So... I am Captain Ahab. It's true. I'm Ahab. Now, with respect to the general population, I am an EXCEPTIONALLY well-read individual, and with the exception of JP Sartre's The Words, have never felt so connected to a character as I do Ahab. It is always somewhat startling to read the sentiment of your soul sprawled out on a page in someone else's hand, but there is also something comforting about it. Shared humanity, perhaps.
This all became clear to me as I lay in my bed last night, rereading my bedraggled critical edition of Moby Dick. I've been pacing myself for a while, reading it in conjunction with various and sundry other novels. It's usually the last thing I read before I fall asleep, and last night, after scratching my cat behind her ears and letting her settle in on the blanket beside me, I read this:
"[Ahab:] Oh, Life! Here I am, proud as Greek god, and yet standing debtor to this blockhead for a bone to stand on! Cursed be that mortal inter-indebtedness which will not do away with ledgers. I would be free as air; and I'm down in the whole world's books. I am so rich, I could have given bid for bid with the wealthiest Praetorians at the auction of the Roman empire (which was the world's); and yet I owe for the flesh in the tongue I brag with. By heavens! I'll get a crucible, and into it, and dissolve myself down to one small, compendious vertebra."
I've also just started reading Ahab's Wife, which one of my aunts recommended, and while I have not felt the immediate connection with it as I did with the great white novel itself, I did very much enjoy the opening quotations, not the least of which being this gem from later in the primary text:
"[Ahab:] Oh, Starbuck! it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky. On such a day - very much such a sweetness as this - I struck my first whale - a boy-harpooneer of eighteen! Forty - forty - forty years ago! - ago! Forty years of continual whaling! forty years of privation, and peril, and storm-time! forty years on the pitiless sea! for forty years has Ahab forsaken the peaceful land, for forty years to make war on the horrors of the deep! Aye and yes, Starbuck, out of those forty years I have not spent three ashore. When I think of this life I have led; the desolation of solitude it has been; the masoned, walled-town of a Captain's exclusiveness, which admits but small entrance to any sympathy from the green country without - oh, weariness! heaviness! Guinea-coast slavery of solitary command! - when I think of all this; only half-suspected, not so keenly known to me before - and how for forty years I have fed upon dry salted fare - fit emblem of the dry nourishment of my soul - when the poorest landsman has had fresh fruit to his daily hand, and broken the world's fresh bread to my mouldy crusts - away, whole oceans away, from that young girl-wife I wedded past fifty, and sailed for Cape Horn the next day, leaving but one dent in my marriage pillow - wife? wife? - rather a widow with her husband alive! Aye, I widowed that poor girl when I married her, Starbuck; and then, the madness, the frenzy, the boiling blood and the smoking brow, with which, for a thousand lowerings old Ahab has furiously, foamingly chased his prey - more a demon than a man! - aye, aye! what a forty years' fool - fool - old fool, has old Ahab been! Why this strife of the chase? why weary,and palsy the arm at the oar, and the iron, and the lance? how the richer or better is Ahab now? Behold. Oh, Starbuck! is it not hard, that with this weary load I bear, one poor leg should have been snatched from under me? Here, brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that I seem to weep. Locks so grey did never grow but from out some ashes! But do I look very old, so very, very old, Starbuck? I feel deadly faint, bowed, and humped, as though I were Adam, staggering beneath the piled centuries since Paradise. God! God! God! - crack my heart! - stave my brain! - mockery! mockery! bitter, biting mockery of grey hairs, have I lived enough joy to wear ye; and seem and feel thus intolerably old? Close! stand close to me, Starbuck; let me look into a human eye; it is better than to gaze into sea or sky; better than to gaze upon God. By the green land; by the bright hearth-stone! this is the magic glass, man; I see my wife and my child in thine eye. No, no; stay on board, on board! - lower not when I do; when branded Ahab gives chase to Moby Dick. That hazard shall not be thine. No, no! not with the far away home I see in that eye!... I have seen them - some summer days in the morning. About this time - yes, it is his noon nap now - the boy vivaciously wakes; sits up in bed; and his mother tells him of me, of cannibal old me; how I am abroad upon the deep, but will yet come back to dance him again... What is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it; what cozzening, hidden lord and master, and cruel, remorseless emperor commands me; that against all natural lovings and longings, I so keep pushing, and crowding, and jamming myself on all the time; recklessly making me ready to do what in my own proper, natural heart, I durst not so much as dare? Is Ahab, Ahab? Is it I, God, or who, that lifts this arm? But if the great sun move not of himself; but is as an errand-boy in heaven; nor one single star can revolve, but by some invisible power; how then can this one small heart beat; this one small brain think thoughts; unless God does that beating, does that thinking, does that living, and not I. By heaven, man, we are turned round and round in this world, like yonder windlass, and Fate is the handspike. And all the time, lo! that smiling sky, and this unsounded sea! Look! see yon Albicore! who put it into him to chase and fang that flying-fish? Where do murderers go, man! Who's to doom, when the judge himself is dragged to the bar? But it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky; and the air smells now, as if it blew from a far-away meadow; they have been making hay somewhere under the slopes of the Andes, Starbuck, and the mowers are sleeping among the new- mown hay. Sleeping? Aye, toil we how we may, we all sleep at last on the field. Sleep? Aye, and rust amid greenness; as last year's scythes flung down, and left in the half-cut swaths."
