July 5, 2025: “His Stillness,” Family Members, “Pizza Party”

I have a confession:  my family (parents and siblings) never really went all out for Independence Day.  Generally, we didn’t go to parades.  I’m pretty sure my brothers blew up things with firecrackers, and I have memories of my sisters taking me to see some fireworks displays.  That’s about it.

But we did do barbecues.  Food was a thing that my family always did well.  Hotdogs.  Bratwurst.  Chicken.  Supplemented by watermelon and corn on the cob.  Some of my fondest memories are family meals, especially around holidays.

Sharon Olds writes about her father’s dignity . . . 

His Stillness

by: Sharon Olds

The doctor said to my father, "You asked me
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That's what I'm telling you now." My father
sat quite still, as he always did,
especially not moving his eyes. I had thought
he would rave if he understood he would die,
wave his arms and cry out. He sat up,
thin, and clean, in his clean gown,
like a holy man. The doctor said,
"There are things we can do which might give you time,
but we cannot cure you." My father said,
"Thank you." And he sat, motionless, alone,
with the dignity of a foreign leader.
I sat beside him. This was my father.
He had known he was mortal. I had feared they would have to
tie him down. I had not remembered
he had always held still and kept quiet to bear things,
the liquor a way to keep still. I had not
known him. My father had dignity. At the
end of his life his life began
to wake in me.

We always swear we will be different than our parents.  Raise our kids differently.  Be more successful.  Retire earlier.  Travel more.  Some people don’t even want to look like their mothers or fathers.

Yet, when I look in the mirror these days, I see my mother’s and father’s faces.  No getting around heredity.  I think I look a lot more like my mom than my dad, and I inherited her calmer disposition, as well.  My dad could be a hothead.  My mom, on the other hand, was always cool and thoughtful.  (When she lost her temper, you really didn’t want to be around her.  I think I take after her in that respect, as well.)

Around holidays, I think a lot about family members who are no longer around to celebrate with us.  My faithful disciples know that, in the last ten years or so, I’ve lost quite a few people in my life—a best friend, brother, two sisters, and both my parents.  The kind of nostalgia I’m experiencing today is pretty normal, I would guess.  Big holidays conjure up big feelings.

I did attend a parade this morning with my wife and kids.  There was even an Elvis impersonator on a float.  Now, I know we were supposed to boycott parades this July 4th in protest of the Republican apocalypse happening in Washington, D.C.  Nothing about the United States at the moment makes me proud to be a citizen of this country.  Yet, I do celebrate the freedom I have today.  (This time next year, I may have a different opinion.  Check back in 2026.)

I know that our country is incredibly flawed.  We live on stolen land in a society built on the backs of African American slaves.  Not really a great way to start this grand experiment in democracy.  However, I’ve also believed that we can be better.  Do better.  And I’m holding onto that hope right now.  I celebrated today what we CAN be as a nation, not what we currently are.  

The fireworks scheduled for tonight were rained out, so, instead, I went to the laundromat to wash some clothes and work on a new poem.  It’s about nine o’clock at night right now and still raining intermittently, but that’s not stopping our neighbors from disturbing the peace with some bottle rockets, firecrackers, and mortars.  That doesn’t bother me, though.  They’re out there having a good time.  Celebrating the freedom that still exists in the United States.  For now.

Saint Marty wrote a poem tonight about ghosts based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

It’s the birthday of Jean Cocteau, surrealist poet and playwright.  In honor of his birthday, write a surrealist poem today.  One way to do this is to begin with a 5-minute automatic writing session.  Write as fast as you can without thinking logically or worrying about making sense.  When you are finished with your timed writing, read it over and highlight passages that interest you.  Using these passages as triggers, continue writing fast.  Once you’ve done this, shape this raw and strange material into a poem.

Pizza Party

by: Martin Achatz

What do ghosts like on their pizzas?

Does my friend, Helen, want just

cheese, unadorned, plain as yoga?

My brother, Kevin, he loves ham,

even though he claimed to be vegan

when he was alive.  Sally is always 

particular, doesn’t want anything 

besides pepperoni to surprise

her tongue with too much heat or salt.

Rose, my other sister, eats everything with

the abandon of a flock of seagulls.  Dad

is meat and potatoes, wants as much

pork and beef and bacon as possible

on his slices, as if he grew up in a Russian

gulag with only one bowl of cabbage

broth to fuel his daily labors in the fields.

Mom?  She always eats after everyone

else, cobbling together her dinner

from turkey necks and sweet potato

skins.  Her pizza will be whatever

is left in the greasy boxes after the rest

of us are ready to nap or go for

a long, long walk.  That’s her now,

gliding around the table, asking

if everybody has had enough 

to eat, her ghostly stomach glowing

like a stove burner that’s just been 

used to fry up a skillet of scrambled eggs.

July 4, 2025: "The Glass," Independence Day, "July 4th Apologia in the Time of Trump"

It is Independence Day in the United States.  Again, for my non-U.S. disciples, I will explain that, on July 4, we celebrate the signing of the Declaration of Independence in which we declared our freedom from British rule.  So, pretty much we rejected royal governance.  Translation:  no kings for this country.

This year, July 4th has a different vibe for me.  It feels as if the country that I know and love (for all its flaws, and there are many) is dying right before my eyes, every minute of every day.

Sharon Olds writes about her dying father . . . 

The Glass

by: Sharon Olds

I think of it with wonder now,
the glass of mucus that stood on the table
in front of my father all weekend. The tumor
is growing fast in his throat these days,
and as it grows it sends out pus
like the sun sending out flares, those pouring
tongues. So my father has to gargle, cough,
spit a mouth full of thick stuff
into the glass every ten minutes or so,
scraping the rim up his lower lip
to get the last bit off his skin, then he
sets the glass down, on the table, and it
sits there, like a glass of beer foam,
shiny and faintly golden, he gargles and
coughs and reaches for it again,
and gets the heavy sputum out,
full of bubbles and moving around like yeast–
he is like a god producing food from his own mouth.
He himself can eat nothing, anymore,
just a swallow of milk, sometimes,
cut with water, and even then
it cannot, always, get past the tumor,
and the next time the saliva comes up
it is ropey, he has to roll it in his throat
a minute to form it and get it up and dis-
gorge the oval globule into the 

glass of phlegm, which stood there all day and
filled slowly with the compound globes and I would
empty it, and it would fill again, 

and shimmer there on the table until 

the room seemed to turn around it

in an orderly way, a model of the solar system
turning around the sun,
my father the dark earth that used to
lie at the center of the universe, now 

turning with the rest of us
around his death, luminous glass of 

spit on the table, these last mouthfuls of his life.

Yes, death brings people together.  Doesn't matter what or who is dying.  I've been in a few rooms when members of my family were breathing their last breaths.  It's a difficult and sacred moment--full of sadness and gratitude, saying goodbye and thankyou at the same time.

Will this be the last time the United States will commemorate independence and freedom on July 4th?  I'm not sure.  Next year, will we all be forced to attend goose-stepping, book-burning parades and rallies?  I don't know.  At least to me, I don't feel quite as independent and free as I did last year on this day.  Perhaps I am witnessing the death of democracy in the United States.

Typically, I would attend at least two parades and a fireworks display on Independence Day.  Not this year.  Instead, I hosted a barbecue this evening for friends and family as a kind of send-off for my daughter and her significant other (they will be moving downstate in about a week for my daughter to attend medical school).  So, we served up standard July 4th cuisine--hotdogs and bratwurst and watermelon and pasta salad and delicious, chocolaty desserts.  We told family stories.  Played croquet.  Loved each other.

I'm trying not to get all maudlin about my daughter moving away.  It's difficult, though.  My job as a father these last 24 years has been to protect her, keep her out of harm's way as much as possible.  Now, I'm not sure what my job duties will be, and she's inheriting a country that seems less kind, less loving, less free.

So, you'll excuse me if I don't stand up with my hand over my heart this evening.  

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight based on the following prompt from July 2 of The Daily Poet:

Happy birthday to Nobel Prize-winning poet Wislawa Szymborska!  Szymborska, born in Western Poland and lifelong resident of Krakow, was known not only for her fiercely political poems but for revealing the profound truths in the everyday experience of living.  In her honor, today's assignment is to write a poem of apology.  Don't apologize for minor things, like forgetting to close the windows during a rainstorm; apologize to abstractions such as hope, necessity, chance, and loyalty.  For further inspiration, read Syzmborska's poem "Under a Certain Little Star," which can be found through an Internet search.

