Upon a Sea of Dirt
I will follow the route of Pynchon’s novel. Portsmouth to Cape Town visiting St. Helena along the way. The scoundrels boatswains call girls peddlers merchants of global antiquities cookeries boot heel steppers suspender snappers whistlers and brutes. A chorale of broken heartedness sung by nose smashers. Wood carvers steel benders and fish mongers. Rope braiders dealing to net weavers. Small fortune gamblers heavy coffee gulping speed racers and never-ending storytellers. Hard livers no-quitters and back to basics down-and-outers. Melancholic timepiece winders gothic door slammers and weeping bed makers.
All of them I will find buried under the dirt. And I will go there.
Yours Truly