Yes, this may be the best I could ever hope to express. And maybe this is all self-indulgent. I would imagine that most want to be the tragic hero. To go out in a blaze of light or a pslintering battle with something far larger than oneself. Fair enough. Regardless, as the girl who strove to pour herself in the disciplined mold of a model student, who has spent endless night after endless night working over books in the basement of the library, typing at her computer until it took longer to force her eyes to focus than they stayed so-- and why did I do it? Why did I chase down professors and chain myself to the desk when I could have gone out with my associates? For the grade. For the academic supremacy. For a letter on a piece of paper.
And now, as I near the end of my undergrad and the looming prospect of graduate school, I wonder about what a real life would feel like, all the while knowing that I would (if I have my druthers) spend no more than a summer out of academia and then head off to graduate school somewhere for my masters degree. I don't want to spend time with landed obligations in the real world. It is no longer my element.
So, I strive for unrealistic endings. I'm graduating with outrageous honors distinctions, two minors, a major that I have had to fight the administration for every step of the way. Most days, when I talk about this with the odd listener, I claim that this has made me all the stronger, and you only know what you really want when you have to fight for it, that this passion could not have been bred into me at a university which didn't challenge me in unorthodox ways at every turn. This, of course, is mostly crap. It didn't have to be as hard as I have made it to be. And now, like Ahab, I am weary. Still, I'll throw my hat in the ring for another degree from another school and another round of loans which I can't pay off.
Why do I do it? I'm beginning to seriously doubt that it is for any love of learning or desire for the advancement of the field, that's for sure. Aristotle claims that the best and highest form of government, the true aristocracy, is rooted in the love of knowledge and turth. I pretend at this on most days, but here, when I cop to being my most masochistic, as brutally honest as I have delved, my soul is mostly governed by the timocratic element. It is a love of honor, a drive for glory that propels me. While this is the second of the good options for government, I suppose I'm not that bad off. But still... where does it end?
"[Starbuck:]... let Ahab beware of Ahab; beware of thyself, old man."
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
New Year, New Apartment, Same Old Existential Quagmire
I've finally done it-- I have a private apartment with hardwood floors and my rent is paid. This may not be a milestone for other folk; others look at buying their first house or getting married as a momentous occasion. Considering that I plan on staying firmly enfolded in the abusive arms of academia for the rest of my natural life, this is very likely the best I will ever do. My cable magically works without a box and I'm not paying for it, the telephone has a dial-tone, and there are french doors between the living room and the dining room come library which are only missing two panes of glass.
Moving was a hurculean effort which I have no desire to revisit-- let us merely say that I have a few wonderful friends. On the topic of friends, let's provide some pen names for them. Firstly, my best friend, Hello Baby. This is also the main lyric of her internationally-recognized theme song by Ursula 1000. Some have speculated that Hello Baby is part Veela, and that is what has men falling lapping tongue over tea kettle to open doors for her. Regardless of her physical charms, she is a charming, intelligent, wonderful friend. Secondly, our mutual friend, Raw/Regal, a prominent figure both on campus and at the bar. Raw/Regal and I have a somewhat contentious history, but have of late (barring the intereference of individuals not yet mentioned and recently graduated) come to a close understanding. She is also playing host to a crew of pirates, two of them principally-- Flaxen-Hair and Jolly Roger. These two gentlemen of fortune are a basically inseperable pair, mostly traveling with their canine, Gator. Lastly (for the time being) we have Snow White, my dearly devoted friend who, when you really need her, when you're to the wall and you've got to move 12 milk crates of books to your second-floor apartment, she's there and plans to stay until not only the books are up, but the clothes and dishes as well. She's also the most loyal girl I've ever met.
