February 27: Small Yellow Fish, Moving Day, Echoes

Ford Prefect just instructed Arthur Dent to put a fish in his ear . . .

Ford was holding up a small glass jar which quite clearly had a small yellow fish wriggling around in it.  Arthur blinked at him.  He wished there was something simple and recognizable he could grasp hold of.  He would have felt safe if alongside the Dentrassis' underwear, the piles of Sqornshellous mattresses and the man from Betelgeuse holding up a small yellow fish and offering to put it in his ear he had been able to see just a small packet of cornflakes.  But he couldn't, and he didn't feel safe.

Suddenly a violent noise leaped at them from no source that he could identify.  He gasped in terror at what sounded like a man trying to gargle while fighting off a pack of wolves.

"Shush!" said Ford.  "Listen, it might be important."

"Im . . . important?"

"It's the Vogon captain making an announcement on the tannoy."

"You mean that's how Vogons talk?"

"Listen!"

"But I can't speak Vogon!"

"You don't need to.  Just put this fish in your ear."

Ford, with a lightning movement, clapped his hand to Arthur's ear, and he had the sudden sickening sensation of the fish slithering deep into his aural tract.  Gasping with horror he scrabbled at his ear for a second or so, but then slowly turned goggle-eyed with wonder.  He was experiencing the aural equivalent of looking at a picture of two black silhouetted faces and suddenly seeing it as a picture of a white candlestick.  Or of looking at a lot of colored dots on a piece of paper which suddenly resolve themselves into the figure six and mean that your optician is going to charge you a lot of money for a new pair of glasses.

He was still listening to the howling gargles, he knew that, only now it had somehow taken on the semblance of perfectly straightforward English.

This is what he heard . . .

I haven't experienced a whole lot of yellow fish moments like Arthur does here.  Moments where something out-of-focus becomes clear.  Confusion becomes meaning.  The process for me is more complicated and involves struggle, breakthroughs, more struggle, and then surrender.  Like taking a class in philosophy or calculus.

Today was moving day at the medical office.  The moving guys showed up around 8 a.m., and everything began to disappear.  Desks, beds, equipment, toilet paper, dishwasher detergent.  Over twenty years' worth of stuff.  I sort of walked around, taped boxes, labeled boxes, took pictures, said goodbye.  Like I said, over two decades worth of living.

As the morning wore on, I noticed it becoming more and more difficult for me to laugh or joke or even have a conversation.  By the time I left, I was practically nonverbal.  Still not feeling very friendly.  I sat for most of the afternoon in my new "office," surrounded by boxes and more boxes.  I'm sure anyone walking by the door thought I was some kind of homeless Mr. Rogers, looking for some new neighbors.  If only I had worn my cardigan.

As you can tell by the pictures, the old medical office is looking pretty empty.  By tomorrow, everything will be gone, and all that will be left is echoes.  Tomorrow morning, I will show up there at my normal time, take one final walk through the place.  Look at the pinholes in the wall where I hung up Christmas and Halloween decorations.  Gaze at empty bulletin boards, where the outlines of old announcements are still visible in the cork.  Stand in my sister's office, and try to hear her voice there one more time--the ghost of a laugh, whisper of a name.  Sound my barbaric yawp in the empty operating room, just to hear it bounce off the walls and down the hallway.  Remember and celebrate.

One special memory:  My wife and son had just been released from the hospital after my son's birth.  We stopped by the medical office to see my sister and introduce her new nephew.  We walked through the door with the bassinet.  My sister swooped in, grabbed my son, and we didn't see him for over an hour.  She held him, talked to him, changed his diaper, fed him.  Glowing.  She was glowing.

Saint Marty is trying to let go.  Really, he is.

July 11: Spinal Branch, Edmund Hillary, Mr. Rogers

If the Sperm Whale be physiognomically a Sphinx, to the phrenologist his brain seems that geometrical circle which it is impossible to square.

In in full-grown creature the skull will measure at least twenty feet in length. Unhinge the lower jaw, and the side view of this skull is as the side of a moderately inclined plane resting throughout on a level base. But in life- as we have elsewhere seen- this inclined plane is angularly filled up, and almost squared by the enormous superincumbent mass of the junk and sperm. At the high end the skull forms a crater to bed that part of the mass; while under the long floor of this crater- in another cavity seldom exceeding ten inches in length and as many in depth reposes the mere handful of this monster's brain. The brain is at least twenty feet from his apparent forehead in life; it is hidden away behind its vast outworks, like the innermost citadel within the amplified fortifications of Quebec. So like a choice casket is it secreted in him, that I have known some whalemen who peremptorily deny that the Sperm Whale has any other brain than that palpable semblance of one formed by the cubic-yards of his sperm magazine. Lying in strange folds, courses, and convolutions, to their apprehensions, it seems more in keeping with the idea of his general might to regard that mystic part of him as the seat of his intelligence.

