March 5: Profoundest Slumber, According to Plan, Structure

It was nearly six o'clock, but only grey imperfect misty dawn, when we drew nigh the wharf.

"There are some sailors running ahead there, if I see right," said I to Queequeg, "it can't be shadow; she's off by sunrise, I guess; come on!"

"Avast!" cried a voice, whose owner at the same time coming close behind us, laid a hand upon both our shoulders, and then insinuating himself between us, stood stooping forward a little, in the uncertain twilight, strangely peering from Queequeg to me. It was Elijah.

"Going aboard?"

"Hands off, will you," said I.

"Lookee here," said Queequeg, shaking himself, "go 'way!"

"Aint going aboard, then?"

"Yes, we are," said I, "but what business is that of yours? Do you know, Mr. Elijah, that I consider you a little impertinent?"

"No, no, no; I wasn't aware of that," said Elijah, slowly and wonderingly looking from me to Queequeg, with the most unaccountable glances.

"Elijah," said I, "you will oblige my friend and me by withdrawing. We are going to the Indian and Pacific Oceans, and would prefer not to be detained."

"Ye be, be ye? Coming back afore breakfast?"

"He's cracked, Queequeg," said I, "come on."

"Holloa!" cried stationary Elijah, hailing us when we had removed a few paces.

"Never mind him," said I, "Queequeg, come on."

But he stole up to us again, and suddenly clapping his hand on my shoulder, said- "Did ye see anything looking like men going towards that ship a while ago?"

Struck by this plain matter-of-fact question, I answered, saying, "Yes, I thought I did see four or five men; but it was too dim to be sure."

"Very dim, very dim," said Elijah. "Morning to ye."

Once more we quitted him; but once more he came softly after us; and touching my shoulder again, said, "See if you can find 'em now, will ye?

"Find who?"

"Morning to ye! morning to ye!" he rejoined, again moving off. "Oh! I was going to warn ye against- but never mind, never mind- it's all one, all in the family too;- sharp frost this morning, ain't it? Good-bye to ye. Shan't see ye again very soon, I guess; unless it's before the Grand Jury." And with these cracked words he finally departed, leaving me, for the moment, in no small wonderment at his frantic impudence.

At last, stepping on board the Pequod, we found everything in profound quiet, not a soul moving. The cabin entrance was locked within; the hatches were all on, and lumbered with coils of rigging. Going forward to the forecastle, we found the slide of the scuttle open. Seeing a light, we went down, and found only an old rigger there, wrapped in a tattered pea-jacket. He was thrown at whole length upon two chests, his face downwards and inclosed in his folded arms. The profoundest slumber slept upon him.

Still no Ahab.  And Elijah, the ragged prophet, makes a return, smaking mysterious comments again, asking elliptical questions.  The Pequod seems ready to sail.  Yet, there's no sign of the crew or the elusive captain.  In the gray Nantucket dawn, Ishmael doesn't know what to make of this state of affairs.  Things aren't going according to plan.  Or should I say, things aren't going according to Ishmael's plan.

As most of my disciples know, I'm a person who really appreciates a well-executed day.  Most mornings, when the alarm goes off, I know what's going to happen every hour, from breakfast to bedtime.  In fact, on Monday morning, I pretty much know what my whole week (and sometimes the upcoming weekend) holds in store.

Some of this is out of necessity.  I work two jobs.  Play the pipe organ on Saturdays at church.  Usually, I have a poetry readings or workshops, as well.  Tonight, my daughter has a dance show that I'm attending while my wife takes my son to a local planetarium for Boy Scouts.  I need a schedule to keep me on task.

In the summers, I let my life be a little less structured, mostly because I'm usually not teaching classes.  At the moment, however, I have several kettles on the stove, and I'm trying to keep the food from burning.  For me, there is nothing worse than forgetting about one of those kettles.

Reading the beginning of this chapter from Moby-Dick gives me a little anxiety.  Ishmael and Queequeg have signed a three-year contract with the owners of the Pequod.  Yet, they don't know when the voyage begins, and they have never locked eyes on Captain Ahab.  Plus, they've got Elijah hanging around the docks, cryptically prophesying danger.  Elijah's not too specific, and, for me, that makes it a little worse.

For those of you who are interested, besides the dance show tonight, I am meeting with a friend to discuss an art project for a local gallery, and then I'm attending a poetry workshop/open mic at the library.  It's going to be a busy night, and I haven't even recovered from watching the Oscar telecast yesterday evening.

You see now that I am the Patron Saint of the Predictable.  It's how I stay sane in my fairly insane life.

Saint Marty is thankful today for his planner.

March 16: Always Something, Bluebird of Happiness, According to Plan

I just spoke to my wife a few minutes ago.  She was late to her new job for the second day in a row this morning.  Nobody at the bank said anything to her, but this was her first week in the position.  She's been late twice already.  On both days, my daughter made her late.  Yesterday, my daughter forgot her shoes.  My wife had to bring her the shoes.  This morning, my daughter missed her bus.  My wife had to drive her to school.  I was really hoping that this week was just going to go so smoothly for my wife.  It hasn't.

To top it all off, my wife got a call from another bank she submitted her resume to.  She was supposed to call them back this morning.  She tried and never got through to the manager.  I really hate it when things don't go according to plan.  I should amend that statement:  I hate it when things don't go according to my plan.  Things didn't go according to my plan this week.

In a lot of ancient and not-so-ancient cultures, the bluebird has been used to represent happiness.  That doesn't surprise me.  I have rarely seen a bluebird in the wild.  In fact, I've only seen one wild bluebird in my life.  It was beautiful and fierce at the same time.  Because of its color, because of its rarity, I imagine bluebirds would cause quite a stir when they appeared in the olden days.  In one European tale, a boy and a girl are sent by a fairy on a quest to find the bluebird of happiness.  They travel through many lands, but return empty-handed.  When they get home, they find that the bluebird has been in a cage in their home the whole time.  The moral of the story is that the quest for happiness is never-ending, and the only place to really find happiness is within your own self.  (Thanks to Wikipedia for that little synopsis.)

It's true.  Happiness is really difficult to find and hold on to.  When I depend on other people/things for my happiness (my wife's job, my wife, my daughter, poetry editors, my job), I don't always end up happy.  However, when I look inward for happiness (in poetry, in writing, in reading, in blogging), I generally am never disappointed, unless I look to other people to tell me how good my poetry/writing/blogging is.  (I still haven't been named a Blog of Note.)

I guess the bluebird is inside all of us.  Even Dorothy learns that in The Wizard of Oz.  She goes where happy little bluebirds fly, beyond the rainbow.  She meets some witches, a lot of weird little people, flying monkeys, and a few really good friends.  In the end, she has to return to Kansas to find her bliss.  The bluebird has been at her house all along.

I guess I need to stop looking for that goddamned bluebird.

It's already at Saint Marty's home, probably in the bathroom, on the toilet, reading a magazine.

This is about right for my bluebird!