Allison: A Grandfather Story

This is a story about my grandfather.  I posted the first half about a week ago with the intention of posting just the other half when it was finished.  I decided it would be better to just publish the whole thing together, though.  So here it is. Hope you enjoy.

*

The hulking tree fell in a fog of exhaust and spinning metal. A man stood to the side, waiting for the brush to settle so he could break down the trunk into sections. He felt a sense of pride and superiority swell inside his middle-aged chest as the smell of fallen wood danced up his nostrils. The doomed pine was marked for its fall with fluorescent pink paint and yellow safety tape. Even though his ratty boots were soaked through and he had the irreversible scent of two-stroke motor oil burned into his dull orange vest, he felt a strong pull to stay there long into the night. The road home from the logging station was short, set up closer to the local town than usual. The potholed roads got tiresome but he didn’t care for the way other loggers compared them to a kids face full of smallpox. He was a long-time worker in the forest, a logger, and his name was Allison MacKinnon.

When Allison finally made it home the sky was on fire and the sun was putting up one last fight before setting. Robertsville was a flat town, and that meant you could see plain field for half a mile each way, until the horizon finally broke your view in the distance. The house he drove up to was a light blue with bright white trim all around, an old screen door on the front and a lot of peeling paint wherever you looked. He made his way up the driveway, smacking his metal lunch kit against his thigh to keep time as he scratched his boots on the gravel so as to not bring any excess mud in the house. As he opened the door, Allison slowly recognized the scent of his home, the kind of smell you can only catch when you’ve been away for long enough. It smelled like cleaning solution, cigarettes, and some sort of meat that was getting ready for supper. Standing in the entrance, Allison slipped off his old logger’s safety vest and caught the scent of dying trees, something noticeably foreign in the house.

After he had showered and cleaned up, he made his way to the dinner table and made sure to let Clora and his five late teenage kids know that he was too tired to stir up conversation, shuffling a newspaper in front of his plate without so much as a few words. After his stomach was full he threw his dishes into the sink and made his way to the dusty couch with the knitted upholstery, drink in hand. He knew he would soon be joined by his wife to begin their voyage through an ocean of bad whiskey and cigarette smoke.

After a while he heard his son, John start to lift weights in the garage. John was his middle son, a well built high school drop out with little to no potential, according to Allison. For the next five minutes all he could hear was the incessant clanging and screeching of metal on metal as John changed weights between exercises. In the midst of the drowsy alcoholic numbness, Allison felt multiple waves of heated frustration and anger polluting his tranquil sea of nicotine. He picked himself off the couch, swearing violently, kicked the dog out of the way and burst into the home made gym where his son was working out. He looked at the shirtless dropout with the old barbell resting on his shoulders, heard the rusty weights clanging around, as a stereo playing some ugly tune blasted in the corner. The heat and tenseness he felt on the couch burst out, and he threw his drink on the ground, making sure that the shattering glass reached John’s feet and got his attention.

“You know something” slurred Allison, “you’ll never be stronger than me.” He spat on the ground, told his son to clean up the glass and slammed the door, believing that his anger would dissipate, that the seas would become calm again.

*

He woke up in the morning with a headache that wouldn't go away in time for church; it was all he could do to push himself out of bed. As he was lathering his face for a shave he met the gray blue eyes of his reflection and felt a twinge of remorse about the previous night. But before he could give it any notice, he cut himself with the razor and snapped back to the dirty sink and moist walls of his bathroom. Laying on the bed for him was an off white dress shirt missing a button, gray slacks and a pin-striped tie: the starchy once a week outfit of a reluctant churchman. Despite his throbbing head he and Clara made it out the front door by 8:50, giving him just enough time to speed down to the small church they attended. They could both expect to be welcomed at the front door as newcomers, even after fifteen years of faithful attendance. None of his kids really knew why they insisted on going every Sunday, why it had become so regular for them to give a few hours a week to the church when they never said anything about the Lord, Jesus, or the Bible throughout the week.

Later that afternoon, Allison peeled off the once a week suit and put on instead some of the things he had just heard preached against, pouring himself a drink and trying to forget about the tithe he didn't want to pay. His house was always dim and didn’t let in any more light than was necessary to see the person you were talking to, a house that was brown and worn inside, with congregations of dust in every corner.

Soon after he settled in with his wife and his drink, and began to feel the beautiful numbness of whiskey, he was interrupted by his son John coming through the front door with his friend, Barry, laughing like a couple of girls who just got asked to the dance.

“What’s so funny, pismire” he said, rising up from the couch.

“Nothing, Dad, don't worry about it,” said John, trying to conceal a smile.

“Boy, what've I told you about lying to me?” John started to walk off with his friend, when it became obvious to Allison that something was stuffed in his jacket.

“What the hell you hiding from me?” Allison pulled up John's jacket and grabbed at whatever was underneath. It was a flag.

