I love this little description of Ishmael and Queequeg. I think it's the intimacy of it that appeals to me. How both men seem so connected to each other. They are green sheep.
Last night, I attended a holiday open mic and party for a local poetry circle of which I'm a member. It was at a local microbrewery, and all the poets brought dishes to pass. There were salads and lasagna and mostaccioli and popcorn chicken and chocolate cake. Plus beer and poetry. It was a wonderful time.
The best part of the night was being around other poets. It's something that doesn't happen to me very often. I'm sort of a green sheep in my family. I don't want to say black sheep because I'm not really a troublemaker. I'm not the drunk uncle at Thanksgiving or New Year's. I just sort of don't fit in. Aside from my wife, I don't really have anyone with whom I can discuss writing or poetry. (And my wife doesn't really have the energy or patience to deal with lengthy poetry discussions. She loves poetry, but not to the same compulsively neurotic level as me.)
This green sheep was among a flock of green sheep last night, and it fed my soul. Gave me hope and inspiration, which I've been fairly lacking recently. It made me want to write, and that impulse hasn't been tugging at me in the last few weeks. This group has been one of the biggest blessings in my life since being named Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula.
The writing life can be a pretty solitary vocation. It requires a certain measure of isolation. For example, I'm typing this blog post in an empty house. My wife and son are over at my mother's visiting. My daughter is with her boyfriend, celebrating her last day as a 17-year-old. And I am taking advantage of the silence. (I don't even have Christmas music playing, which is very unusual for me.)
I don't mind being alone. Not many people realize that I'm kind of an introvert. Being among people exhausts me. When I come home in the evening, I'm usually not very talkative. I've used up all of my peopling skills through work and teaching. I need to recharge my battery, or else I will not be able to function the following day.
However, being among other green sheep doesn't tax me. I love hearing poetry, talking about poetry, reading poetry aloud. It's one of my greatest pleasures. That, and old Frank Capra films, but that's the subject of another blog post. Green sheep--who think like me, care about the same things I care about, will spend 20 minutes talking about the placement of a comma--make me feel less alone.
Saint Marty is thankful this evening for poetry and beer and pasta. And greenness.
A Matter of Business:
I wanted to take a moment to tell you all about something I've been dealing with.
About three years ago, I received a beautiful leather book bag from a company called Innovative Journaling. The company specializes in leather journals and bags. I'd always wanted a good leather bag, and my sister surprised me with one. It was gorgeous and came with a lifetime guarantee. As the company's website states, "Even if your dog chews it up, send us the bag, and we will repair it."
At the end of August, I sent my bag back to Innovative Journaling for a repair. The company has had it ever since. I have emailed the company several times and finally received a reply from the company's owner (Arthur) three weeks ago. He told me that he was mailing my bag back to me on Monday. That was three weeks ago, and I have not received my bag.
It's an expensive bag. My sister paid well over $500 for it. I don't think I'm ever going to see this bag again.
I tell you this story as a warning. I know that a lot of poets and writers read this blog. Do NOT order items from Innovative Journaling. Their customer service is abysmal, and they have left me no recourse but to advise my friends and readers to avoid this company and its products. I'm out a $500 bag.
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