September 8: The Blacksmith, White Privileged Male, Servants in Washington

Availing himself of the mild, summer-cool weather that now reigned in these latitudes, and in preparation for the peculiarly active pursuits shortly to be anticipated, Perth, the begrimed, blistered old blacksmith, had not removed his portable forge to the hold again, after concluding his contributory work for Ahab's leg, but still retained it on deck, fast lashed to ringbolts by the foremast; being now almost incessantly invoked by the headsmen, and harpooneers, and bowsmen to do some little job for them; altering, or repairing, or new shaping their various weapons and boat furniture. Often he would be surrounded by an eager circle, all waiting to be served; holding boat-spades, pikeheads, harpoons, and lances, and jealously watching his every sooty movement, as he toiled. Nevertheless, this old man's was a patient hammer wielded by a patient arm. No murmur, no impatience, no petulance did come from him. Silent, slow, and solemn; bowing over still further his chronically broken back, he toiled away, as if toil were life itself, and the heavy beating of his hammer the heavy beating of his heart. And so it was.- Most miserable!

A peculiar walk in this old man, a certain slight but painful appearing yawing in his gait, had at an early period of the voyage excited the curiosity of the mariners. And to the importunity of their persisted questionings he had finally given in; and so it came to pass that every one now knew the shameful story of his wretched fate.

Belated, and not innocently, one bitter winter's midnight, on the road running between two country towns, the blacksmith half-stupidly felt the deadly numbness stealing over him, and sought refuge in a leaning, dilapidated barn. The issue was, the loss of the extremities of both feet. Out of this revelation, part by part, at last came out the four acts of the gladness, and the one long, and as yet uncatastrophied fifth act of the grief of his life's drama.

He was an old man, who, at the age of nearly sixty, had postponedly encountered that thing in sorrow's technicals called ruin. He had been an artisan of famed excellence, and with plenty to do; owned a house and garden; embraced a youthful, daughter-like, loving wife, and three blithe, ruddy children; every Sunday went to a cheerful-looking church, planted in a grove. But one night, under cover of darkness, and further concealed in a most cunning disguisement, a desperate burglar slid into his happy home, and robbed them all of everything. And darker yet to tell, the blacksmith himself did ignorantly conduct this burglar into his family's heart. It was the Bottle Conjuror! Upon the opening of that fatal cork, forth flew the fiend, and shrivelled up his home. Now, for prudent, most wise, and economic reasons, the blacksmith's shop was in the basement of his dwelling, but with a separate entrance to it; so that always had the young and loving healthy wife listened with no unhappy nervousness, but with vigorous pleasure, to the stout ringing of her young-armed old husband's hammer; whose reverberations, muffled by passing through the floors and walls, came up to her, not unsweetly, in her nursery; and so, to stout Labor's iron lullaby, the blacksmith's infants were rocked to slumber.

Oh, woe on woe! Oh, Death, why canst thou not sometimes be timely? Hadst thou taken this old blacksmith to thyself ere his full ruin came upon him, then had the young widow had a delicious grief, and her orphans a truly venerable, legendary sire to dream of in their after years; and all of them a care-killing competency. But Death plucked down some virtuous elder brother, on whose whistling daily toil solely hung the responsibilities of some other family, and left the worse than useless old man standing, till the hideous rot of life should make him easier to harvest.

Why tell the whole? The blows of the basement hammer every day grew more and more between; and each blow every day grew fainter than the last; the wife sat frozen at the window, with tearless eyes, glitteringly gazing into the weeping faces of her children; the bellows fell; the forge choked up with cinders; the house was sold; the mother dived down into the long church-yard grass; her children twice followed her thither; and the houseless, familyless old man staggered off a vagabond in crape; his every woe unreverenced; his grey head a scorn to flaxen curls!

Death seems the only desirable sequel for a career like this; but Death is only a launching into the region of the strange Untried; it is but the first salutation to the possibilities of the immense Remote, the Wild, the Watery, the Unshored; therefore, to the death-longing eyes of such men, who still have left in them some interior compunctions against suicide, does the all-contributed and all-receptive ocean alluringly spread forth his whole plain of unimaginable, taking terrors, and wonderful, new-life adventures; and from the hearts of infinite Pacifics, the thousand mermaids sing to them- "Come hither, broken-hearted; here is another life without the guilt of intermediate death; here are wonders supernatural, without dying for them. Come hither! bury thyself in a life which, to your now equally abhorred and abhorring, landed world, is more oblivious than death. dome hither! put up thy grave-stone, too, within the churchyard, and come hither, till we marry thee!"