“Dad, give it back. Seriously.” said John.

“Not until you tell me where you two deadbeats got this from.”

John and Barry exchanged glances. “Fine, it's from the Legion.”

Allison put his glass of whiskey down, slowly.

“You boys...you boys think it's funny stealing from veterans? You think you two little piss faces got any right to steal from the people who done so much for you?” Allison was breathing heavily.

“Calm down, Dad, it was just a joke. C'mon Barry, let's get out of here.”
Allison was staring hard at both of them.

“Ain't you going to shake your old man's hand first?” He said quietly. John looked at his father blankly and reached towards him.

His hand was gulped up like a turtle in an alligators jaw. Allison squeezed as hard as he could, laughing and waiting for a crack to split the air.

But it never came.

What he did hear was his own hand and a surge of pain shooting through his own arm. He made no attempt to restrain himself from swearing and called his son things that made the other kids in the house lock their bedroom doors. John just looked at his Dad, patiently waiting so he could leave.

Later that night Allison stepped onto the back porch with a gun in his hands, looking for any unlucky coyote that crossed the field ahead of him. It was so quiet you could hear the sound of a hundred tiny bugs smashing into the porch light, and the moist crackle of others flying into the electric zapper. He stood on the wooden porch for a long time, holding his rifle with one hand and resting his weight on the old railing with the other. After what was just shy of an hour, Allison sat on the stairs, discouraged, and felt the tense frustration soaking out of his body and into the foggy distance.

A few weeks passed, Allison went to church, smoked, drank, and worked long hours in the forest. One night he came home to Clora waiting on the porch swing with red, puffy eyes, a choked up voice and a stack of tissues beside her. She managed to get out what happened through short, uneven breaths. John had taken off on his motorcycle with no more than a curt goodbye, a wave to his siblings, and a backpack full of all his belongings. Allison felt a cold sadness wash over him. Then he came to his senses. The cold was replaced by a burning frustration that reminded him to stay composed. It wasn’t his fault his drop out son had taken off, after all.

Allison and Clora sat on the swing together for too long to keep track of, she crying quietly, him beating down the soft voice inside himself, drowning it in a glass of whiskey until the last bit of light sank below the horizon.

He wasn’t coming back.

Allison bid his wife good-night and finished his drink standing in the front door, looking at nothing in particular. All he could see when he closed his eyes that night were trees softly falling on the forest floor.

Tolkien and the Christian Artist as Sub-Creator

This is an article I wrote a little while ago for an online magazine.  I'm re-posting it here on my main wall because I'm planning to write some posts about Tolkien's Silmarillion, and I feel like this is a suitable introduction to his thinking. 

I hope you enjoy it.



J.R.R. Tolkien lived and wrote in an age of unprecedented violence and horror. The outbreak of the first and second World Wars, the inception of genocide, concentration camps, and mechanized warfare brought the depravity of our human condition to the surface. Through his experiences as a Christian, a soldier, and an author, Tolkien chose to address the spirit of his age through story—specifically, the fantasy genre. But how could the so-called “escapist” method of fantasy ever hope to show something valuable or encouraging in so dark an era? Could stories about elves, dragons, and dwarves say anything worth listening to in the age of modernity?

Well, as Tom Shippey states, fantasy was seen by many authors as a “deeply serious response to… the major issues of [the] century: the origin and nature of evil…human existence…cultural relativity…and the corruptions and continuities of language.”¹ Tolkien was after something much more serious than entertainment in his writing. He did not use fantasy as a way to get away from reality, but as a means to commentate, engage with, and plunge both himself and his reader into it.

Tolkien’s writing is no escape; it is a platform for a deeper engagement with and a more creative understanding of the Christian life.

A lot of literature from Tolkien’s era was doing the same thing he was—using the fantasy genre to talk about what was on everyone’s mind at the time. Think of Animal Farm, The Lord of the Flies, or Slaughterhouse Five. Each of these stories takes some issue or theme, throws it into a different, or slightly different, world, and says “I want you to think about this, but not in your own world, not in your own time.” And what if Orwell, Golding, or Vonnegut just wrote factual essays on Totalitarianism and the fragmented morality of the 20^th Century, instead of giving us the imaginative landscapes of their novels? If it meant abandoning fantasy, I don’t think they would even try it; they believed too strongly in fantasy over realism as a way to communicate the reality in which they lived. Besides, it would be a lot less enjoyable to read.