That said, Snow White helped with the move every step of the way. My landlord, a biology professor on campus, is notoriously hard to reach, and I finally tracked her down the morning of the great move, nabbing the new keys at around 11 am. Snow White met me with a crock pot in which to make chili (did I mention she is a newly-minted militant vegetarian?) and her tool box, should we need it. Despite their honest intentions, Hello Baby and Raw/Regal did not arrive on the scene until almost 2 pm. We'd all gone to the hockey game the night before, but while I had returned to my former habitation to pack up my material possessions, they dicided that a fifth of vodka each sounded like a good idea. Now, we're all seasoned drinkers up here in the frozen north, but still... When they finally did appear, there was no doubt that they were still drink. Giggly-drunk. Ridiculously drunk, actually, and I really should have just sent them home, but my back was already beginning to ache as a result of the aforementioned book-filled milk crates. The two of them managed to move most everything else that I own to the new place, and several things that I didn't own, like frozen brownies, towels, laundry detergent, magnets, coupons, and an onion. Thank you, Ladies. They also violated the fourth ammendment by opening some other people's mail, but let's just forget about that.
I spent the first night in my new place on Saturday night. I would like to be able to say that I'm a real adult and am comfortable being alone, but it's not true. No, I'm a big chicken. I made Hello Baby stay the night with me. It's an old house, very creaky, and the wind was blowing. All of my powers of rationalization were not enough to keep me from yelping every time one of the pipes popped or the floor squeaked. I had confined myself mainly to the bedroom and continued unpacking until a bag tipped over in one of the front rooms. I honestly screamed and dove under my covers, which is where I stayed-- shivering all the while-- until Hello Baby rescued me from myself. She's pretty great like that.
Since then, I've been fine. Unpacking is a gradual process, but it's moving along. I discovered that I have cable which I'm not paying for, and this is indeed a blessing. 90 channels of indulgence? Yes please. It's a fine distraction. I still need to figure out how to acquire the internet in the apartment, but I'm planning on making brownies later and trotting them down to the two boys who live in the downstairs apartment. They're both Fisheries and Wildlife Science majors, and I'm wondering if they'd be willing to run a line up to my place if I chipped in $10 a month? We'll see.
I've come to the conclusion, after laying on my couch and listening to no fewer than three faucets drip in almost-unison, that I miss living with someone. Almost anyone, really. I don't particularly need a boyfriend at this stage of the game, but having someone around to fix things like the faucets or find the replacement lightbulb or eat the rest of the gulosh I made today would be nice. Just someone else, someone's thoughts other than my own. A good guy to share a roof with-- wouldn't that be nice? I'd split the grocery bill and he'd hand me my water glass when I'm all cozied in to my chair and I've left it on the coffee table.
I need another beating heart in my abode.
Moving was a hurculean effort which I have no desire to revisit-- let us merely say that I have a few wonderful friends. On the topic of friends, let's provide some pen names for them. Firstly, my best friend, Hello Baby. This is also the main lyric of her internationally-recognized theme song by Ursula 1000. Some have speculated that Hello Baby is part Veela, and that is what has men falling lapping tongue over tea kettle to open doors for her. Regardless of her physical charms, she is a charming, intelligent, wonderful friend. Secondly, our mutual friend, Raw/Regal, a prominent figure both on campus and at the bar. Raw/Regal and I have a somewhat contentious history, but have of late (barring the intereference of individuals not yet mentioned and recently graduated) come to a close understanding. She is also playing host to a crew of pirates, two of them principally-- Flaxen-Hair and Jolly Roger. These two gentlemen of fortune are a basically inseperable pair, mostly traveling with their canine, Gator. Lastly (for the time being) we have Snow White, my dearly devoted friend who, when you really need her, when you're to the wall and you've got to move 12 milk crates of books to your second-floor apartment, she's there and plans to stay until not only the books are up, but the clothes and dishes as well. She's also the most loyal girl I've ever met.
That said, Snow White helped with the move every step of the way. My landlord, a biology professor on campus, is notoriously hard to reach, and I finally tracked her down the morning of the great move, nabbing the new keys at around 11 am. Snow White met me with a crock pot in which to make chili (did I mention she is a newly-minted militant vegetarian?) and her tool box, should we need it. Despite their honest intentions, Hello Baby and Raw/Regal did not arrive on the scene until almost 2 pm. We'd all gone to the hockey game the night before, but while I had returned to my former habitation to pack up my material possessions, they dicided that a fifth of vodka each sounded like a good idea. Now, we're all seasoned drinkers up here in the frozen north, but still... When they finally did appear, there was no doubt that they were still drink. Giggly-drunk. Ridiculously drunk, actually, and I really should have just sent them home, but my back was already beginning to ache as a result of the aforementioned book-filled milk crates. The two of them managed to move most everything else that I own to the new place, and several things that I didn't own, like frozen brownies, towels, laundry detergent, magnets, coupons, and an onion. Thank you, Ladies. They also violated the fourth ammendment by opening some other people's mail, but let's just forget about that.
