It so chanced, that after the Parsee's disappearance, I was he whom the Fates ordained to take the place of Ahab's bowsman, when that bowsman assumed the vacant post; the same, who, when on the last day the three men were tossed from out of the rocking boat, was dropped astern. So, floating on the margin of the ensuing scene, and in full sight of it, when the halfspent suction of the sunk ship reached me, I was then, but slowly, drawn towards the closing vortex. When I reached it, it had subsided to a creamy pool. Round and round, then, and ever contracting towards the button-like black bubble at the axis of that slowly wheeling circle, like another Ixion I did revolve. Till, gaining that vital centre, the black bubble upward burst; and now, liberated by reason of its cunning spring, and, owing to its great buoyancy, rising with great force, the coffin life-buoy shot lengthwise from the sea, fell over, and floated by my side. Buoyed up by that coffin, for almost one whole day and night, I floated on a soft and dirgelike main. The unharming sharks, they glided by as if with padlocks on their mouths; the savage sea-hawks sailed with sheathed beaks. On the second day, a sail drew near, nearer, and picked me up at last. It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.
And we have come to the end of the year of Moby-Dick. The drama's done, as Melville says. I survived.
New Year's Eve. Balloons are inflated. Streamers are strung. The homemade pizza is in the oven. The crescent weenies are being eaten. Punch is poured. Wheat Thins and Easy Cheese on the table. M&Ms, peanut butter and plain. That's how we do it in my family.
I have to say that I'm not sad that 2018 is coming to a close. It has been a year of struggles and successes, personally and professionally. My father passed in February. The last four months have been a guessing game about my place of employment--will the office remain open or not? I've written poems and essays. Became co-host of a syndicated radio show. Raised money for flood relief and homeless shelters.
I'm a little tired from worry at the moment. Last night was sleepless. I woke up at about 3 a.m. and lay in bed, my mind racing through what ifs. Never a good thing that early in the morning. Got up and went to work, did some end-of-year stuff. Put together my syllabi for next semester. Finished editing a book manuscript for a friend.
On Wednesday, I will be boarding an airplane with my family. Ten days of sunshine, warmth, Mickey Mouse, and Harry Potter. I don't feel quite ready for that yet. I have packing to do, loose ends to tie up, and e-mails to send. My entire December has been a race--to Christmas, to New Year's Eve, to Florida. I'm kind of tired of running.
Tomorrow, I will be introducing the new Book of the Year. I've been knocking around a few ideas. Cormac McCarthy's The Road. Joseph Heller's Catch-22. Toni Morrison's Beloved. Willa Cather's My Antonia. A couple days ago, I made my decision. I think it's going to be a surprise for most of my disciples. It surprised me.
It's approaching 8 p.m. In four hours, my family will blow horns, sing "Auld Lang Syne," and raise some cups of punch, toasting possibilities and hopes. I am determined to leave my worries behind. That will be difficult for me. I tend to keep a tight grip on anxiety and fear.
So, goodbye Moby-Dick. Goodbye worries and fears. Goodbye 2018. Should old acquaintance be forgot.
Saint Marty wishes everyone blessings and happiness for the coming year.
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