July 4th Apologia in the Time of Trump

by: Martin Achatz

I'm sorry to compassion for not having

          an extra bologna sandwich and pillow.

I'm also sorry to justice for taking

          a nap this afternoon.

Freedom, please don't hold it against me

          if I forget your name.

And, common sense, you and I both know

          that throwing salt over your shoulder

          won't change any outcome or mind.  

Laughter, I've known you a long time, but

          I've blocked your texts

          until you come up with new jokes.

Independence, I'm sorry I mowed my lawn

          so the rabbits have to visit

          my neighbor's yard when they get hungry.

My condolences, pride, for leaving my shoes

          in the middle of the living room

          floor to trip over.

But I can't say I'm sorry, patriotism, 

          for not inviting you to tonight's barbecue.

You see, I prefer to hang with

          poets who don't mind sharing

          the last hotdog on the grill

          with the migrant worker next door.

Because everyone should know

          what liberty tastes like. 

July 4: "Statues in the Park," Independence Day, Honor

Billy Collins and the code of statues . . .

Statues in the Park

by: Billy Collins

I thought of you today

when I stopped before an equestrian statue 

in the middle of a public square,

you who had once instructed me

in the code of these noble poses.

A horse rearing up with two legs raised,

you told me, means the rider had died in battle.

If only one leg was lifted,

the man had elsewhere succumbed to his wounds,

and if four legs were touching the ground,

as they were in this case--

bronze hooves affixed to a stone base--

it meant that the man on the horse,

this one staring intently

over the closed movie theater across the street,

had died of a cause other than war.

In the shadow of the statue,

I wondered about the others

who had simply walked through life

without a horse, a saddle, or a sword--

pedestrians who could no longer

place one foot in front of the other.

I pictured statues of the sickly

recumbent on their cold stone beds,

the suicides toeing the marble edge,

statues of accident victims covering their eyes,

the murdered covering their wounds,

the drowned silently treading the air.

And there was I,

up on a rosy-gray block of granite

near a cluster of shade trees in the local park,

my name and dates pressed into a plaque,

down on my knees, eyes lifted,

praying to the passing clouds,

forever begging for just one more day.

I've heard of the meanings behind these equestrian statues before, although I wasn't aware of all the nuances of the lifted legs.  These symbolic meanings fascinate me.  Now, I'm sure that, at some point, almost everyone was aware of these artistic codes.  However, over time, these codes have been relegated to questions on Jeopardy! or a game of Trivial Pursuit.

Today the citizens of the United States commemorated Independence Day--the day (almost 250 years ago now) when the Declaration of Independence was signed and British rule in the American colonies came to an end.  In honor of this moment in history, there were parades and community picnics and fireworks all across the nation.  However, much of the original meaning of this day gets obscured by the trappings of these celebrations. 

I'm just as guilty of the next person when it comes to taking my freedoms for granted.  As I sit here typing this blog post, I'm not worried about getting thrown in jail for criticizing the President of the United States or the justices on the Supreme Court.  There's this little thing called freedom of speech in the Constitution which guarantees me the right to express myself without fear of imprisonment or worse.  I can bitch about politicians all I want without fear of retribution (at least in the near future).

 I am not going to discuss recent Supreme Court rulings tonight.  Suffice to say, I've lost faith in the High Court.  Divisive politics and corruption have invaded every aspect of governance in the land.  But, that's not what I'm writing about right now.  I prefer to focus on the time I spent with my wife and kids this afternoon/evening.  I barbecued hot dogs and bratwurst, cooked corn on the cob, and sliced up a watermelon.  We played games and laughed quite a bit.

Now, who knows what Independence Day is going to look like next year.  It all depends on the upcoming presidential election.  My heart tells me that I will still be independent and free.  My mind says I might be incarcerated in some gulag as a dissident poet/anarchist.

Tonight, however, I can still type things like "Fuck Donald Trump" and "Impeach Clarence Thomas" without fear that I will be spirited away in the middle of the night by gestapo agents.  And I honor the sacrifices made by those who fought and sometimes died to insure my freedoms on this Independence Day.  

Saint Marty is now going to comfort his puppy who's cowering in her cage because his neighbors are exercising their freedom to shoot off fireworks.

July 1: "How the Grass and the Flowers Came to Exist, a God-Tale," Independence Day, Pride and Shame

Mary Oliver's version of the Book of Genesis . . .

How the Grass and the Flowers Came to Exist, a God-Tale

by:  Mary Oliver

I suppose

the Lord said:

Let there be fur upon the earth,

and let there be hair upon the earth,

and so the seed stuttered forward into ripeness

and the roots twirled in the dark

to accomplish His desire,

and so there is clover,

and the reeds of the marshes,

and the eelgrass of the sea shallows

upon which the dainty sea brant live,

and there is the green and sturdy grass,

and the goldenrod

and the spurge and the yarrow

and the ivies and the bramble

and the blue iris

covering the earth,

thanking the Lord with their blossoms.

Of all the emotions Oliver writes about in her poems, the one that makes the most appearances is gratitude.  Everything, from sea brants and eelgrass to spurge and yarrow, crawl and blossom into thankfulness.  Even when she's writing about grief and loss, there is gratitude, which makes sense, when you think about it.  The reason you grieve is because you've lost something you cared about a great deal.  So, in a way, you give thanks by experiencing that profound sadness.

I am writing this as I sit on a grassy hill, waiting for my hometown's fireworks display to begin.  Yes, I know it's not Independence Day yet.  However, in the space of a week's time, four different local communities are shooting off fireworks. so, to avoid having competing fireworks, these towns/cities decided to space them out over several days.

Now, for my international disciples, I need to explain the genesis of Independence Day.  In the United States, we celebrate our declaration of freedom from British rule on July 4, which is the day in 1776 that the Continental Congress adopted the Declaration of Independence.  The signing of the Declaration didn't begin until about a month later, on August 2.  Practically speaking, however, the colonists living here became independent on July 4.  This was good news if you were white.  It really didn't mean a whole lot to Indigenous peoples or enslaved African Americans.  

The United States has been referred to as a Great Experiment.  As with any experiment, mistakes have been made.  Slavery.  The displacement and genocide of Native Americans.  The Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882.  The Mexican American War.  Jim Crow.  The Tulsa race massacre.  Japanese internment during World War II.  The Vietnam War.  The Stonewall Riots.  I could go on, but you get the idea.  The history of my country is riddled with blood, racism, intolerance, and atrocity.

And I sit here tonight, on the cusp of celebrating the 247th anniversary of the adoption of the Declaration of Independence, writing this criticism of the United States.  It has been said the one of the greatest acts of patriotism is criticism (not violent insurrection or gerrymandering or election fraud).  I believe that.  Because I want my country to do better.  Be better.  

A few years ago, one of the greatest topics of conversation in the United States was the building of a border wall between the United States and Mexico.  Then the pandemic happened, and, because of our government's terrible response to this global health crisis, other countries banned United States citizens from entering their borders.  We became the refugees that nobody wanted.  What goes around, comes around.

Am I proud to be an American?  Sometimes.  I'm also sometimes embarrassed, angry, indignant, confused, disgusted, and ashamed.  I can be all of these things because I live in a country where I have the freedom to think what I want, believe what I want, and express myself any way I want.

And I am grateful for that.

Saint Marty thinks that's worth setting off some fireworks.

July 4: Move Slowly Off, Independence Day, Bornean Orangutan

Santiago is towed by the fish . . . 

Nothing happened. The fish just moved away slowly and the old man could not raise him an inch. His line was strong and made for heavy fish and he held it against his back until it was so taut that beads of water were jumping from it. Then it began to make a slow hissing sound in the water and he still held it, bracing himself against the thwart and leaning back against the pull. The boat began to move slowly off toward the North-West.

The fish moved steadily and they travelled slowly on the calm water. The other baits were still in the water but there was nothing to be done.

The old man literally becomes a parade float on the ocean in this passage, slowly being dragged along by the fish.

