” He muttered the mantra. He told himself those words still made sense. After three days paddling in the wake of nothing but his lost dreams, the sentiment was gone.
All he could say for sure was that he would keep going. He lost it all in a bad bet on shore. Now, all there was left to lose was his sanity.
What was waiting on the one side was a warrant and a death sentence.
She deserved it.
On the other side, a paradise basked in the glory of the morning sun. He knew the sins of his transgressions could be forgiven under the guise of honest prayer. The legal system, however, struggled to keep up with the Word.
And so there he was. Open ocean and adrift with no wind. No hope in the eternal sky and a dreadful mirror reflecting his corrupted corpse below. There was no future for him no matter the direction he chose.
That was the origin of said desperation.
Three days and no signs of any other life.
He could move his arms, but no soul is worth that price.
Nothing.
That was the answer to his pleas.
“Taste is a peculiar thing.” He smiled as he felt the salt on his lips. A quote from a book he only just barely half-remembered. Something he would have retained from those days digging through the tunnels on his daily commute.
It all started there.
The end of all sensation.
He was numb to the pain and the pleasure and the catharsis and the salvation.
What was found in flesh felt foreign on his skin.
“Bottom of another bottle.” He wiped his brow and tried to make out the horizon. An island in the sun, trapped in a prison of his own mind.
There would maybe come a day when he would learn to apologize, but any attempt at understanding was secondary to survival.
He would die before he uttered a syllable of guilt.
Else the sea would swallow him whole.
Hopeful Horizon
As the second hand dances with the minutes, trading lustful glances with the dates on the monthly calendar, I need to put pressure on myself to ensure a grander victory.
Significatorius will be a bit of a different launch, as far as my books go. I plan on working with Focus on Words to retain more control than Amazon usually provides.
In practical terms, I should be able to have more direct sales — including wholesale. That means holding me and my ambition to a much higher standard.
I’m asking and begging all of you to please support me in this effort.
If you don’t know what shape that could take, send me a message and we can figure something out.
Home is ever a story we are willing to rewrite.
Until next time.
—JMB
Isolation as a metaphor for the character's moral ruin—adrift in body and soul, resigned to be consumed by the sea rather than confess/atone. 🖤