I spent the first night in my new place on Saturday night. I would like to be able to say that I'm a real adult and am comfortable being alone, but it's not true. No, I'm a big chicken. I made Hello Baby stay the night with me. It's an old house, very creaky, and the wind was blowing. All of my powers of rationalization were not enough to keep me from yelping every time one of the pipes popped or the floor squeaked. I had confined myself mainly to the bedroom and continued unpacking until a bag tipped over in one of the front rooms. I honestly screamed and dove under my covers, which is where I stayed-- shivering all the while-- until Hello Baby rescued me from myself. She's pretty great like that.
Since then, I've been fine. Unpacking is a gradual process, but it's moving along. I discovered that I have cable which I'm not paying for, and this is indeed a blessing. 90 channels of indulgence? Yes please. It's a fine distraction. I still need to figure out how to acquire the internet in the apartment, but I'm planning on making brownies later and trotting them down to the two boys who live in the downstairs apartment. They're both Fisheries and Wildlife Science majors, and I'm wondering if they'd be willing to run a line up to my place if I chipped in $10 a month? We'll see.
I've come to the conclusion, after laying on my couch and listening to no fewer than three faucets drip in almost-unison, that I miss living with someone. Almost anyone, really. I don't particularly need a boyfriend at this stage of the game, but having someone around to fix things like the faucets or find the replacement lightbulb or eat the rest of the gulosh I made today would be nice. Just someone else, someone's thoughts other than my own. A good guy to share a roof with-- wouldn't that be nice? I'd split the grocery bill and he'd hand me my water glass when I'm all cozied in to my chair and I've left it on the coffee table.
I need another beating heart in my abode.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Hello, new media for superfluous expression!
... and so a bold new world was entered in upon at an ungodly hour of the morning in a fit of uncomfortable self-loathing.
I would postulate that my motives for opening this little window to the blogging world are mostly selfish. Yes, some people I know have them, read them, etc. Do I read theirs? Well, not often. Here's to changing that. It's not that I didn't care what was going on in their lives, some of them quite geographically removed from mine, but this was a fishbowl I hadn't yet peered through.
As far as I go, it's a new year. As good a time as any for a new canvas to call a mirror. I'm not telling anyone I know in a flesh and blood medium about this little forray-- I wouldn't want to have a hand in ruining my own street credit. You see, my unknown reader, I've got this reputation which has dogged me for years. Sometimes I help it along, sometimes it drags me along. Give and go, I suppose. Regardless, it's gotten to the point where the image that my reputation projects resembles me not at all. Well, maybe a little bit, but I'd say that a solid 85% of it is complete flash-bulbs and sleight of hand.
Let's set some basic facts: I'm a half-assed feminist. I'll let you hold the door for me all day long so long as I don't think you're doing it because you believe that I am incapable of holding it open for myself. Secondly, I am not the product of steel and venom-- I have a real, live family who are perhaps more average than I give them credit for, but the dysfunction abounds. I am not a lesbian. I don't have a problem with lesbians, or people of any of the ever-broadening varieties of persuasion for that matter, but I just happen to be a heterosexual. Just because I frequently prefer to be alone does not in any way imply that I don't enjoy the occasional company of men. And on that point, I am not a man-hater. I'm really not. Very often people do, in general, disgust me, but I do not despise all men. I do follow the school of thought which credits evolutionary behavioralism with the predispositions for infidelity, violence, dishonesty, and cruelty. This doesn't mean that I believe women to be blameless in these areas, but as men have dominated society for as long as it matters, they usually draw the larger share of my rage.
Despite my soul-crushing stilletos, caustic one-liners and dour stances, I am confessing that I like romantic comedies. I stumbled upon a gem just the other day, this old Hugh Jackman movie that I may have watched on repeat in the background of my computer screen while I worked through the night. I drink hot chocolate on cold nights, usually with a large dollop or whipped cream. I do not kick puppies. Instead, I kick people who kick puppies, or at least I would like to kick them. No, I don't admit to believing in the phenomenon of love, but I lingering in doorways, silently hoping to be proved wrong. It hasn't happened yet.
