June 2: A Living Opal, Books that Defy, Writing Process

"No need, gentlemen; one moment, and I proceed.- Now, gentlemen, so suddenly perceiving the snowy whale within fifty yards of the ship- forgetful of the compact among the crew- in the excitement of the moment, the Teneriffe man had instinctively and involuntarily lifted his voice for the monster, though for some little time past it had been plainly beheld from the three sullen mast-heads. All was now a phrensy. 'The White Whale- the White Whale!' was the cry from captain, mates, and harpooneers, who, undeterred by fearful rumours, were all anxious to capture so famous and precious a fish; while the dogged crew eyed askance, and with curses, the appalling beauty of the vast milky mass, that lit up by a horizontal spangling sun, shifted and glistened like a living opal in the blue morning sea. Gentlemen, a strange fatality pervades the whole career of these events, as if verily mapped out before the world itself was charted. The mutineer was the bowsman of the mate, and when fast to a fish, it was his duty to sit next him, while Radney stood up with his lance in the prow, and haul in or slacken the line, at the word of command. Moreover, when the four boats were lowered, the mate's got the start; and none howled more fiercely with delight than did Steelkilt, as he strained at his oar. After a stiff pull, their harpooneer got fast, and, spear in hand, Radney sprang to the bow. He was always a furious man, it seems, in a boat. And now his bandaged cry was, to beach him on the whale's topmost back. Nothing loath, his bowsman hauled him up and up, through a blinding foam that blent two whitenesses together; till of a sudden the boat struck as against a sunken ledge, and keeling over, spilled out the standing mate. That instant, as he fell on the whale's slippery back, the boat righted, and was dashed aside by the swell, while Radney was tossed over into the sea, on the other flank of the whale. He struck out through the spray, and, for an instant, was dimly seen through that veil, wildly seeking to remove himself from the eye of Moby Dick. But the whale rushed round in a sudden maelstrom; seized the swimmer between his jaws; and rearing high up with him, plunged headlong again, and went down.

"Meantime, at the first tap of the boat's bottom, the Lakeman had slackened the line, so as to drop astern from the whirlpool; calmly looking on, lie thought his own thoughts. But a sudden, terrific, downward jerking of the boat, quickly brought his knife to the line. He cut it; and the whale was free. But, at some distance, Moby Dick rose again, with some tatters of Radney's red woolen shirt, caught in the teeth that had destroyed him. All four boats gave chase again; but the whale eluded them, and finally wholly disappeared.

"In good time, the Town-Ho reached her port- a savage, solitary place- where no civilized creature resided. There, headed by the Lakeman, all but five or six of the foremastmen deliberately deserted among the palms; eventually, as it turned out, seizing a large double war-canoe of the savages, and setting sail for some other harbor.

"The ship's company being reduced to but a handful, the captain called upon the Islanders to assist him in the laborious business of heaving down the ship to stop the leak. But to such unresting vigilance over their dangerous allies was this small band of whites necessitated, both by night and by day, and so extreme was the hard work they underwent, that upon the vessel being ready again for sea, they were in such a weakened condition that the captain durst not put off with them in so heavy a vessel. After taking counsel with his officers, he anchored the ship as far off shore as possible; loaded and ran out his two cannon from the bows; stacked his muskets on the poop; and warning the Islanders not to approach the ship at their peril, took one man with him, and setting the sail of his best whale-boat, steered straight before the wind for Tahiti, five hundred miles distant, to procure a reinforcement to his crew.

"On the fourth day of the sail, a large canoe was descried, which seemed to have touched at a low isle of corals. He steered away from it; but the savage craft bore down on him; and soon the voice of Steelkilt hailed him to heave to, or he would run him under water. The captain presented a pistol. 

With one foot on each prow of the yoked war-canoes, the Lakeman laughed him to scorn; assuring him that if the pistol so much as clicked in the lock, he would bury him in bubbles and foam.

"'What do you want of me?' cried the captain.

"'Where are you bound? and for what are you bound?' demanded Steelkilt; 'no lies.'

"'I am bound to Tahiti for more men.'

"'Very good. Let me board you a moment- I come in peace.' With that he leaped from the canoe, swam to the boat; and climbing the gunwale, stood face to face with the captain.

"'Cross your arms, sir; throw back your head. Now, repeat after me. As soon as Steelkilt leaves me, I swear to beach this boat on yonder island, and remain there six days. If I do not, may lightning strike me!'

"'A pretty scholar,' laughed the Lakeman. 'Adios, Senor!' and leaping into the sea, he swam back to his comrades.

"Watching the boat till it was fairly beached, and drawn up to the roots of the cocoa-nut trees, Steelkilt made sail again, and in due time arrived at Tahiti, his own place of destination. There, luck befriended him; two ships were about to sail for France, and were providentially in want of precisely that number of men which the sailor headed. They embarked, and so for ever got the start of their former captain, had he been at all minded to work them legal retribution.

