Ship Out of Harbour

Moving through the D. O. I’m down to, every croupier’s favourite words, “The last 3”.

This card has always jarred me…

The D. O. is in my eyes, artistically speaking, a pick ‘n’ mix of misfits that somehow seem to rub along and happily live together… Except for this one. Somehow the colours clash… There’s a riot of colour in the D. O. but the hues feel to be of the same family… This image tips into nudges of neon and hints of psychedelia… The image feels harsher… I’ve thought many times that the card doesn’t live here but yet it has an important place…

I don’t know why I’ve not done it before but yesterday, for the first time, I laid out my deck like a storyboard. Previously I’d looked at the cards as jumbled masses or fanned arcs… Every single time, the image above sore thumbed itself for inspection…

What was it telling me?

Sure, it brings to mind Viking battles and passengers Valhalla bound to become Odin’s troops… Or if luckier then swept off the battleground as part of the fallen half that Freyja has first claim on… Grave New Worlds…

It brings to mind lifespans, death as honour, legacies held in legends… It throws stark contrast on soft modern living… Now engaged in maybe the closest to a deadly battle that my generation has known, I shake my head in weariness as people bemoan #firstworldproblems and hop into community fb groups to post pleas for help in sourcing courgettes. (I shit ye not!). I try not to be mean… I know it can be the small things that tip people over the edge and so I socially distance myself away from the keyboard rather than type “Ffs! Can’t you use an aubergine?! Adapt you fuckers! Adapt!”

I’m grumpy! I’m grumpy because current clime meant that burst tyre was not a quick fix and so the 9 seater white Renault (which is actually silver though for some reason I didn’t notice that until handing it back after a couple of days) yeah… The 9’er which affectionately became known as The Battle Bus, brought with it a new level of respect from other people on the roads…

Returning to Dock on Monday’s final jaunt, people were spread across the street blocking my way… I was puzzled, then a bit worried as it looked like a fire drill. Oh Ffs! Don’t tell me the carehome is on fire?! Oh no… Oh wait… Monday! Oh yes, these folks round here decided that weekly Thursday claps didn’t cut it, so they added Monday night doorstep singing. One of them finally notices my Battle Bus and like Moses he parts the sea to let me pass… I’m suddenly driving between two rows of people saluting me…

I’m not appreciative! I scowl… I’m grumpy and I drive through, thinking – yes you fuckers! I’m on a minibus so I’m a working hero… When I’m in my Galaxy you shake your fists, judgy stare and even on ocassion shout at me to stay the fuck at home…

I’m not down with this clapping for carers shit. I see virtue signalling… I see an excuse to break the housebound boredom but mostly I see a memory of a story that Mr S told me…

One day, a Spanish guy from some small village whose name I can’t recall, stood graveside with Mr S and laughed at how glum English mourners are… He said that in his village, when old men die, all the young men gather around the grave, laughing, grabbing their own crotch, thrusting hips, shouting ‘Better you than me!’

So that’s why clapping and salutes makes me grumpy… It’s not appreciation for another’s efforts, it’s a self-soothing back pat of pheww.

But that’s me being grumpy… And a snapshot of one truth amongst many truths in that particular moment…

In cheerier mood, I’d most probably sing with them.

Back to my card… Laid out in sequence of posting rather than drawing, it all became abundantly clear… Yes! It was a fully fledged member of the D. O. and No! It doesn’t live here… (well not always). It spilled its name to me…

Ship Out of Harbour

How did I miss that?! 🤣