Hearkening to these voices, East and West, by early sunrise, and by fall of eve, the blacksmith's soul responded, Aye, I come! And so Perth went a-whaling.

An uplifting little tale for a Saturday morning.  A blacksmith artist  loses his young wife and family, home, livelihood, drapes himself in black, and becomes a vagabond.  He's one of those guys you see on the street corner, veiled in a cloud of sadness.  You might not know his story, but he carries loss around with him, wears it like an old tee shirt from a Grateful Dead concert, dirty, tattered, and full of funk.

I think we all know people like Perth.  Walk by them every day without paying any notice.  They're easy to ignore.  You don't want to look at them too closely because it's painful, makes you feel guilty for the relatively comfortable life that you lead.  Or maybe it's fear, like their bad fortune is a virus you might contract.  So, it's easier simply to walk by them, averting your eyes, looking at beautiful cloud formations or an interesting window display.

I think, in my country (and probably the world, as a whole), we've become so self-centered that we've forgotten the very things that make us human--our abilities to feel compassion and empathy, to reach out and help people or creatures in need.  Instead, we worry that we don't have the latest iteration of the iPhone, haven't binge-watched the latest season of Stranger Things.

That's the problem in the United States right now.  The person sitting in the Oval Office has been spoiled his whole life.  He hasn't had to struggle for anything.  He was born rich, lived rich, and will die rich.  And he wants to make sure that he doesn't have to share his toys with anybody else in the sandbox.  Not only that, but he's surrounded by like-minded spoiled people.  White.  Privileged.  Male.  Rich.  Frightened of people who don't look like them, aren't like them.

The United States is one of the wealthiest and freest countries in the world.  Yet, homelessness and hunger is rampant.  Young people graduate from colleges with thousands and thousands of student debt.  Sick people have to make the choice not to seek treatment because it simply costs too much money.  And millions of people work two or three low-paying jobs in order to provide for their families.

It's really time that we stop being afraid of the rich white guys who run this country.  It's time that the rich white guys start being afraid of us.  We need to remind the people in power that they aren't the bosses.  They're the employees.  And they need to start taking care of EVERYONE--young, old, man, woman, teenager, child, black, white, brown, straight, gay, bisexual, transgender, legal citizen, legal and illegal immigrant.  There is enough food and money and resources in this country for every person.  It's just that 1% of our population controls 98 or 99% of this abundance.

It's time to get angry for all the Perths out there.  Time for all the Perths to stand up and retake control.  Remind the servants in Washington, D. C., that they are SERVANTS.

Okay, I'm climbing down from my soap box now, but I'm not closing my mouth.  Not putting away my anger.  If you tell me that American needs to be great again, I will tell you that the only way that's going to happen is when we start taking care of people again.  Not just millionaires and billionaires.  We need to remember what's written on that plaque by the Statue of Liberty:

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she

With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

When we start living by these words, America will be great again.

Saint Marty is thankful this morning for freedom of speech.

January 20: Queequeg's Peculiarities, Government Shutdown, Honors Band

I quickly followed suit, and descending into the bar-room accosted the grinning landlord very pleasantly. I cherished no malice towards him, though he had been skylarking with me not a little in the matter of my bedfellow.

However, a good laugh is a mighty good thing, and rather too scarce a good thing; the more's the pity. So, if any one man, in his own proper person, afford stuff for a good joke to anybody, let him not be backward, but let him cheerfully allow himself to spend and to be spent in that way. And the man that has anything bountifully laughable about him, be sure there is more in that man than you perhaps think for.

The bar-room was now full of the boarders who had been dropping in the night previous, and whom I had not as yet had a good look at. They were nearly all whalemen; chief mates, and second mates, and third mates, and sea carpenters, and sea coopers, and sea blacksmiths, and harpooneers, and ship keepers; a brown and brawny company, with bosky beards; an unshorn, shaggy set, all wearing monkey jackets for morning gowns.

You could pretty plainly tell how long each one had been ashore. This young fellow's healthy cheek is like a sun-toasted pear in hue, and would seem to smell almost as musky; he cannot have been three days landed from his Indian voyage. That man next him looks a few shades lighter; you might say a touch of satin wood is in him. In the complexion of a third still lingers a tropic tawn, but slightly bleached withal; he doubtless has tarried whole weeks ashore. But who could show a cheek like Queequeg? which, barred with various tints, seemed like the Andes' western slope, to show forth in one array, contrasting climates, zone by zone.