So, what's going on in my life right now, you ask? Well, I'm being tossed out of my current abode the day after tomorrow for various and sundry reasons, none of them good, all of them petty. For the past semester I lived in a center with a particular religious affiliation and did my best to be an asset, but apparently I'm not social enough with the other residents. Go figure. I guess I just spent too much time working on my computer in my room ON MY THESIS. What a pity. Fortunately, I've found a new apartment that I can't really afford. However, it's the best I could expect. It's a private apartment, full kitchen, big windows, hardwood floors, and I move in on Saturday. The trick to all of this is that I need to have everything I've ever owned out of the Center by 5 PM on Saturday. The same Saturday.
I hate moving. I hate everything about it. The shoving things in boxes, the packing the car, the misplaced everything. I'm sure I'll be happier once everything has found a new home in the new apartment, but right now that far ahead is a bit hard to imagine. And then there's classes... oh, classes.
I'm a senior in college. I'm trying to graduate in May. Well, I don't know how hard I'm really trying. More about this at a later date. Also more on how the Administration decided to FIRE my TENURED THESIS ADVISOR the week the I submitted the body of my English thesis. Le sigh.
Goodnight, brave new world. I'll check back in on you later.
I would postulate that my motives for opening this little window to the blogging world are mostly selfish. Yes, some people I know have them, read them, etc. Do I read theirs? Well, not often. Here's to changing that. It's not that I didn't care what was going on in their lives, some of them quite geographically removed from mine, but this was a fishbowl I hadn't yet peered through.
As far as I go, it's a new year. As good a time as any for a new canvas to call a mirror. I'm not telling anyone I know in a flesh and blood medium about this little forray-- I wouldn't want to have a hand in ruining my own street credit. You see, my unknown reader, I've got this reputation which has dogged me for years. Sometimes I help it along, sometimes it drags me along. Give and go, I suppose. Regardless, it's gotten to the point where the image that my reputation projects resembles me not at all. Well, maybe a little bit, but I'd say that a solid 85% of it is complete flash-bulbs and sleight of hand.
Let's set some basic facts: I'm a half-assed feminist. I'll let you hold the door for me all day long so long as I don't think you're doing it because you believe that I am incapable of holding it open for myself. Secondly, I am not the product of steel and venom-- I have a real, live family who are perhaps more average than I give them credit for, but the dysfunction abounds. I am not a lesbian. I don't have a problem with lesbians, or people of any of the ever-broadening varieties of persuasion for that matter, but I just happen to be a heterosexual. Just because I frequently prefer to be alone does not in any way imply that I don't enjoy the occasional company of men. And on that point, I am not a man-hater. I'm really not. Very often people do, in general, disgust me, but I do not despise all men. I do follow the school of thought which credits evolutionary behavioralism with the predispositions for infidelity, violence, dishonesty, and cruelty. This doesn't mean that I believe women to be blameless in these areas, but as men have dominated society for as long as it matters, they usually draw the larger share of my rage.
Despite my soul-crushing stilletos, caustic one-liners and dour stances, I am confessing that I like romantic comedies. I stumbled upon a gem just the other day, this old Hugh Jackman movie that I may have watched on repeat in the background of my computer screen while I worked through the night. I drink hot chocolate on cold nights, usually with a large dollop or whipped cream. I do not kick puppies. Instead, I kick people who kick puppies, or at least I would like to kick them. No, I don't admit to believing in the phenomenon of love, but I lingering in doorways, silently hoping to be proved wrong. It hasn't happened yet.
So, what's going on in my life right now, you ask? Well, I'm being tossed out of my current abode the day after tomorrow for various and sundry reasons, none of them good, all of them petty. For the past semester I lived in a center with a particular religious affiliation and did my best to be an asset, but apparently I'm not social enough with the other residents. Go figure. I guess I just spent too much time working on my computer in my room ON MY THESIS. What a pity. Fortunately, I've found a new apartment that I can't really afford. However, it's the best I could expect. It's a private apartment, full kitchen, big windows, hardwood floors, and I move in on Saturday. The trick to all of this is that I need to have everything I've ever owned out of the Center by 5 PM on Saturday. The same Saturday.
I hate moving. I hate everything about it. The shoving things in boxes, the packing the car, the misplaced everything. I'm sure I'll be happier once everything has found a new home in the new apartment, but right now that far ahead is a bit hard to imagine. And then there's classes... oh, classes.
I'm a senior in college. I'm trying to graduate in May. Well, I don't know how hard I'm really trying. More about this at a later date. Also more on how the Administration decided to FIRE my TENURED THESIS ADVISOR the week the I submitted the body of my English thesis. Le sigh.
Goodnight, brave new world. I'll check back in on you later.
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