It is officially Independence Day, and I did something this morning that I rarely do:  I slept in.  I didn't get out of bed until well past 9:30 a.m.  Some of you may be thinking, "Big deal."  But, for a person who is usually awake, dressed, and out the door by 7:30 a.m., those extra couple hours of lounging felt a little like gorging myself on a quart of Ben & Jerry's.  

When I finally did get up, I read a little.  Watched TV a little.  Ate some cold pizza for breakfast.  Then, I got dressed.  Again, really unusual for me.  The last time I did that, I had COVID in January and was alternating my time between sleeping on the couch and watching Love Hard over and over on Netflix.  (If you haven't seen that film, don't judge me.  It's compulsively rewatchable.)

The only thing I did today that qualifies as commemorating the holiday was attending a parade with a good friend of mine.  He and I have known each other for going on 30 years.  We worked together at a local bookstore back then.  Nowadays, every July 4th, we usually attend the local parade and catch up on each other's lives.  Due to COVID, we haven't done this recently.  The parade was cancelled two years ago.  One year ago, my friend was in Chicago with his wife, I believe.

So, today, he and I sat and watched the usual array of motorcycles, high school bands, dump trucks, and campaigning politicians.  A horse-drawn wagon clopped by, and, surprisingly, the horses did not lift their tales in front of us.  (I seem to be jinxed by animals with loose bowels when I attend parades.)  It was a wonderful couple hours spent with a person I care deeply about.  We commiserated about the sad state of the Supreme Court and the country in general, as two aging progressives are wont to do when they get together.  

In the evening, my family and I had a barbecue with my sister.  Hot dogs, bratwurst, homemade mac and cheese, and watermelon.  Then we all watched an episode of Stranger Things.  It was a lovely way to end the holiday weekend.

As I sit typing this post, I can hear some neighbors setting off fireworks.  It's raining, so I'm sure the rockets aren't exactly lighting up the sky.  It's just loud enough to make my puppy moan and shift in her crate.

That's a pretty good metaphor to end the final post of this strange Independence Day weekend where independence and freedom need to be put on the endangered species list.  Right next to the black-footed ferret and Bornean orangutan.  We're all sort of shifting in our crates uncomfortably, listening to the distant explosions, wondering what's coming.

Even though Saint Marty didn't see any this weekend, there's a lot of horseshit going around.

July 4: String of My Tongue, Beautiful Ugly, Ralph Macchio

Merton goes through a period of poetic inspiration . . . 

The new year came, 1941. In its January, I was to have my twenty-sixth birthday, and enter upon my twenty-seventh, most momentous year. 

Already, in February, or before that, the idea came to me that I might make a retreat in some monastery for Holy Week and Easter. Where would it be? The first place that came into my mind was the Trappist abbey Dan Walsh had told me about, in Kentucky. And as soon as I thought about it, I saw that this was the only choice. That was where I needed to go. Something had opened out, inside me, in the last months, something that required, demanded at least a week in that silence, in that austerity, praying together with the monks in their cold choir. 

And my heart expanded with anticipation and happiness. 

Meanwhile, suddenly, one day, towards the beginning of Lent, I began to write poems. I cannot assign any special cause for the ideas that began to crowd on me from every side. I had been reading the Spanish poet, Lorca, with whose poetic vein I felt in the greatest sympathy: but that was not enough, in itself, to account for all the things I now began to write. In the first weeks of Lent, the fasting I took on myself—which was not much, but at least it came up to the standard required by the Church for an ordinary Christian, and did not evade its obligations under some privilege to which I was not entitled—instead of cramping my mind, freed it, and seemed to let loose the string of my tongue. 

Sometimes I would go several days at a time, writing a new poem every day. They were not all good, but some of them were better than I had written before. In the end, I did not altogether reject more than half a dozen of them. And, having sent many of the others to various magazines, I at last had the joy of seeing one or two of them accepted.

I know my last two posts haven't been what you would call uplifting.  We all experience those dark nights (and mornings and afternoons).  That's all part of being human on this little blue third rock from the sun.  The world is a broken place, and sometimes that brokenness can overflow the levees we create to hold it off.  That has happened for me recently.  And Merton, in this passage, is basking in one of those golden moments human beings also experience sometimes--when everything seems to be going perfectly.  Where poetry falls from the sky every day like manna.  

When I started this blog over ten years ago, I envisioned it as a place where I could share both the beautiful and ugly things in my life.  And the beautiful ugly.  Because darkness is defined by light.  One cannot exist without the other.  I may be experiencing a pretty deep darkness right now, but that means that there's also blinding light on the boundaries of that darkness.  I can either focus on the dark, or I can turn my face toward the light.  My choice.

It is Independence Day in the United States, a day where everyone pauses to reflect on the origins of our country.  Like most nations, I come from a place conceived in blood and battle.  Preserved in blood and battle.  In the 245 years since this country has existed, we have been involved in war for 217 of those years.  That's 92% of the time.  Pretty astounding statistic.  

So, it's only natural, living in a country that is so steeped in conflict, to be a little reflective on the meaning of discord and disharmony on the celebration of its birthday.  If you can't tell, I have been dealing with some personal conflict recently.  I'm kind of tired of thinking of all the stupid platitudes that people tell you when you're dealing with difficulties in your life:  "That which doesn't kill you makes you stronger" or "God only gives you what He thinks you can handle" or "Give it up to God" or "No sense in worrying about things you have no control over."  I could go on, but you get the idea.

All of those sayings are true.  I know that.  The things is, when you're on the Titanic and it's going down, the only thing you're really thinking is, "Where's the nearest lifeboat?"  Don't tell me to look on the bright side when the ship is sinking.  I know that the world is in a much better place than it was a year ago.  The United States is in much better shape, too.  Last year, no parades or community picnics or fireworks.  This year, it was two days' worth of dump truck convoys, kettle corn, and sparklers in the sky.  

Here is some light in my darkness tonight--my kids are happy and healthy and beautiful; I watched Ralph Macchio kick some Cobra Kai ass in The Karate Kid tonight; I have a vacation day tomorrow; and the fireworks have finally stopped on my street.  Plus, I had a deep-fried turkey dinner with my family tonight.  My problems haven't disappeared by any means.  They will be there tomorrow morning when I wake up, and I will have to force myself to get out of bed, 

Tonight, however, is about freedom and celebration.  Saint Marty will return to his normal programming tomorrow. 

And a poem for today . . . 

Waiting for Independence Day Fireworks 2013

by:  Martin Achatz

On this July 4,
a girl with pink hair
wrestles a pit bull
in the grass as Black Pearl
plays "Stand by Me"
on the bandstand.
The sky touches the ground
with a wide palm
of sun, day clinging
to these last suckling moments,
nursing dusk's green milk.
So much skin and tattoo around,
flesh against flesh.
I smell coconut
from a flock of teenage
girls who whisper and giggle by,
Budweiser and Marlboros
from the boys close behind them.
An old man and woman sit
in lawn chairs to my left,
eat bratwurst, watch
kids loft Frisbees into the darkening
air. When she's down
to her last bite, the old woman
reaches over, feeds it
to the old man, who accepts it,
kisses her fingertips, his lips
smeared with mustard.
Two men appear.
One carries a blanket.
Their hands almost touch
as they walk together.
They spread their blanket
on the ground, the way
my mom and dad
used to spread towels
on the beach in August,
without need for word
or direction, an easy ballet
of arm and hand, crouch,
kneel, an act they'd repeated
so many times it gleamed
like a rock in lake shallows,
polished for years by tides, waves.
Everyone pauses as the men
sit close to each other,
gray heads like twin dandelions
sprouting from a single weed.
They talk, laugh, drink beer
from brown, long-necked bottles.
Soon, we all forget to be shocked
as night overtakes us,
makes us all the same,
one crowd, indivisible,
under stars and moon,
our bodies primed
for the freedom to love
the sky any way we want.

July 4: Independence Day, Barbecue, "After the Fireworks"

It was a strange Independence Day.  No parades or community picnics.  No snow cones or cotton candy.  No corn on the cob dripping with butter and salt.  And, at dusk, no huge fireworks display to "ooohhhh" and "aaaahhhhh" at.

Instead, I slept in.  Got up and made my family breakfast.  After running a few errands, I took a nap.  Played the pipe organ for a Saturday evening Mass.  Then, I drove out to a camp on a lake, where I feasted on shish kebob and bratwurst.  As dusk crept in, we shot off some fireworks purchased at a road-side stand.