"Grub, ho!" now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we went to breakfast.
They say that men who have seen the world, thereby become quite at ease in manner, quite self-possessed in company. Not always, though: Ledyard, the great New England traveller, and Mungo Park, the Scotch one; of all men, they possessed the least assurance in the parlor. But perhaps the mere crossing of Siberia in a sledge drawn by dogs as Ledyard did, or the taking a long solitary walk on an empty stomach, in the negro heart of Africa, which was the sum of poor Mungo's performances- this kind of travel, I say, may not be the very best mode of attaining a high social polish. Still, for the most part, that sort of thing is to be had anywhere.

These reflections just here are occasioned by the circumstance that after we were all seated at the table, and I was preparing to hear some good stories about whaling; to my no small surprise nearly every man maintained a profound silence. And not only that, but they looked embarrassed. Yes, here were a set of sea-dogs, many of whom without the slightest bashfulness had boarded great whales on the high seas- entire strangers to them- and duelled them dead without winking; and yet, here they sat at a social breakfast table- all of the same calling, all of kindred tastes- looking round as sheepishly at each other as though they had never been out of sight of some sheepfold among the Green Mountains. A curious sight; these bashful bears, these timid warrior whalemen!

But as for Queequeg- why, Queequeg sat there among them- at the head of the table, too, it so chanced; as cool as an icicle. To be sure I cannot say much for his breeding. His greatest admirer could not have cordially justified his bringing his harpoon into breakfast with him, and using it there without ceremony; reaching over the table with it, to the imminent jeopardy of many heads, and grappling the beefsteaks towards him. But that was certainly very coolly done by him, and every one knows that in most people's estimation, to do anything coolly is to do it genteelly.

We will not speak of all Queequeg's peculiarities here; how he eschewed coffee and hot rolls, and applied his undivided attention to beefsteaks, done rare. Enough, that when breakfast was over he withdrew like the rest into the public room, lighted his tomahawk-pipe, and was sitting there quietly digesting and smoking with his inseparable hat on, when I sallied out for a stroll.

Above is the entire Chapter 5 of Moby-Dick, all about breakfast with the whalers at the Spouter-Inn.  Beefsteaks and coffee and rolls.  Of course, Queequeg, being a "savage," focuses only on the rare beef, thereby furthering the image of him as a cannibal peddling shrunken heads of the street.  Yet, Queequeg is also good-natured and polite, exhibiting none of the stereotypical affectations of a "savage cannibal."

It is going to be a long day of driving for my wife and me.  We are traveling to Wisconsin to see my daughter play in an honors band concert.  She actually requested that we come, although I think her primary reason was to avoid a long ride home on a school bus.  However, being of fragile parental ego, I am going with the belief that my daughter really wants us to be there to see her perform.

Of course, all this comes on the day where the Federal Government of the United States has been forced to shut down, even though both houses of Congress and the White House are occupied by the same political party.  I woke up to that news.  Even though I was expecting it, I found myself shaking my head.

Of course, there's a lot of finger-pointing going on.  Republicans pointing at the Democrats.  Democrats pointing at the Republicans.  Democrats pointing at Donald Trump.  And Donald Trump pointing at everyone BUT himself.  Now, the Constant Reader of this blog knows that my political leanings fall just left of Jesus Christ.  (By the way, Jesus Christ was NO conservative.  He was all about caring for the poor and the sick and the downtrodden.  That is what a true Christian does.)  Therefore, I fall squarely on the side of funding the government IF it does what it is supposed to do--take care of EVERYBODY, not just the wealthy and politically-connected.

Yes, that means that I support helping refugees and the children of undocumented immigrants.  I think that health care workers need to provide the best care for ALL patients, regardless of the health care workers' religious beliefs.  (See my comment above about what a true Christian should believe and do.)  It's really simple, actually.  Let's take care of all the Queequegs in our country.  Let's fund school honors band concerts.  Let's provide the best healthcare for every person in this country, not just those who can afford it.  Let's send young people out into the work world WITHOUT tens of thousands of dollars of student debt.

I thought I lived in a country like this.  Regardless of political affiliation, I thought people, in general, wanted to do what was best for everybody.  I'm not so sure about that now.  Certainly, nothing that's happened in Washington, D. C., has convinced me of the goodwill of Republican politicians.

Tonight, I will sit in an public school auditorium.  I will listen to wonderful public school students play beautiful music.  Then I will drive home, hopefully with a little of my faith in humanity and the future restored.  It's about what connects us, not about what divides us.

Saint Marty gives thanks today for public education and teachers and schools. 

