a note from Professor Boy
t's funny to write an introduction to this collection, because I have to admit that I’m not sure who it will reach at all. The Major Scientist and I, with some help from Commissioner Scepter, who has a great wealth of well-practiced knowledge about radio waves and the science of transmition and so forth, we three have done what we can to bridge the gap between the mainframe of the Barge, which is electrorganic, and the internet, which runs on much simpler systems. We have linked Eric Dolphin with the ship’s several combs of sodium-potential flotsam gel, and this should give us enough energy to put a signal of sufficient strength out through the antenna of the Estrada deck (used until now solely to broadcast whatever Lite FM the open sea has provided). It is by this new system that we hope to reach the world. It is a costly drain, and the crew has worked hard for days to provide it, and it only makes sense, therefore, that I would explain why it is that this new site exists, and what any lucky passerby can expect to find within.
A few weeks ago, on a calm night somewhere off the coast of the East Chantillies, most of the crew had gone for a late night latke & colada supper hosted by Officer Cho on the Toledo Deck, but I remained in my cabin, having already had my fill of abalone that Skipper Nolan and I had found on our earlier expeditions ashore. My cabin is a modest thing, set behind the wheel, under the poop. It is mostly occupied by the barge’s unexpectedly well-stocked library and an old chart table, which provides some space for my research, and above which I hang my hammock at night. It is more cosy than cramped here, and with some help from the dandy Vane, I one day managed to install a sky light, which, combined with the small fishboy who I employ to sing, creates an admirable atmosphere for some quiet thought. And it was in this happy, pensive mood that I found myself on the evening in question, listening contentedly to the little yelps & giggles that worked their way down to me from the celebration above.
I wandered to the shelves against the wall to pick some volume out that should occupy my mind, and pulling out a book, I found behind it, stacked lazily and all but ruined by dust, several volumes of our barge’s own log. The daily record that is kept by our crew to chronicle our voyage. How the log found itself hidden and all but lost, I had no idea. I could only think that it must have been stowed away during one of our bouts with piracy, to which we were prone, our ship being rather slow, and we ourselves being, for the most part, drunk. I put my mind at rest about it, and set to reading some of the earliest entries, giving myself over to that strange pleasure derived by a young professor-boy, or any man for that matter, in reading over the adventures that have already befallen him.
It was only a few pages in that I found myself realizing the importance of these books (and fearing in retrospect for the near loss of them!). There, among the log of our barge’s second winter, I found the entries of Commissioner Scepter’s that detailed his misadventures and fearfully solitary horrors set on the Mescaline Sea. It was bone-chilling stuff. I had the fishboy dress and sent him for cheese crackers and a malted to steady my bile, so I might continue to read.
What poetry, I began to see, lingered between Scepter’s words. What sublimity was contained in these retellings. And as I read on, not only through that volume but the others after, I began to see what I don’t think any of our crew had caught sight of before, that our seemingly simple daily diary was in fact overflowing with both the adventurous and the beautiful.
We are more than a dozen strong, a band of women and men who left our nation on the third of November, 2004, fearing the worst politically. Paying heed to the suggestion of James Nolan, we sought to avoid our national collapse by forming a houseboat, and we quickly built a sea-worthy vessel. On the ninth of that same month, our Major Scientist sent out an official invitation to a potential crew to help us plan and build. The result was astounding. Within two days, what was a house boat had become a barge (which now hosts over fifteen decks), and what were angry dreamers became a crew.
On that night, some weeks ago, it became clear to me that our journey had to be shared. The latkes and coladas were finished (with the patience that they were due) and sometime late in the afternoon several days later, work was quickly begun, all so that you could share in the stories that I leave here, in your care.