As I said, it was strange.  Unlike any Independence Day that I can recall in my adult life.  Its sedate pace brought to us by the pandemic.  But it was also wonderful, full of the miracles of family and togetherness and laughter.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.

After the Fireworks

by:  Martin Achatz

We walk to our car in the dark,

blankets cradled in our arms,

stars as distant as the morning

we first met, marriage and kids

not even ingredients in the roux

of our thoughts, just longing for

when we could come together

on a beach, wade into lake

water, hands and lips weightless

as jellyfish on our bodies,

stinging, pulling back, gliding

over and in and around, skin

a night sky on July fourth,

full of comet, spark, tail, waterfall.

Peony.  Chrysanthemum.  Diadem.

Crossette.  Kamuro.  Bengal fire.

Afterward, as we dressed, we

still smelled our combustion,

tasted potassium, nitrogen, copper

on our tongues for hours.

Tonight, we load belongings

into our Ford.  Books, sparklers,

half-eaten bag of cotton candy,

our daughter, still dazzled

by Summer Storm and Pyro Glyphics.

We drive home in silence

after the fireworks, think of how

we, on this Independence Day,

depend on each other, how we

still climb into bed each night,

hungry to be blinded again.

July 5: Stoic, Teenage Daughter, Fireworks

Crossing the deck, let us now have a good long look at the the Right Whale's head.
As in general shape the noble Sperm Whale's head may be compared to a Roman war-chariot (especially in front, where it is so broadly rounded); so, at a broad view, the Right Whale's head bears a rather inelegant resemblance to a gigantic galliot-toed shoe. Two hundred years ago an old Dutch voyager likened its shape to that of a shoemaker's last. And in this same last or shoe, that old woman of the nursery tale with the swarming brood, might very comfortably be lodged, she and all her progeny.

But as you come nearer to this great head it begins to assume different aspects, according to your point of view. If you stand on its summit and look at these two f-shaped spout-holes, you would take the whole head for an enormous bass viol, and these spiracles, the apertures in its soundingboard. Then, again, if you fix your eye upon this strange, crested, comblike incrustation on the top of the mass- this green, barnacled thing, which the Greenlanders call the "crown," and the Southern fishers the "bonnet" of the Right Whale; fixing your eyes solely on this, you would take the head for the trunk of some huge oak, with a bird's nest in its crotch. At any rate, when you watch those live crabs that nestle here on this bonnet, such an idea will be almost sure to occur to you; unless, indeed, your fancy has been fixed by the technical term "crown" also bestowed upon it; in which case you will take great interest in thinking how this mighty monster is actually a diademed king of the sea, whose green crown has been put together for him in this marvellous manner. But if this whale be a king, he is a very sulky looking fellow to grace a diadem. Look at that hanging lower lip! what a huge sulk and pout is there! a sulk and pout, by carpenter's measurement, about twenty feet long and five feet deep; a sulk and pout that will yield you some 500 gallons of oil and more.

A great pity, now, that this unfortunate whale should be hare-lipped. The fissure is about a foot across. Probably the mother during an important interval was sailing down the Peruvian coast, when earthquakes caused the beach to gape. Over this lip, as over a slippery threshold, we now slide into the mouth. Upon my word were I at Mackinaw, I should take this to be the inside of an Indian wigwam. Good Lord! is this the road that Jonah went? The roof is about twelve feet high, and runs to a pretty sharp angle, as if there were a regular ridge-pole there; while these ribbed, arched, hairy sides, present us with those wondrous, half vertical, scimitar-shaped slats of whalebone, say three hundred on a side, which depending from the upper part of the head or crown bone, form those Venetian blinds which have elsewhere been cursorily mentioned. The edges of these bones are fringed with hairy fibres, through which the Right Whale strains the water, and in whose intricacies he retains the small fish, when openmouthed he goes through the seas of brit in feeding time. In the central blinds of bone, as they stand in their natural order, there are certain curious marks, curves, hollows, and ridges, whereby some whalemen calculate the creature's age, as the age of an oak by its circular rings. Though the certainty of this criterion is far from demonstrable, yet it has the savor of analogical probability. At any rate, if we yield to it, we must grant a far greater age to the Right Whale than at first glance will seem reasonable.

In old times, there seem to have prevailed the most curious fancies concerning these blinds. One voyager in Purchas calls them the wondrous "whiskers" inside of the whale's mouth;* another, "hogs' bristles"; a third old gentleman in Hackluyt uses the following elegant language: "There are about two hundred and fifty fins growing on each side of his upper chop, which arch over his tongue on each side of his mouth."

*This reminds us that the Right Whale really has a sort of whisker, or rather a moustache, consisting of a few scattered white hairs on the upper part of the outer end of the lower jaw. Sometimes these tufts impart a rather brigandish expression to his otherwise solemn countenance.

As every one knows, these same "hogs' bristles," "fins," "whiskers," "blinds," or whatever you please, furnish to the ladies their busks and other stiffening contrivances. But in this particular, the demand has long been on the decline. It was in Queen Anne's time that the bone was in its glory, the farthingale being then all the fashion. And as those ancient dames moved about gaily, though in the jaws of the whale, as you may say; even so, in a shower, with the like thoughtlessness, do we nowadays fly under the same jaws for protection; the umbrella being a tent spread over the same bone.

But now forget all about blinds and whiskers for a moment, and, standing in the Right Whale's mouth, look around you afresh. Seeing all these colonnades of bone so methodically ranged about, would you not think you were inside of the great Haarlem organ, and gazing upon its thousand pipes? For a carpet to the organ we have a rug of the softest Turkey- the tongue, which is glued, as it were, to the floor of the mouth. It is very fat and tender, and apt to tear in pieces in hoisting it on deck. This particular tongue now before us; at a passing glance I should say it was a six-barreler; that is, it will yield you about that amount of oil.

Ere this, you must have plainly seen the truth of what I started with- that the Sperm Whale and the Right Whale have almost entirely different heads. To sum up, then: in the Right Whale's there is no great well of sperm; no ivory teeth at all; no long, slender mandible of a lower jaw, like the Sperm Whale's. Nor in the Sperm Whale are there any of those blinds of bone; no huge lower lip; and scarcely anything of a tongue. Again, the Right Whale has two external spout-holes, the Sperm Whale only one.

Look your last now, on these venerable hooded heads, while they yet lie together; for one will soon sink, unrecorded, in the sea; the other will not be very long in following.

Can you catch the expression of the Sperm Whale's there? It is the same he died with, only some of the longer wrinkles in the forehead seem now faded away. I think his broad brow to be full of a prairie-like placidity, born of a speculative indifference as to death. But mark the other head's expression. See that amazing lower lip, pressed by accident against the vessel's side, so as firmly to embrace the jaw. Does not this whole head seem to speak of an enormous practical resolution facing death? This Right Whale I take to have been a Stoic; the Sperm Whale, a Platonian, who might have taken up Spinoza in his latter years.

Right Whale versus Sperm Whale.  I especially enjoy the final passages in this chapter, where Melville notes that the Right Whale has the expression of a Stoic, while the Sperm Whale is a follower of Plato.  I don't think that he's truly investing either whale with philosophical schools of thought.  No, I think he's using the terms more generally.  The Right Whale's face, to Melville, seems devoid of strong emotion.  The Sperm Whale, on the other hand, is invested with stronger feeling, reaching toward some higher good, so to speak.

I know.  That's pretty heavy stuff after a long day, but it sort of touches upon my frame of mind this evening.  Yesterday, I was forced to confront the fact that my 17-year-old daughter is not that interested in hanging out with her family as much anymore.  Last night, at the community fireworks, she spent the night wandering around with her boyfriend and a pack of their friends.  I only saw her from a distance, passing by, ignoring us.

I know this is normal teenage behavior.  My daughter is trying to establish herself as a person, independent of me or her mother.  Gone are the days when she was content to sit on a blanket with us, listen to my jokes, and light sparklers.  She was having fun, enjoying her freedom.