"Some ten days after the French ships sailed, the whale-boat arrived, and the captain was forced to enlist some of the more civilized Tahitians, who had been somewhat used to the sea. Chartering a small native schooner, he returned with them to his vessel; and finding all right there, again resumed his cruisings.

"Where Steelkilt now is, gentlemen, none know; but upon the island of Nantucket, the widow of Radney still turns to the sea which refuses to give up its dead; still in dreams sees the awful white whale that destroyed him.

"'Are you through?' said Don Sebastian, quietly.

"'I am, Don.'

"'Then I entreat you, tell me if to the best of your own convictions, this your story is in substance really true? It is so passing wonderful! Did you get it from an unquestionable source? Bear with me if I seem to press.'

"'Also bear with all of us, sir sailor; for we all join in Don Sebastian's suit,' cried the company, with exceeding interest.

"'Is there a copy of the Holy Evangelists in the Golden Inn, gentlemen?'

"'Nay,' said Don Sebastian; 'but I know a worthy priest near by, who will quickly procure one for me. I go for it; but are you well advised? this may grow too serious.'

"'Will you be so good as to bring the priest also, Don?'

"'Though there are no Auto-da-Fe's in Lima now,' said one of the company to another; 'I fear our sailor friend runs risks of the archiepiscopacy. Let us withdraw more out of the moonlight. I see no need of this.'

"'Excuse me for running after you, Don Sebastian; but may I also beg that you will be particular in procuring the largest sized Evangelists you can.'

'This is the priest, he brings you the Evangelists,' said Don Sebastian, gravely, returning with a tall and solemn figure.

"'Let me remove my hat. Now, venerable priest, further into the light, and hold the Holy Book before me that I may touch it.

"'So help me Heaven, and on my honor the story I have told ye, gentlemen, is in substance and its great items, true. I know it to be true; it happened on this ball; I trod the ship; I knew the crew; I have seen and talked with Steelkilt since the death of Radney.'"

It's the ending of Ishmael's story.  Most people live somewhat happily ever after, except for Radney.  Moby Dick takes care of him.  When you reach this point in the novel, I think Melville wants you to wonder whether Ishmael is telling a veiled version of his own story.  Perhaps, Steelkilt is Starbuck.  Maybe Radney is Ahab or another of the mates on the ship.  Notice how Ishamel phrases his vow:  ". . . the story I have to ye, gentlemen, is in substance and its great items, true. . . "  In essence, Ishmael is vowing that the story itself is true.  Names may have been changed to protect the innocent.  And guilty.

This long chapter is interesting to me because it falls smack dab in the middle of the book.  It holds all kinds of bad omens about the fate of the Pequod and its occupants.  Of course, Moby Dick has yet to appear in the flesh in the book.  The White Whale is still a phantom being chased by Ahab.  Melville is really good at building the suspense in the novel.  When Moby Dick finally appears, he's going to be a cross between a god and a demon.  A glowing Godzilla, if you will.

As I've said before, I find myself both loving and hating this book.  There are beautiful, lyrical passages that take my breath away.  And then there are pages and pages that drive me to complete and total distraction.  I can't concentrate on them.  They are tedious and slow.  They remind me that Moby-Dick is, by no means, a traditional novel in any sense of the word.

I appreciate books that defy labels and categorization.  That push the boundaries.  Some of my favorite works are mixtures of lyric poetry and narrative and theology and magical realism.  Books like The Sasquatch Hunter's Almanac and Preparing the Ghost and Mr. Ives' Christmas.  Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.  These are books that I return to over and over for inspiration when I get stuck in my own writing.

Let me tell you a little about my writing process.  When I sit down to start writing every day, I spend some time reading a writer or book that I admire.  Usually, that book/writer holds something that resonates with whatever I'm working on--essay or poem or short story.  Whatever.  I gravitate to the prose or images or tone.  It launches me into my own work.  Gets my head in the right place.

Once I have read for a little while, the tumblers in my head fall into place, and I can begin writing.  It might still be a struggle to put the words down on the page, but I know what I'm aiming for.  In a lot of ways, it's like chasing a white whale.  I find it hard to describe.  However, I know it's out there, under the waves, waiting to surface.  Some days, I see its spout momentarily and nothing else.  Other days, a fluke or back.  And then, on good days, I jump on its back and go for a long ride.

I know that doesn't make a whole lot of sense, but it's the best that I can do.  Writing is a mysterious thing to me.  It's like prayer in a way.  Sending words out into the ether, hoping they coalesce into something true and meaningful.  I always feel a little closer to God after a session of writing.  My whole body and mind hums for a while.  I hold on to times like that.  They drive me back to my pen and journal over and over.

Saint Marty is thankful today for great writing and writers.

May 29: Dream of Giraffes, Memorial Day, Writing

Under morphine, Billy had a dream of giraffes in a garden.  The giraffes were following gravel paths, were pausing to munch sugar pears from treetops.  Billy was a giraffe, too.  He ate a pear.  It was a hard one.  It fought back against his grinding teeth.  It snapped in juicy protest.

