August 8: The Cassock, New Shirt, Flood Relief

Had you stepped on board the Pequod at a certain juncture of this post-mortemizing of the whale; and had you strolled forward nigh the windlass, pretty sure am I that you would have scanned with no small curiosity a very strange, enigmatical object, which you would have seen there, lying along lengthwise in the lee scuppers. Not the wondrous cistern in the whale's huge head; not the prodigy of his unhinged lower jaw; not the miracle of his symmetrical tail; none of these would so surprise you, as half a glimpse of that unaccountable cone,- longer than a Kentuckian is tall, nigh a foot in diameter at the base, and jet-black as Yojo, the ebony idol of Queequeg. And an idol, indeed, it is; or rather, in old times, its likeness was. Such an idol as that found in the secret groves of Queen Maachah in Judea; and for worshipping which, King Asa, her son, did depose her, and destroyed the idol, and burnt it for an abomination at the brook Kedron, as darkly set forth in the 15th chapter of the First Book of Kings.

Look at the sailor, called the mincer, who now comes along, and assisted by two allies, heavily backs the grandissimus, as the mariners call it, and with bowed shoulders, staggers off with it as if he were a grenadier carrying a dead comrade from the field. Extending it upon the forecastle deck, he now proceeds cylindrically to remove its dark pelt, as an African hunter the pelt of a boa. This done he turns the pelt inside out, like a pantaloon leg; gives it a good stretching, so as almost to double its diameter; and at last hangs it, well spread, in the rigging, to dry. Ere long, it is taken down; when removing some three feet of it, towards the pointed extremity, and then cutting two slits for arm-holes at the other end, he lengthwise slips himself bodily into it. The mincer now stands before you invested in the full canonicals of his calling. Immemorial to all his order, this investiture alone will adequately protect him, while employed in the peculiar functions of his office.

That office consists in mincing the horse-pieces of blubber for the pots; an operation which is conducted at a curious wooden horse, planted endwise against the bulwarks, and with a capacious tub beneath it, into which the minced pieces drop, fast as the sheets from a rapt orator's desk. Arrayed in decent black; occupying a conspicuous pulpit; intent on bible leaves; what a candidate for an archbishopric, what a lad for a Pope were this mincer!*

*Bible leaves! Bible leaves! This is the invariable cry from the mates to the mincer. It enjoins him to be careful, and cut his work into as thin slices as possible, inasmuch as by so doing the business of boiling out the oil is much accelerated, and its quantity considerably increased, besides perhaps improving it in quality.

A few thoughts this evening coming out of this odd little chapter from Moby-Dick.

First, I sort of feel like the mincer this evening.  I sit typing this blog post at McDonald's in Walmart, while my wife is shopping.  I feel like the mincer because I just bought a new shirt from Kohl's.  I don't often go clothes shopping, but, tonight, I am attending a poetry reading that I organized.  It's a fundraiser for communities in the Copper Country part of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan that were devastated by floods earlier this summer.  I thought that I should look a little more presentable than normal.  Put on a cassock, so to speak, although I am very far from being a bishop or the Pope.

Second, by this time tomorrow evening, I shall be far from this fly-buzzed table in McDonald's.  I will be downstate, at the Boyne Mountain Resort, for a few days of rest and relaxation.  My family and I have made this annual trek for several years now.  It's become kind of a tradition.  Now that my daughter is a senior in high school, this may be one of the last times for us to do this as a family unit.  School and work and life may get in the way next year.  So, this weekend, I plan to relish the time I have with all the people I love.

Third, I've spent most of this past weekend and week in preparation for this little shindig tonight.  I've done radio interviews, engaged in more than my fair share of social media, and cajoled/pressured friends and relatives to show up.  Basically, I've been a pain in the ass to anyone in my vicinity.  I think people would be relieved if I shipped out tomorrow on a whaling ship for a three-year expedition.

That's what's on my mind tonight.  A whole lot of doubt mixed with a smidgen of self-loathing.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight that his friends put up with his insanity.

December 21: An Old Fart, Winter Solstice, Calumet

And they're all grown up now, and I'm an old fart with his memories and his Pall Malls.  My name is Yon Yonson, I work in Wisconsin, I work in a lumbermill there.

Sometimes I try to call up old girl friends on the telephone late at night, after my wife has gone to bed.  "Operator, I wonder if you could give me the number of a Mrs. So-and-So.  I think she lives at such-and-such."

"I'm sorry, sir.  There is no such listing."

"Thanks, Operator.  Thanks just the same."

And I let the dog out, or I let him in, and we talk some.  I let him know I like him, and he lets me know he likes me.  He doesn't mind the smell of mustard gas and roses.