The problem came at dusk, when the fireworks started flying.  I wanted my daughter to come back to us to watch the show.  She was with her friends, having a good time.  I got angry.  Texted her that she needed to come back immediately or she wouldn't be able to go anywhere with her friends for a long time.  She came storming back to our blanket, flung herself on the ground, with her back to me.  We both watched the fireworks, but I don't think either of us enjoyed them.

In retrospect, I now realize that I was being unreasonable.  She was doing what every every child has to do at some time:  pull away from her parents.  However, in the heat of the moment, I wasn't able to be Stoic or Platonic in my thought process.  I was just pissed and maybe a little sad.  I don't think there's been a single Independence Day where she hasn't watched the fireworks with me.

Well, here I sit a day later.  The anger is gone.  What I am left with this evening is a lot of sadness.  It's irrational for me to feel like this.  However, in some way, I feel like I lost a little part of my daughter last night.  I got a taste of her future--high school graduation, college, jobs, relationships.  All of the stuff that doesn't really include me a whole lot.  I didn't like it.

So, excuse me this evening if I'm a little blue.  I will be better tomorrow, once I get more distance and perspective from yesterday.  I think that, like Melville, I'm playing a comparison game:  my little, ponytailed girl versus my almost adult daughter.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight to be a part of his daughter's life.

July 4: Grey-Headed Whale, Independence Day, Shithole Countries

Here, now, are two great whales, laying their heads together; let us join them, and lay together our own.

Of the grand order of folio leviathans, the Sperm Whale and the Right Whale are by far the most noteworthy. They are the only whales regularly hunted by man. To the Nantucketer, they present the two extremes of all the known varieties of the whale. As the external difference between them is mainly observable in their heads; and as a head of each is this moment hanging from the Pequod's side; and as we may freely go from one to the other, by merely stepping across the deck:- where, I should like to know, will you obtain a better chance to study practical cetology than here?

In the first place, you are struck by the general contrast between these heads. Both are massive enough in all conscience; but, there is a certain mathematical symmetry in the Sperm Whale's which the Right Whale's sadly lacks. There is more character in the Sperm Whale's head. As you behold it, you involuntarily yield the immense superiority to him, in point of pervading dignity. In the present instance, too, this dignity is heightened by the pepper and salt color of his head at the summit, giving token of advanced age and large experience. In short, he is what the fishermen technically call a "grey-headed whale."

Let us now note what is least dissimilar in these heads- namely, the two most important organs, the eye and the ear. Far back on the side of the head, and low down, near the angle of either whale's jaw, if you narrowly search, you will at last see a lashless eye, which you would fancy to be a young colt's eye; so out of all proportion is it to the magnitude of the head.

Now, from this peculiar sideway position of the whale's eyes, it is plain that he can never see an object which is exactly ahead, no more than he can one exactly astern. In a word, the position of the whale's eyes corresponds to that of a man's ears; and you may fancy, for yourself, how it would fare with you, did you sideways survey objects through your ears. You would find that you could only command some thirty degrees of vision in advance of the straight side-line of sight; and about thirty more behind it. If your bitterest foe were walking straight towards you, with dagger uplifted in broad day, you would not be able to see him, any more than if he were stealing upon you from behind. In a word, you would have two backs, so to speak; but, at the same time, also, two fronts (side fronts): for what is it that makes the front of a man- what, indeed, but his eyes?

Moreover, while in most other animals that I can now think of, the eyes are so planted as imperceptibly to blend their visual power, so as to produce one picture and not two to the brain; the peculiar position of the whale's eyes, effectually divided as they are by many cubic feet of solid head, which towers between them like a great mountain separating two lakes in valleys; this, of course, must wholly separate the impressions which each independent organ imparts. The whale, therefore, must see one distinct picture on this side, and another distinct picture on that side; while all between must be profound darkness and nothingness to him. Man may, in effect, be said to look out on the world from a sentry-box with two joined sashes for his window. But with the whale, these two sashes are separately inserted, making two distinct windows, but sadly impairing the view. This peculiarity of the whale's eyes is a thing always to be borne in mind in the fishery; and to be remembered by the reader in some subsequent scenes.

A curious and most puzzling question might be started concerning this visual matter as touching the Leviathan. But I must be content with a hint. So long as a man's eyes are open in the light, the act of seeing is involuntary; that is, he cannot then help mechanically seeing whatever objects are before him. Nevertheless, any one's experience will teach him, that though he can take in an undiscriminating sweep of things at one glance, it is quite impossible for him, attentively, and completely, to examine any two things- however large or however small- at one and the same instant of time; never mind if they lie side by side and touch each other. But if you now come to separate these two objects, and surround each by a circle of profound darkness; then, in order to see one of them, in such a manner as to bring your mind to bear on it, the other will be utterly excluded from your contemporary consciousness. How is it, then, with the whale? True, both his eyes, in themselves, must simultaneously act; but is his brain so much more comprehensive, combining, and subtle than man's, that he can at the same moment of time attentively examine two distinct prospects, one on one side of him, and the other in an exactly opposite direction? If he can, then is it as marvellous a thing in him, as if a man were able simultaneously to go through the demonstrations of two distinct problems in Euclid. Nor, strictly investigated, is there any incongruity in this comparison.
It may be but an idle whim, but it has always seemed to me, that the extraordinary vacillations of movement displayed by some whales when beset by three or four boats; the timidity and liability to queer frights, so common to such whales; I think that all this indirectly proceeds from the helpless perplexity of volition, in which their divided and diametrically opposite powers of vision must involve them.

But the ear of the whale is full as curious as the eye. If you are an entire stranger to their race, you might hunt over these two heads for hours, and never discover that organ. The ear has no external leaf whatever; and into the hole itself you can hardly insert a quill, so wondrously minute is it. It is lodged a little behind the eye. With respect to their ears, this important difference is to be observed between the sperm whale and the right. While the ears of the former has an external opening, that of the latter is entirely and evenly covered over with a membrane, so as to be quite imperceptible from without.
Is it not curious, that so vast a being as the whale should see the world through so small an eye, and hear the thunder through an ear which is smaller than a hare's? But if his eyes were broad as the lens of Herschel's great telescope; and his ears capacious as the porches of cathedrals; would that make him any longer of sight, or sharper of hearing? Not at all.- Why then do you try to "enlarge" your mind? Subtilize it.

Let us now with whatever levers and steam-engines we have at hand, cant over the sperm whale's head, so, that it may lie bottom up; then, ascending by a ladder to the summit, have a peep down the mouth; and were it not that the body is now completely separated from it, with a lantern we might descend into the great Kentucky Mammoth Cave of his stomach. But let us hold on here by this tooth, and look about us where we are. What a really beautiful and chaste-looking mouth! from floor to ceiling, lined, or rather papered with a glistening white membrane, glossy as bridal satins.

But come out now, and look at this portentous lower jaw, which seems like the long narrow lid of an immense snuff-box, with the hinge at one end, instead of one side. If you pry it up, so as to get it overhead, and expose its rows of teeth, it seems a terrific portcullis; and such, alas! it proves to many a poor wight in the fishery, upon whom these spikes fall with impaling force. But far more terrible is it to behold, when fathoms down in the sea, you see some sulky whale, floating there suspended, with his prodigious jaw, some fifteen feet long, hanging straight down at right-angles with his body; for all the world like a ship's jibboom. This whale is not dead; he is only dispirited; out of sorts, perhaps; hypochondriac; and so supine, that the hinges of his jaw have relaxed, leaving him there in that ungainly sort of plight, a reproach to all his tribe, who must, no doubt, imprecate lock-jaws upon him.
In most cases this lower jaw- being easily unhinged by a practised artist- is disengaged and hoisted on deck for the purpose of extracting the ivory teeth, and furnishing a supply of that hard white whalebone with which the fishermen fashion all sorts of curious articles including canes, umbrellasticks, and handles to riding-whips.

With a long, weary hoist the jaw is dragged on board, as if it were an anchor; and when the proper time comes- some few days after the other work- Queequeg, Daggoo, and Tashtego, being all accomplished dentists, are set to drawing teeth. With a keen cutting-spade, Queequeg lances the gums; then the jaw is lashed down to ringbolts, and a tackle being rigged from aloft, they drag out these teeth, as Michigan oxen drag stumps of old oaks out of wild woodlands. There are generally forty-two teeth in all; in old whales, much worn down, but undecayed; nor filled after our artificial fashion. The jaw is afterwards sawn into slabs, and piled away like joists for building houses.