It is plain, then, that phrenologically the head of this Leviathan, in the creature's living intact state, is an entire delusion. As for his true brain, you can then see no indications of it, nor feel any. The whale, like all things that are mighty, wears a false brow to the common world.

If you unload his skull of its spermy heaps and then take a rear view of its rear end, which is the high end, you will be struck by its resemblance to the human skull, beheld in the same situation, and from the same point of view. Indeed, place this reversed skull (scaled down to the human magnitude) among a plate of men's skulls, and you would involuntarily confound it with them; and remarking the depressions on one part of its summit, in phrenological phrase you would say- This man had no self-esteem, and no veneration. And by those negations, considered along with the affirmative fact of his prodigious bulk and power, you can best form to yourself the truest, though not the most exhilarating conception of what the most exalted potency is.

But if from the comparative dimensions of the whale's proper brain, you deem it incapable of being adequately charted, then I have another idea for you. If you attentively regard almost any quadruped's spine, you will be struck with the resemblance of its vertebrae to a strung necklace of dwarfed skulls, all bearing rudimental resemblance to the skull proper. It is a German conceit, that the vertebrae are absolutely undeveloped skulls. But the curious external resemblance, I take it the Germans were not the first men to perceive. A foreign friend once pointed it out to me, in the skeleton of a foe he had slain, and with the vertebrae of which he was inlaying, in a sort of basso-relieve, the beaked prow of his canoe. Now, I consider that the phrenologists have omitted an important thing in not pushing their investigations from the cerebellum through the spinal canal. For I believe that much of a man's character will be found betokened in his backbone. I would rather feel your spine than your skull, whoever you are. A thin joist of a spine never yet upheld a full and noble soul. I rejoice in my spine, as in the firm audacious staff of that flag which I fling half out to the world.

Apply this spinal branch of phrenology to the Sperm Whale. His cranial cavity is continuous with the first neck-vertebra; and in that vertebra the bottom of the spinal canal will measure ten inches across, being eight in height, and of a triangular figure with the base downwards. As it passes through the remaining vertebrae the canal tapers in size, but for a considerable distance remains of large capacity. Now, of course, this canal is filled with much the same strangely fibrous substance- the spinal cord- as the brain; and directly communicates with the brain. And what is still more, for many feet after emerging from the brain's cavity, the spinal cord remains of an undecreasing girth, almost equal to that of the brain. Under all these circumstances, would it be unreasonable to survey and map out the whale's spine phrenologically? For, viewed in this light, the wonderful comparative smallness of his brain proper is more than compensated by the wonderful comparative magnitude of his spinal cord.

But leaving this hint to operate as it may with the phrenologists, I would merely assume the spinal theory for a moment, in reference to the Sperm Whale's hump. This august hump, if I mistake not, rises over one of the larger vertebrae, and is, therefore, in some sort, the outer convex mould of it. From its relative situation then, I should call this high hump the organ of firmness or indomitableness in the Sperm Whale. And that the great monster is indomitable, you will yet have reason to know.

So Melville moves on from the sperm whale's head to its backbone, making the argument that the true measure of a creature's character resides in its vertebrae.  Of course, this phrenology of the spine is no more accurate than that of the spine.  Big head or little.  Long spine or short.  This is not science.  It's pseudo-science, sort of like Donald Trump's truth is pseudo-truth.

This afternoon, I climbed a mountain.  A small one, with several flights of stairs installed to reach the summit.  It took me about 20 or so minutes with my daughter and her boyfriend.  It was our "adventure" for the day.  I have to say that it was more difficult than I remembered.  By the time I stepped onto the mountaintop, I was drenched in sweat and out-of-breath.  It took me about 10 minutes to recover.

I'm not sure that this little trek really required any spinal fortitude.  There was nothing dangerous about it.  As I was starting out, a little two-year-old boy was coming down.  He was carrying a stuffed dog and looked like he'd just watched an episode of Mr. Roger's Neighborhood instead of climbing a mountain.  Relatively speaking, he was the Edmund Hillary of two-year-olds today.

Tonight, I have to finalize my plans for the poetry workshop I'm leading tomorrow.  Ice cream is the theme.  Some people think it takes spinal fortitude to teach.  Or write poetry.  Or eat ice cream, if you're lactose intolerant.  Courage is just as relative as mountain size.  It depends on what frightens you, I suppose.

Tomorrow night, I'm doing something I enjoy.  It's not a challenge.  It's a joy.  I don't need a strong backbone for it.  I need a journal, pen, a bowl, spoon, and ice cream scoop.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight that Sugarloaf Mountain wasn't a hundred feet taller.
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