"You's all right, Sandy," I'll say to the dog.  "You know that, Sandy?  You're O. K."

Sometimes I'll turn on the radio and listen to a talk program from Boston or New York.  I can't stand recorded music if I've been drinking a good deal.

Sooner or later I go to bed, and my wife asks me what time it is.  She always has to know the time.  Sometimes I don't know, and I say, "Search me."

I think about my education sometimes.  I went to the University of Chicago for a while after the Second World War.  I was a student in the Department of Anthropology.  At that time, they were teaching that there was absolutely no difference between anybody.  They may be teaching that still.

Another thing they taught was that nobody was ridiculous or bad or disgusting.  Shortly before my father died, he said to me, "You know--you never wrote a story with a villain in it."

I told him that was one of the things I learned in college after the war.

Vonnegut is feeling old, thinking back on old times, old girlfriends.  He wants to somehow reconnect with his past in some way.  So he chases it in the middle of the night.  He is Yon Yonson who works in Wisconsin in a lumbermill. 

Greetings from the city of Calumet.  It's an old mining town, but I'm pretty sure that another one of it's industries was lumber.  I used to vacation with my family near here when I was a kid.  We stayed in a little hunting camp in the middle of the woods for two weeks every summer.  I don't remember a whole lot of those times, except for the bear claw marks on pine tree trunks and the smell of the outhouse.

We drove up to the Copper Country after I got off work this afternoon.  It felt like a long trip, even though it was really less than two hours.  It's the Winter Solstice, so light was in short supply.  By about 5:30, the sky was almost black as we drove along the shores of Lake Superior.  We got to our hotel a little after 6 p.m.

We are on this little excursion because I am performing for a radio variety show at the Calumet Theatre tomorrow night.  I'm reading poetry and an essay, acting in some skits, and singing (not very well) a commercial jingle.  Just got back from a rehearsal.  It's a little after ten o'clock.  Tomorrow, it's another rehearsal, followed by the actual shows (two of them) in the evening.

I haven't been surrounded by a crowd of performers and musicians for about ten years.  It felt a little like a homecoming.  As soon as I sat down in the auditorium to watch the rehearsal, I wasn't anxious anymore.  I knew I was surrounded by people who respected me and what I could do.  It almost made me want to take up acting and directing again.  Almost.

Tonight is the start of Christmas.  I'm away with my family, doing something I love.

Saint Marty is supremely thankful for this night and this trip.,

August 17: Another Poem of Resistance, Maya Angelou, "Caged Bird"

There are more white supremacist and Nazi rallies are planned for this weekend around the country.  Hopefully, there won't be any violence.

I have another poem of resistance, this one from one of my favorite poets and activists of the Civil Rights Movement.  I'm on my way to a poetry open mic event this evening.  Tomorrow, I'm heading to Baraga in the Copper Country.  I'm the featured poet at an art gallery opening.

Saint Marty has to get his poet on now.

Caged Bird

by:  Maya Angelou

A free bird leaps

on the back of the wind   

and floats downstream   

till the current ends

and dips his wing

in the orange sun rays

and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks

down his narrow cage

can seldom see through

his bars of rage

his wings are clipped and   

his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   

with a fearful trill   

of things unknown   

but longed for still   

and his tune is heard   

on the distant hill   

for the caged bird   

sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn

and he names the sky his own

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams   

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream   

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied   

so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings   

with a fearful trill   

of things unknown   

but longed for still   

and his tune is heard   

on the distant hill   

for the caged bird   

sings of freedom.

July 22: TGIF, On the Road Tomorrow, Poetry Reading Tonight

I'm soooooo glad it's Friday.  Starting with my close encounter on Monday with the skunk, this week has pretty much sucked.  I'm glad to see it coming to an end.  The weekend promises to be quite busy.

Tomorrow, I'm going to be on the road all day long.  I have three separate events to appear at in the Copper Country (two panel discussions, one poetry reading).  For those of you who are non-Yoopers, the Copper Country is on the far west end of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Needless to say, I won't be getting home until late Saturday night, so don't expect any posts tomorrow.

I was going to try to submit more poems for publication today, but I find myself tired and a little overwhelmed with other work.  I have scouted out my next victims for submission, but I haven't made any final decisions.  However, I will get back on the submission horse by Monday.  Hi-yo, Silver!

Tonight, I will be attending the readings at the Butler Theater in Ishpeming, as I said in yesterday's post.  If you're in the Ishpeming area, stop by for some poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and wine.  That's what I'm hoping for.

Saint Marty is ready for the weekend to start.