Greetings on this Independence Day.  I just returned from the parade my hometown puts together every year.  Fire trucks, police cars, dump trucks, classic cars, race cars, sports teams, class reunion floats, marching bands and bagpipers.  It was a long and hot experience.  There weren't any whale heads on display.  However, there was a group of gun-lovers handing out candy and pamphlets.  I'm sure they have the heads of a few dead things hanging on their walls.

I'm just about to head out to a barbecue that a friend of mine is throwing.  Nothing big.  Close family and friends.  This evening, my sister is barbecuing some steaks.  Then, off to the fireworks, although thunderstorms are in the forecast.  Nothing out of the ordinary for July 4.

I am grateful for the life I have, all the freedoms I possess.  This day reminds me of how really lucky I am.  Sure, right now the current President is doing his damndest to turn the United States into a fascist dictatorship.  He's imprisoning children, mothers, fathers who cross our borders illegally in order to escape terrible violence in their home countries.  He's starting trade wars with our long-time allies.  And he's getting really cozy with dictators from Russia and North Korea, calling them "great guys."  All of these things concern me.  A lot.

I remind myself daily that we are a nation of immigrants, from all corners of the planet.  Even Donald Trump is the son of immigrants.  Of course, his parents were from "acceptable," European countries.  The founding fathers were all immigrants.  I think that everyone needs to be reminded of these facts.  Daily.

We all came from "shithole countries," to use Mr. Trump's own words.  Saint Marty included.  Japan, China, Germany, Russia, Mexico, Poland, Nigeria, Liberia, England, Ireland, Scotland, El Salvador, Cuba, Pakistan . . .

July 3: Fedallah, Independence Day Eve, the Old Days

It must be borne in mind that all this time we have a Sperm Whale's prodigious head hanging to the Pequod's side. But we must let it continue hanging there a while till we can get a chance to attend to it. For the present other matters press, and the best we can do now for the head, is to pray heaven the tackles may hold.

Now, during the past night and forenoon, the Pequod had gradually drifted into a sea, which, by its occasional patches of yellow brit, gave unusual tokens of the vicinity of Right Whales, a species of the Leviathan that but few supposed to be at this particular time lurking anywhere near. And though all hands commonly disdained the capture of those inferior creatures; and though the Pequod was not commissioned to cruise for them at all, and though she had passed numbers of them near the Crozetts without lowering a boat; yet now that a Sperm Whale had been brought alongside and beheaded, to the surprise of all, the announcement was made that a Right Whale should be captured that day, if opportunity offered.

Nor was this long wanting. Tall spouts were seen to leeward; and two boats, Stubb's and Flask's, were detached in pursuit. Pulling further and further away, they at last became almost invisible to the men at the masthead. But suddenly in the distance, they saw a great heap of tumultuous white water, and soon after news came from aloft that one or both the boats must be fast. An interval passed and the boats were in plain sight, in the act of being dragged right towards the ship by the towing whale. So close did the monster come to the hull, that at first it seemed as if he meant it malice; but suddenly going down in a maelstrom, within three rods of the planks, he wholly disappeared from view, as if diving under the keel. "Cut, cut!" was the cry from the ship to the boats, which, for one instant, seemed on the point of being brought with a deadly dash against the vessel's side. But having plenty of line yet in the tubs, and the whale not sounding very rapidly, they paid out abundance of rope, and at the same time pulled with all their might so as to get ahead of the ship. For a few minutes the struggle was intensely critical; for while they still slacked out the tightened line in one direction, and still plied their oars in another, the contending strain threatened to take them under. But it was only a few feet advance they sought to gain. And they stuck to it till they did gain it; when instantly, a swift tremor was felt running like lightning along the keel, as the strained line, scraping beneath the ship, suddenly rose to view under her bows, snapping and quivering; and so flinging off its drippings, that the drops fell like bits of broken glass on the water, while the whale beyond also rose to sight, and once more the boats were free to fly. But the fagged whale abated his speed, and blindly altering his course, went round the stern of the ship towing the two boats after him, so that they performed a complete circuit.

Meantime, they hauled more and more upon their lines, till close flanking him on both sides, Stubb answered Flask with lance for lance; and thus round and round the Pequod the battle went, while the multitudes of sharks that had before swum round the Sperm Whale's body, rushed to the fresh blood that was spilled, thirstily drinking at every new gash, as the eager Israelites did at the new bursting fountains that poured from the smitten rock.

At last his spout grew thick, and with a frightful roll and vomit, he turned upon his back a corpse.
While the two headsmen were engaged in making fast cords to his flukes, and in other ways getting the mass in readiness for towing, some conversation ensued between them.

"I wonder what the old man wants with this lump of foul lard," said Stubb, not without some disgust at the thought of having to do with so ignoble a leviathan.

"Wants with it?" said Flask, coiling some spare line in the boat's bow, "did you never hear that the ship which but once has a Sperm Whale's head hoisted on her starboard side, and at the same time a Right Whale's on the larboard; did you never hear, Stubb, that that ship can never afterwards capsize?"

"Why not?

"I don't know, but I heard that gamboge ghost of a Fedallah saying so, and he seems to know all about ships' charms. But I sometimes think he'll charm the ship to no good at last. I don't half like that chap, Stubb. Did you ever notice how that tusk of his is a sort of carved into a snake's head, Stubb?"

"Sink him! I never look at him at all; but if ever I get a chance of a dark night, and he standing hard by the bulwarks, and no one by; look down there, Flask"- pointing into the sea with a peculiar motion of both hands- "Aye, will I! Flask, I take that Fedallah to be the devil in disguise. Do you believe that cock and bull story about his having been stowed away on board ship? He's the devil, I say. The reason why you don't see his tail, is because he tucks it up out of sight; he carries it coiled away in his pocket, I guess. Blast him! now that I think of it, he's always wanting oakum to stuff into the toes of his boots."

"He sleeps in his boots, don't he? He hasn't got any hammock; but I've seen him lay of nights in a coil of rigging."

"No doubt, and it's because of his cursed tail; he coils it down, do ye see, in the eye of the rigging."

"What's the old man have so much to do with him for?"

"Striking up a swap or a bargain, I suppose."

"Bargain?- about what?"

"Why, do ye see, the old man is hard bent after that White Whale, and the devil there is trying to come round him, and get him to swap away his silver watch, or his soul, or something of that sort, and then he'll surrender Moby Dick."

"Pooh! Stubb, you are skylarking; how can Fedallah do that?"

"I don't know, Flask, but the devil is a curious chap, and a wicked one, I tell ye. Why, they say as how he went a sauntering into the old flag-ship once, switching his tail about devilish easy and gentlemanlike, and inquiring if the old governor was at home. Well, he was at home, and asked the devil what he wanted. The devil, switching his hoofs, up and says, 'I want John.' 'What for?' says the old governor. 'What business is that of yours,' says the devil, getting mad,- 'I want to use him.' 'Take him,' says the governor- and by the Lord, Flask, if the devil didn't give John the Asiatic cholera before he got through with him, I'll eat this whale in one mouthful. But look sharp- ain't you all ready there? Well, then, pull ahead, and let's get the whale alongside."

"I think I remember some such story as you were telling," said Flask, when at last the two boats were slowly advancing with their burden towards the ship, "but I can't remember where."

"Three Spaniards? Adventures of those three bloody-minded soladoes? Did ye read it there, Flask? I guess ye did?"

"No: never saw such a book; heard of it, though. But now, tell me, Stubb, do you suppose that that devil you was speaking of just now, was the same you say is now on board the Pequod?"

"Am I the same man that helped kill this whale? Doesn't the devil live for ever; who ever heard that the devil was dead? Did you ever see any parson a wearing mourning for the devil? And if the devil has a latch-key to get into the admiral's cabin, don't you suppose he can crawl into a porthole? Tell me that, Mr. Flask?"

"How old do you suppose Fedallah is, Stubb?"

"Do you see that mainmast there?" pointing to the ship; "well, that's the figure one; now take all the hoops in the Pequod's hold, and string along in a row with that mast, for oughts, do you see; well, that wouldn't begin to be Fedallah's age. Nor all the coopers in creation couldn't show hoops enough to make oughts enough."