August 1: A Stranger, Revenge Fantasies, Dreams of Justice

Poor old Edgar Derby, the high school teacher, got into the conversation now.  He asked Lazzaro if he planned to feed the Blue Fairy Godmother clock springs and steak.

"Shit," said Lazzaro.

"He's a pretty big man," said Derby, who, of course, was a pretty big man himself.

"Size don't mean a thing."

"You're going to shoot him?"

"I'm gonna have him shot," said Lazzaro.  "He'll get home after the war.  He'll be a big hero.  The dames'll be climbing all over him.  He'll settle down.  A couple years'll go by.  And then one day there'll be a knock on his door.  He'll answer the door, and there'll be a stranger out there.  The stranger'll ask him if he's so-and-so.  When he says he is, the stranger'll say, 'Paul Lazzaro sent me.'  And he'll pull out a gun and shoot his pecker off.  The stranger'll let him think a couple of seconds about who Paul Lazzaro is and what life's gonna be like without a pecker.  Then he'll shoot him once in the guts and walk away."  So it goes.

Lazzaro's life is pretty sad.  All he seems to worry about is revenge.  Every little slight or insult sends him over the edge.  It seems to eat up his life.  He spends every waking minute making sure that anyone who harms him in any way is punished.  That's his primary motivation.  Plus, he's completely amoral.  Doesn't care who or what he harms in his quest for justice.

I think most people, if they're honest, have revenge fantasies.  I know I do.  I have one, in particular, where I become a fabulously wealthy/famous writer and, when I'm finally asked to teach full-time at the university because of my reputation, I turn them down flat with a little note that says, "You had your chance."  Silly.  Stupid.  Immature.  But most revenge fantasies are, I think.

I try not to let slights and insults upset me too much.  It's not worth it.  If I get angry, then I have lost control of my life, handed the reins over to whomever hurt me.  That's not a smart thing to do.  It will turn me into Lazzaro, putting watch springs in steaks.  I would rather laugh about it, let it go, and let God take care of things.

That doesn't mean that I overlook injustice in the world, that I don't get upset.  I get upset.  Poverty.  Student debt.  Healthcare in the United States.  Corrupt politicians.  Bullies on the playground, in schools, in the workplace.  All these things piss me off.  But I have to pick and choose my battles.  Some battles can be waged.  Some battles can be won.  And some battles have to remain fantasies--dreams of justice.

This works for me.  Keeps me sane.  If I didn't have this attitude, then I might as well stay in my pajamas all day, take tranquilizers, and wait for death.

Saint Marty is thankful today for the sun outside his hotel window, a good book to read, and not an asshole in sight.

July 30: Self-Consciousness, Troll Doll, Back Seat

It is ironic that the one thing all religions recognize as separating us from our creator – our very self-consciousness—is also the one thing that divides us from our fellow creatures.

Dillard's right.  Human beings like to spend a great deal of their time being self-conscious, worrying about themselves and their needs.  I'm guilty of that all the time, in case you haven't noticed.  Dillard's saying that we're all so focused on our own worries that we ignore God's work in our lives.  And the needs of others.  Personal worries and wants tend to divide all of us from what's really important.

So, I'm going to get a little political for a moment.  (I know--that's not really shocking.)  But, after watching two weeks of political conventions and inflated rhetoric from Republicans and Democrats, I have to say that I'm a little tired of divisiveness.  I think there are issues almost everybody in the country can agree upon.  School shootings need to stop.  Violence against minorities needs to stop.  The majority of law enforcement officers are good, decent people trying to protect the citizens of the United States.  ISIS is a terrifying organization and a threat to world peace.  Health care isn't a privilege; it's a right.  Kids need to be able to get a good college education without ending up with debt that rivals the debt of a small Eastern European country.  Donald Trump looks like a troll doll.  These are all things we can agree upon.

These things unite us.  I want my kids to be safe.  I want police officers to be safe.  I want everyone to be safe--white, African American, gay, straight, transgender, Republican, Democrat, Christian, Muslim.  When I have a health problem, I want to be able to receive treatment that's not going to bankrupt me.  I'm a hard worker.  I have three jobs.  I want to be able to make enough money to pay my bills and provide for my family adequately.  And I want my kids to have a future that isn't saddled with tens of thousands of dollars in student loans.  Stop and ask anybody on Main Street in the United States, and I would bet that everyone would want these things, as well.

Here's the thing:  until we all stop pointing fingers and laying blame, the world is going to be full of hunger, war, terrorism, and poverty.  And God will continue to take a back seat.  When God takes a back seat, I'm not sure I want to be in the car.

That's just the way Saint Marty sees it.

A good laugh--that connects all of us