January 12: Bulkington, Age of Social Media, Chewbacca Mask

I observed, however, that one of them held somewhat aloof, and though he seemed desirous not to spoil the hilarity of his shipmates by his own sober face, yet upon the whole he refrained from making as much noise as the rest. This man interested me at once; and since the sea-gods had ordained that he should soon become my shipmate (though but a sleeping partner one, so far as this narrative is concerned), I will here venture upon a little description of him. He stood full six feet in height, with noble shoulders, and a chest like a coffer-dam. I have seldom seen such brawn in a man. His face was deeply brown and burnt, making his white teeth dazzling by the contrast; while in the deep shadows of his eyes floated some reminiscences that did not seem to give him much joy. His voice at once announced that he was a Southerner, and from his fine stature, I thought he must be one of those tall mountaineers from the Alleghanian Ridge in Virginia. When the revelry of his companions had mounted to its height, this man slipped away unobserved, and I saw no more of him till he became my comrade on the sea. In a few minutes, however, he was missed by his shipmates, and being, it seems, for some reason a huge favorite with them, they raised a cry of "Bulkington! Bulkington! Where's Bulkington?" and darted out of the house in pursuit of him.

It was now about nine o'clock, and the room seeming almost supernaturally quiet after these orgies, I began to congratulate myself upon a little plan that had occurred to me just previous to the entrance of the seamen.

No man prefers to sleep two in a bed. In fact, you would a good deal rather not sleep with your own brother. I don't know how it is, but people like to be private when they are sleeping. And when it comes to sleeping with an unknown stranger, in a strange inn, in a strange town, and that stranger a harpooneer, then your objections indefinitely multiply. Nor was there any earthly reason why I as a sailor should sleep two in a bed, more than anybody else; for sailors no more sleep two in a bed at sea, than bachelor Kings do ashore. To be sure they all sleep together in one apartment, but you have your own hammock, and cover yourself with your own blanket, and sleep in your own skin.
The more I pondered over this harpooneer, the more I abominated the thought of sleeping with him. It was fair to presume that being a harpooneer, his linen or woolen, as the case might be, would not be of the tidiest, certainly none of the finest. I began to twitch all over. Besides, it was getting late, and my decent harpooneer ought to be home and going bedwards. Suppose now, he should tumble in upon me at midnight- how could I tell from what vile hole he had been coming?

"Landlord! I've changed my mind about that harpooneer.- I shan't sleep with him. I'll try the bench here."

"Just as you please; I'm sorry I cant spare ye a tablecloth for a mattress, and it's a plaguy rough board here"- feeling of the knots and notches. "But wait a bit, Skrimshander; I've got a carpenter's plane there in the bar- wait, I say, and I'll make ye snug enough." So saying he procured the plane; and with his old silk handkerchief first dusting the bench, vigorously set to planing away at my bed, the while grinning like an ape. The shavings flew right and left; till at last the plane-iron came bump against an indestructible knot. The landlord was near spraining his wrist, and I told him for heaven's sake to quit- the bed was soft enough to suit me, and I did not know how all the planing in the world could make eider down of a pine plank. So gathering up the shavings with another grin, and throwing them into the great stove in the middle of the room, he went about his business, and left me in a brown study.

Bulkington will soon become of part of Ishmael's life, in all his height and darkness.  Ishmael is intrigued by him, simply because he is different from the rest of the sailors.  While the other whalers are loud and drunken, Bulkington is quiet and reserved, uninterested in cutting loose, despite just returning from a three-year voyage, if my memory serves.  Instead of being swallowed up by the debauch of his crew mates, Bulkington slips away into the night without a word.

I appreciate solitary people.  They intrigue me.  I think the reason J. D. Salinger remained so famous--aside from being a fantastic writer--is that, after publishing The Catcher in the Rye, he chose to disappear from public scrutiny.  Stayed on his little compound in New Hampshire and sued anybody who tried to photograph or write about him.  That kind of mystery attracts interest.  Think about it.  Who would you rather spend time with--Kim Kardashian or Greta Garbo?  Stephen King or Harper Lee?

In the Age of Social Media, privacy is a difficult thing to come by.  Birthdays and anniversaries and concerts are opportunities for Facebook posts, Snaps, and Tweets.  It's almost a way for anyone to somehow become a celebrity.  You don't need talent.  You just need a YouTube video of yourself wearing a Chewbacca mask and cackling like the Joker.

I am just as guilty as the next person.  I post pictures of myself at football games and band concerts.  I write daily blog posts about my life.  I force my kids to hug each other in front of waterfalls, and then I put that image on some kind of social media platform.  My teenage daughter gets pretty annoyed with me.  When she sees me take out my phone, she immediate pulls her hair in front of her face to avoid being photographed.  She is the Bulkington/J. D. Salinger of our family.

As a writer, I sort of crave an audience for my words.  That's the reason why I've written almost four thousand blog posts.  It's my need to connect with other people through language.  Eventually, J. D. Salinger stopped publishing in 1965, fifty-five years before he died.  I guess he didn't feel the same compulsion to share his work.  However, the rumor persists that there's a vault of unpublished Salinger manuscripts.  That he labored throughout his life on various works.  Salinger has been dead seven years, and a new J. D. Salinger book has yet to appear.

People like Salinger and probably Bulkington care very little about public opinion.  Work for work's sake.  Perhaps they find most human beings silly and of no consequence.  I get that.  I prefer people of substance, as well.  People who care about the things that I care about.  Homelessness.  Racism.  Homophobia.  Universal healthcare.  You know--poets and social activists and saints.

Saint Marty is a solitary man.  Until he drinks a few gin and tonics.