"But see here, Stubb, I thought you a little boasted just now, that you meant to give Fedallah a sea-toss, if you got a good chance. Now, if he's so old as all those hoops of yours come to, and if he is going to live for ever, what good will it do to pitch him overboard- tell me that?

"Give him a good ducking, anyhow."

"But he'd crawl back."

"Duck him again; and keep ducking him."

"Suppose he should take it into his head to duck you, though- yes, and drown you- what then?"

"I should like to see him try it; I'd give him such a pair of black eyes that he wouldn't dare to show his face in the admiral's cabin again for a long while, let alone down in the orlop there, where he lives, and hereabouts on the upper decks where he sneaks so much. Damn the devil, Flask; so you suppose I'm afraid of the devil? Who's afraid of him, except the old governor who daresn't catch him and put him in double-darbies, as he deserves, but lets him go about kidnapping people; aye, and signed a bond with him, that all the people the devil kidnapped, he'd roast for him? There's a governor!"

"Do you suppose Fedallah wants to kidnap Captain Ahab?"

"Do I suppose it? You'll know it before long, Flask. But I am going now to keep a sharp look-out on him; and if I see anything very suspicious going on, I'll just take him by the nape of his neck, and say- Look here, Beelzebub, you don't do it; and if he makes any fuss, by the Lord I'll make a grab into his pocket for his tail, take it to the capstan, and give him such a wrenching and heaving, that his tail will come short off at the stump- do you see; and then, I rather guess when he finds himself docked in that queer fashion, he'll sneak off without the poor satisfaction of feeling his tail between his legs."

"And what will you do with the tail, Stubb?"

"Do with it? Sell it for an ox whip when we get home;- what else?"

"Now, do you mean what you say, and have been saying all along, Stubb?"

"Mean or not mean, here we are at the ship."

The boats were here halled, to tow the whale on the larboard side, where fluke chains and other necessaries were already prepared for securing him.

"Didn't I tell you so?" said Flask; "yes, you'll soon see this right whale's head hoisted up opposite that parmacety's."

In good time, Flask's saying proved true. As before, the Pequod steeply leaned over towards the sperm whale's head, now, by the counterpoise of both heads, she regained her even keel; though sorely strained, you may well believe. So, when on one side you hoist in Locke's head, you go over that way; but now, on the other side, hoist in Kant's and you come back again; but in very poor plight. Thus, some minds for ever keep trimming boat. Oh, ye foolish! throw all these thunder-heads overboard, and then you will float light and right.

In disposing of the body of a right whale, when brought alongside the ship, the same preliminary proceedings commonly take place as in the case of a sperm whale; only, in the latter instance, the head is cut off whole, but in the former the lips and tongue are separately removed and hoisted on deck, with all the well known black bone attached to what is called the crown-piece. But nothing like this, in the present case, had been done. The carcases of both whales had dropped astern; and the head-laden ship not a little resembled a mule carrying a pair of overburdening panniers.

Meantime, Fedallah was calmly eyeing the right whale's head, and ever and anon glancing from the deep wrinkles there to the lines in his own hand. And Ahab chanced so to stand, that the Parsee occupied his shadow; while, if the Parsee's shadow was there at all it seemed only to blend with, and lengthen Ahab's. As the crew toiled on, Laplandish speculations were bandied among them, concerning all these passing things.

Superstition is a powerful thing.  That's what this chapter is all about, mixed with a little racism.  Stubb seems hell bent on proving that Fedallah (who is Asian) is actually the devil.  So, Queequeg is a savage, and Fedallah is a "yellow devil," tail and all.  And that's how things like genocide and slavery begin--with people making small comments, telling tall tales, that steal away humanity.

I know, I know.  I'm not going to get all political tonight.  I promise.  After all, we are on the eve of the celebration of Independence Day in the United States.  Tomorrow, we celebrate the founding of the country, which a bunch of white European IMMIGRANTS took from the Native Americans.  And those immigrants proceeded to use words and phrases like "savage" and "red devil" to justify their actions.  And then they proceeded to herd these people onto reservations, where they would be able to police and control them.

I am not criticizing all of the parades and fireworks that are going to be occurring tomorrow.  No.  I, myself, will be going to two parades, and, in the evening, my family will be camped out on a grassy hill, listening to a local band play Bob Seger tunes, eating kettle corn, waiting for the rockets to start flying at dusk.  However, I believe that it's necessary to remember that this country's history isn't all about us fighting bad guys.  Sometimes, WE were (and still are) the bad guys.

So, when the watermelon is sliced, bratwurst is barbecued, and sparklers are sparking, I'm going to be thinking about ALL of the people who make up this country.  Documented.  Undocumented.  White-skinned.  Dark-skinned.  People who still struggle because of the superstition that the United States was somehow "better" in the old days.

That's the danger of being nostalgic.  It puts a rosy patina on some pretty ugly episodes from the past.  I'm not a superstitious person.  I question.  Reason.  Question again.  I know that, since the Declaration of Independence was signed about 240 years ago, Americans have done some pretty terrible things to a lot of people.  However, I'm also a hopeful person.  I believe we can be better than what we have been and are at the moment.

That's what Independence Day means.  Safety.  Freedom.  Hope.  For everyone.

Saint Marty hopes his neighbors don't stay up too late, lighting off bottle rockets tonight.

July 2: Given to the Waves, Independence Day Week, Hard Lemonade

In the tumultuous business of cutting-in and attending to a whale, there is much running backwards and forwards among the crew. Now hands are wanted here, and then again hands are wanted there. There is no staying in any one place; for at one and the same time everything has to be done everywhere. It is much the same with him who endeavors the description of the scene. We must now retrace our way a little. It was mentioned that upon first breaking ground in the whale's back, the blubber-hook was inserted into the original hole there cut by the spades of the mates. But how did so clumsy and weighty a mass as that same hook get fixed in that hole? It was inserted there by my particular friend Queequeg, whose duty it was, as harpooneer, to descend upon the monster's back for the special purpose referred to. But in very many cases, circumstances require that the harpooneer shall remain on the whale till the whole tensing or stripping operation is concluded. The whale, be it observed, lies almost entirely submerged, excepting the immediate parts operated upon. So down there, some ten feet below the level of the deck, the poor harpooneer flounders about, half on the whale and half in the water, as the vast mass revolves like a tread-mill beneath him. On the occasion in question, Queequeg figured in the Highland costume- a shirt and socks- in which to my eyes, at least, he appeared to uncommon advantage; and no one had a better chance to observe him, as will presently be seen.

Being the savage's bowsman, that is, the person who pulled the bow-oar in his boat (the second one from forward), it was my cheerful duty to attend upon him while taking that hard-scrabble scramble upon the dead whale's back. You have seen Italian organ-boys holding a dancing-ape by a long cord. Just so, from the ship's steep side, did I hold Queequeg down there in the sea, by what is technically called in the fishery a monkey-rope, attached to a strong strip of canvas belted round his waist.

It was a humorously perilous business for both of us. For, before we proceed further, it must be said that the monkey-rope was fast at both ends; fast to Queequeg's broad canvas belt, and fast to my narrow leather one. So that for better or for worse, we two, for the time, were wedded; and should poor Queequeg sink to rise no more, then both usage and honor demanded, that instead of cutting the cord, it should drag me down in his wake. So, then, an elongated Siamese ligature united us. Queequeg was my own inseparable twin brother; nor could I any way get rid of the dangerous liabilities which the hempen bond entailed.

So strongly and metaphysically did I conceive of my situation then, that while earnestly watching his motions, I seemed distinctly to perceive that my own individuality was now merged in a joint stock company of two; that my free will had received a mortal wound; and that another's mistake or misfortune might plunge innocent me into unmerited disaster and death. Therefore, I saw that here was a sort of interregnum in Providence; for its even-handed equity never could have so gross an injustice. And yet still further pondering- while I jerked him now and then from between the whale and ship, which would threaten to jam him- still further pondering, I say, I saw that this situation of mine was the precise situation of every mortal that breathes; only, in most cases, he, one way or other, has this Siamese connexion with a plurality of other mortals. If your banker breaks, you snap; if your apothecary by mistake sends you poison in your pills, you die. True, you may say that, by exceeding caution, you may possibly escape these and the multitudinous other evil chances of life. But handle Queequeg's monkey-rope heedfully as I would, sometimes he jerked it so, that I came very near sliding overboard. Nor could I possibly forget that, do what I would, I only had the management of one end of it.*

*The monkey-rope is found in all whalers; but it was only in the Pequod that the monkey and his holder were ever tied together. This improvement upon the original usage was introduced by no less a man than Stubb, in order to afford to the imperilled harpooneer the strongest possible guarantee for the faithfulness and vigilance of his monkey-rope holder.