The giraffes accepted Billy as one of their own, as a harmless creature as preposterously specialized as themselves.  Two approached him from opposite sides, leaned against him.  They had long, muscular upper lips which they could shape like the bells of bugles.  They kissed him with these.  They were female giraffes--cream and lemon yellow.  They had horns like doorknobs.  The knobs were covered with velvet.

Why?

One of the reasons why I love Slaughterhouse Five is that it constantly surprises me.  Part memoir.  Part history.  Part science fiction.  Part surrealism.  Vonnegut is able to bring all of these elements together in the book.  This passage, where Billy, under a cloud of morphine, transforms into a giraffe, is a little Kafkaesque, without the cockroach, and a little Naked Lunch.  It is so wonderfully strange, especially when Billy starts having a menage with two female giraffes and their long, muscular upper lips.

I have spent most of the day being a writer, which is something that I don't get to say very often.  I went to a Memorial Day parade this morning, and I attended a Memorial Day service at a local cemetery.  My family and I brought some flowers to a few graves of relatives (including my sister's).  Then, I went home and started working on an idea for a piece that I've been thinking about for quite some time. 

I wrote for close to six hours.  It's in a finished form, but I'm not really sure what it is.  I envision it as a prelude to something much longer.  By itself, it could be a prose poem or a short lyric essay.  It really felt great to write without interruption, to allow myself the luxury of being a Vonnegut for a little while.  I didn't write about giraffes having tongue sex in a garden, but I was definitely outside of my comfort zone as a writer. 

Now, at the end of a three-day weekend, with a week of work and grading ahead of me, I'm a little depressed.  I know that I won't have another extended period of writing for quite some time.  With this new piece, I have about three projects that I'm working on now.  That's my writing process.  If I get stuck with one project, I turn my attention to another for a while.  I got this idea from the science fiction writer Isaac Asimov. 

When I was a teenager, I read an article about Asimov.  The article said that Asimov's writing space contained three desks, and on top of each desk was a typewriter.  Asimov told the journalist that he always had three different books in progress at the same time.  When he reached a roadblock with one book, he would swivel his chair to the second desk and start typing on the second typewriter, which contained the manuscript for a completely different book.  When he got stuck on the second book, he swiveled to the third desk and third typewriter and third manuscript.  Asimov was brilliant.

My problem is that I don't often have days like today.  During the week, I have to steal ten minutes at a time for writing.  Sometimes during lunch.  Sometimes when I'm waiting for my daughter at the dance studio.  Sometimes right before bed, after I've corrected four or five student essays.  I don't get pages written.  I get paragraphs, if I'm lucky.  Usually, it's one of two sentences.

Therefore, today was a blessing.

Saint Marty is thankful for being able to write for six hours.

May 12: Come Along Now, Beautiful Writing, Nature Essay

Withe some difficulty, [Ives] waited for the services to begin.  He did not know if it was the candles or the crowd or the heating, or the heavy perfumes in the air, or his age--he was nearly seventy-five--but that morning he found himself frequently yawning.  Lately, Ives had been dozing off during Mass, his eyes heavier with each visit.  A kind of sweet drowsiness came over him, and the sensation that someone was about to whisper, ever so gently, "Come along now."

Ives is near the end of his life, has forgiven his son's killer.   He and his wife have rekindled their floundering marriage.  Ives is, for the first time in decades, happy.  At peace.  I think Ives feels as if he has done all he can to make the world a better place.

But that's not why I chose to start this post with that particular paragraph.  I'm not going to write about forgiveness or happiness.  I'm not going to wax philosophic about making a difference in the universe in the short time you dwell in it.  I'm not going to talk about my beautiful, funny wife.

I chose that paragraph simply because it is beautiful.  The sentences are gentle and long.  They lull me into a state of quiet bliss, where I can almost smell the perfumes of the church and hear the voice in my ear, whispering that invitation.  I love the writing in it.

When I sit down to start a new writing project, whether it's a poem or essay or short story, I always start by reading something that inspires me.  Something that has a certain tone or image or voice that captures my imagination.  And I let that reading guide my writing.  It sort of becomes my touchstone for the duration of my writing process.

I have certain "go-to" writers that have often served as my muses.  Sharon Olds.  Phil Levine.  Billy Collins.  Oscar Hijuelos.  Annie Dillard.  I could go on, but you get the idea.  These poets and essayists and novelists do something to me.  Touch me deeply.  And they all make me want to be a better writer.

My next writing project, now that I've finished my Mother's Day poem, is a nature essay.  I have an idea for the essay, but I have not yet found my muse.  After I'm done typing tonight's posts, I plan to do a little reading.  I'm thinking Annie Dillard or Robert Lowell.  For some reason both of these writers are stuck in my head at the moment.  I'm not sure why.

But Saint Marty will know why when he's done writing the essay.

I guess there are other kinds of inspiration...