Call me Ishmael...

After a particularly harrowing fall, I find my soul to be a damp, drizzly November (even though it is a rather unseasonably warm January here in Southern Ontario). And what better solution is there, I ask you, to the grim visage of inner turmoil than setting out upon the perennial waves of the seven seas in search of adventure! Unlike my Melvillian namesake though, I ship not aboard a whaling vessel haunted by humanity’s need to unravel the hermeneutic enigma of existence, but instead as a meek and accommodating bibliognost servicing a floating clientele content with 200 piece jigsaw puzzles and large print editions of Tom Clancy’s oeuvre.

Or so I have been led to believe. Presently, I am seated in a comfortable chair in my favourite coffee shop sipping a warm beverage and trying to imagine what lies in store for me after next week when I board the ship that will be my home for the next four months. To be honest, I know not what awaits me. I have never been on a cruise ship. I have never worked in a library. I have never even “blogged” before. And so I am frantically scouring the internet for clues to my future happiness or lack thereof. Will these next few months be the sun-soaked reprieve from land-based responsibility that will allow me to return to rededicate myself to the academic pursuits that have thus far proven so elusive? Will the shipboard lifestyle and tedious demands of a customer service position quickly wear upon my already fragile nerves? Will I become so enamoured with the prospect of traversing the oceanic realm that I forego all land-bound prospects in favour of a giant anchor tattoo? Or will it all end in a cataclysmic battle to the death with Somalian pirates or giant kraken?

There are no clear answers to these questions. I have pieced together two versions of cruise ship life. The first is an idyllic vision of a quiet library ensconced by an unbelievably gorgeous view. I sit quietly most days reading the canon of American criticism I have brought with me and puttering away on my blog adding clever and well-received posts from time to time. I have plenty of time to exercise, swim, and visit the various ports we call upon. I have a good time and make interesting friends; these pleasant experiences help me reach a new plateau of self-actualization and the seeds from which blooms all my abundant future success are thus sowed. The second version is far more Boschian. I imagine hordes of rude senior citizens making unfair demands upon my seasickness-wracked frame. I can almost smell the legions of crew members—American teenagers whose popped collars and casual ignorance assault my sensibilities daily—gossiping in the crew bar about the inanities of shipboard politics while they decide upon which STI-plagued bed shall be their refuge that evening. There shall be no time for the betterment of your mind and future prospects foolish youth! This albatross truly was felled by your careless violence—the violence by which you would dismantle an entire life in the misguided belief that the echo of the bounding main called your name alone! Miserable thing of clay! Were you unaware that a watery escape could be naught but a fearful retreat into the perdition of potential derailed?

But what of these dark visions? Do their phantasmal possibilities truly loom larger than those pastoral
fantasies that provide the succour that sees me through the darkest of nights? I cry “no!” From where
I sit so comfortably, the Rubicon is clearly visible, and I call for the barges! I call for my horse! On!
The die is cast! In the words of a great poet:

   “I cannot rest from travel: I will drink / Life to the lees”