I have hinted that I would often jerk poor Queequeg from between the whale and the ship- where he would occasionally fall, from the incessant rolling and swaying of both. But this was not the only jamming jeopardy he was exposed to. Unappalled by the massacre made upon them during the night, the sharks now freshly and more keenly allured by the before pent blood which began to flow from the carcass- the rabid creatures swarmed round it like bees in a beehive.

And right in among those sharks was Queequeg; who often pushed them aside with his floundering feet. A thing altogether incredible were it not that attracted by such prey as a dead whale, the otherwise miscellaneously carnivorous shark will seldom touch a man.

Nevertheless, it may well be believed that since they have such a ravenous finger in the pie, it is deemed but wise to look sharp to them. Accordingly, besides the monkey-rope, with which I now and then jerked the poor fellow from too close a vicinity to the maw of what seemed a peculiarly ferocious shark- he was provided with still another protection. Suspended over the side in one of the stages, Tashtego and Daggoo continually flourished over his head a couple of keen whale-spades, wherewith they slaughtered as many sharks as they could reach. This procedure of theirs, to be sure, was very disinterested and benevolent of them. They meant Queequeg's best happiness, I admit; but in their hasty zeal to befriend him, and from the circumstance that both he and the sharks were at times half hidden by the blood-muddled water, those indiscreet spades of theirs would come nearer amputating a leg than a tall. But poor Queequeg, I suppose, straining and gasping there with that great iron hook- poor Queequeg, I suppose, only prayed to his Yojo, and gave up his life into the hands of his gods.

Well, well, my dear comrade and twin-brother, thought I, as I drew in and then slacked off the rope to every swell of the sea- what matters it, after all? Are you not the precious image of each and all of us men in this whaling world? That unsounded ocean you gasp in, is Life; those sharks, your foes; those spades, your friends; and what between sharks and spades you are in a sad pickle and peril, poor lad.

But courage! there is good cheer in store for you, Queequeg. For now, as with blue lips and blood-shot eyes the exhausted savage at last climbs up the chains and stands all dripping and involuntarily trembling over the side; the steward advances, and with a benevolent, consolatory glance hands him- what? Some hot Cognac? No! hands him, ye gods! hands him a cup of tepid ginger and water!

"Ginger? Do I smell ginger?" suspiciously asked Stubb, coming near. "Yes, this must be ginger," peering into the as yet untasted cup. Then standing as if incredulous for a while, he calmly walked towards the astonished steward slowly saying, "Ginger? ginger? and will you have the goodness to tell me, Mr. Dough-Boy, where lies the virtue of ginger? Ginger! is ginger the sort of fuel you use, Dough-boy, to kindle a fire in this shivering cannibal? Ginger!- what the devil is ginger?- sea-coal? firewood?- lucifer matches?- tinder?- gunpowder?- what the devil is ginger, I say, that you offer this cup to our poor Queequeg here."

"There is some sneaking Temperance Society movement about this business," he suddenly added, now approaching Starbuck, who had just come from forward. "Will you look at that kannakin, sir; smell of it, if you please." Then watching the mate's countenance, he added, "The steward, Mr. Starbuck, had the face to offer that calomel and jalap to Queequeg, there, this instant off the whale. Is the steward an apothecary, sir? and may I ask whether this is the sort of bitters by which he blows back the life into a half-drowned man?"

"I trust not," said Starbuck, "it is poor stuff enough."

"Aye, aye, steward," cried Stubb, "we'll teach you to drug it harpooneer; none of your apothecary's medicine here; you want to poison us, do ye? You have got out insurances on our lives and want to murder us all, and pocket the proceeds, do ye?"

"It was not me," cried Dough-Boy, "it was Aunt Charity that brought the ginger on board; and bade me never give the harpooneers any spirits, but only this ginger-jub- so she called it."

"Ginger-jub! you gingerly rascal! take that! and run along with ye to the lockers, and get something better. I hope I do no wrong, Mr. Starbuck. It is the captain's orders- grog for the harpooneer on a whale."

"Enough," replied Starbuck, "only don't hit him again, but-"

"Oh, I never hurt when I hit, except when I hit a whale or something of that sort; and this fellow's a weazel. What were you about saying, sir?"

"Only this: go down with him, and get what thou wantest thyself."

When Stubb reappeared, he came with a dark flask in one hand, and a sort of tea-caddy in the other. The first contained strong spirits, and was handed to Queequeg; the second was Aunt Charity's gift, and that was freely given to the waves.

In the United States, this week is one of celebration.  Independence Day is celebrated on Wednesday.  In my little area of this country, many people take the entire week off from work and spend the next seven days barbecuing and drinking.  Oh, and also going to parades and setting off fireworks.  So, this chapter on the virtues of spirits (and I'm not talking about the kind that show up for seances) is pretty apropos.

So, tonight, I will kick off Independence Day week by drinking some hard lemonade.  Just one.  I have to work tomorrow morning.  And I do come from a family who has a penchant for substance abuse, so I always consume alcohol in moderation.  I know that I have a high tolerance for it.

Of course, the stereotype for poets is that they write and drink and carouse.  Think Dylan Thomas, who, aside from being a fantastic poet, was legendary for his bouts of drunken debauchery.  Truth be told, most of the poets I know never drink heavily.  For most, it's just a beer or two after a poetry reading.  That's it.  An occasional celebratory glass of wine or champagne on special occasions.  I, myself, when I win the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry, plan to down some Bailey's Irish Cream, on the rocks.

If you haven't guessed by now, this post is not going to delve very deeply into metaphysical questions this evening.  I'm too tired to wallow in the blood and boil, like Queequeg.  Nope.  After I'm done typing this post, I plan on getting into my pajamas, turning on the television to some mindless entertainment, and drinking a little.

Of course, my neighbors celebrate this week by setting off fireworks all night long.  I wouldn't be surprised if alcohol is also a part of their week-long firecracker fest.  That's what we Americans do:  we get drunk and blow things up.

Sing with Saint Marty (and try not to think about who's running the country at the moment):  "I'm proud to be an Americaaaaaannnnn!!!"

(DISCLAIMER:  Please read this post in the spirit in which it was written--with a great deal of tongue-in-cheekness.)

July 5: Think About the War, Fireworks, Day After

When the beautiful people were past, Valencia questioned her funny-looking husband about war.  It was a simple-minded thing for a female Earthling to do, to associate sex and glamor with war.  

"Do you ever think about the war?" she said, laying a hand on his thigh.

"Sometimes," said Billy Pilgrim.

Billy doesn't really have to think about the war.  He keeps living it, over and over, back and forth in time.  Valencia has no idea that there's a chance, once she goes to sleep, Billy will jump back to Germany, Dresden, or Tralfamadore.  The war is constantly with Billy, whether he likes it or not.  He doesn't get a chance to suffer from PTSD, because the trauma is never post.  Always present.

I am exhausted tonight.  I was at an Independence Day fireworks display until after 11 p.m.  Got home, took a shower, went to bed.  The alarm went off at 4:45 a.m., and my day began.  So, I am operating on less than four hours of sleep, and my day still isn't over.  I have rehearsal tonight with my praise band, I think.  That will last until past eight o'clock, at which time I will come home and finalize the plans for a poetry workshop that I'm leading tomorrow night.  I'm not saying this day is going to give me PTSD, but I'm certainly not going to have any fun.

I'm feeling a little brain dead right now.  Usually, after I'm done working at the medical office, I get a second wind to prepare me for the afternoon and evening responsibilities/festivities.  About the only thing I have the energy for is a nap.  A long one.  If I close my eyes, I fear that they won't open again until tomorrow morning.

So, let me sum up the extent of my wisdom this evening:

1. Fireworks, good.
2. The day after, exhausted.

Saint Marty is going to be very thankful tonight for his bed.  Amen.