(Above: The Gulf Stream by Winslow Homer)
Well, people, in case you haven’t noticed, it is a grim time in the empire. When people ask how we’re doing, we keep thinking of the haunting story of the Essex, an 1819 whaleship sunk by an angry whale (one of the few such incidents on record) whose survivors endured a grisly two-month journey in some leaky rowboats. The ordeal included madness, cannibalism, and (ironically) several survivors keeping detailed diaries, since it was before the Internet and they couldn’t Twitter about it.
To sum up, we feel like we’re in a leaky little boat and we just ate Roger the cabin boy, but there is no land in sight.
…and there may not be for a while. Still, idylls of cannibalism and exposure are a bit extreme. After all, the free market will inevitably pull out a sextant and make for dry land, right?
Like John Carter of Mars always said when he was being pursued by some flesh-eating plants and headless Kaldanes…”I still live!” Even if there won’t be any postal delivery on Saturdays any more.
So yeah, in answer to many emails and IMs and PMs and so on, it has been a shaky week here at Stately Beat Manor, not because of anything that happened to me personally, but just the general gloom and doom. But this too shall pass.
In the spirit of survival, struggle, Barsoom references and giant apes, here’s a painting of John Carter of Mars by Boris Vallejo and Julie Bell. Because nothing says hope like half-naked people fighting.