Tolkien talked about the whole idea of expressing real world ideas—reality—through fantasy and called it “recovery.” He thought that by bringing you into a different world, you would have the opportunity to see things in a fresh way; by placing your imagination in a new environment you could see old objects, concepts, or themes in a new way. Take this quote from The Return of the King where Sam and Frodo are making their way through the dreadful land of Mordor, where each step they take drives them closer to an absolute abandonment of all hope. Tolkien writes that as Sam looked upwards,

[He] saw a white star twinkle for a while. The beauty of it smote his heart, as he looked up out of the forsaken land, and hope returned to him. For like a shaft, clear and cold, the thought pierced him that in the end the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty forever beyond its reach.²

The Hobbits thrown against the immense darkness of Mordor is full of poignant Christian imagery presented in a creative, thoughtful way. It also serves as a powerful representation of the darkness which swept through the mid-twentieth century. And all the while, Tolkien is engaging not only our intellect as we comprehend an encouraging truth, but also pulls our imagination, emotions, and spiritual longing for unshakable hope along with it.

Another reason that Tolkien saw using the fantasy genre as important was his whole idea of the Christian artist as “sub-creator.” As a Christian, he acknowledged God as the only Creator, in that only He is capable of making something from nothing. However, from God’s creative abilities, we, who are made in his image, are able to use the materials he has given us—including our imaginations—to participate in His creative work as “sub-creators.” Tolkien said that by doing this, we become “refracted light, through whom is splintered a single White…in living shapes that move from mind to mind.” ³ Therefore, whatever our medium may be, we are able to bring glory to God and light to the world around us through our creative abilities.

This whole idea of working with God’s creation to appeal to the imagination brings us to another important idea of Tolkien’s: the Eucatastrophe, or, the joyful and happy ending. Throughout The Lord of the Rings, grandiose characters such as Aragorn, Elrond, and Théoden are faced with exceedingly insurmountable odds and limitless evil against which they have little hope of victory. And when all seems lost and at its worst, Tolkien places the most unlikely of endings: two insignificant Hobbits save the entire realm of Middle-Earth. Eucatastrophe has taken place.

And how does Tolkien make sense of such an incredible ending? Once again, he points us to the gospel. He states that because the resurrection of Christ is the happiest of all endings, the Eucatastrophe to which every Christian finds unspeakable hope, the sub-creator is able to use his own happy ending to reflect some of the joyous light of Christ’s rising from the dead.

If we take Tolkien’s example of Christian artistry, we open for ourselves a huge realm of possibilities. In our own work, we are able to comment on the spirit of our own times, addressing and incorporating the role of God today. For even though The Lord of the Rings has no explicit allegorical connections Biblical characters, and is not explicitly Christian in subject, Tolkien does consistently blend his narratives with elements of physical and spiritual reality, weaving together the important themes and ideas that we as Christians must ask ourselves. In this way, Tolkien proves to be an excellent and enjoyable tool for devotion as well as our education as sub-creators.

1 Shippey, Tom. Tolkien: Author of the Century. Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company. 2002. Ix.

2 Tolkien, J.R.R. The Return of the King. New York: Ballantine Books. 1965.

3 Tolkien, J.R.R. The Monsters and the Critics. London: Harper Collins Publishers. 2006. 144.

Portraits of Megalomania: Captain Ahab

Ever wanted to embark on an unholy quest against a 

creature as vast and unknowable as the ocean itself? How about leading an entire crew of men to inevitable death and ruin? No? Well, I know a guy who did.

It didn't work out so well.

I'm talking about one of the most infamous, well known crazy sea captains in literature: the one and only Captain Ahab, one of the central characters of Moby Dick. As you read the book you realize that Ahab is a character with ambitions as frighteningly massive as the White Whale itself. Melville, the author of Moby Dick, describes him as “a man cut away from the stake, when the fire has overruninngly wasted all the limbs without consuming them. ....His whole high, broad form seemed made of solid bronze” (p. 134, Penguin Classics Edition). His unnatural appearance mirrors the insane quest he embarks upon in the story.

In this first post on megalomaniacs I want to explore the character of the captain himself. Why was he so set on hunting the White Whale? Sure, the beast chewed off one of his legs, but was about more than that? And how does he get his whole crew to follow him on this ridiculous endeavor?

Let's talk about the novel for a minute. Moby Dick is a monster of a read; it's long and it's dense. Melville loves using heightened, metaphysical language when he's talking about things like what the Whiteness of the Whale means to the narrator, Ishmael, or how pernicious the ship looks when it's boiling down the dead whale's blubber. It's also a monster in terms of the subjects it deals with. It's definitely not just a book about a guy who's obsessed with chasing a whale, though you could read it like that and it would still be a great book. Indeed, if we instead listen to the “lower level,” to quote Ahab, it's a book about mankind's perpetual struggle against the forces of nature, and nature's indifference towards man. Moby Dick can also be read as an allegory on American politics in the mid nineteenth century, but we'll leave that for another post. All this being said, such a big book needs a big character to hold it all together; enter Captain Ahab.

Let's get right into it then. The Oxford dictionary defines megalomania as an “obsession with the exercise of power, especially in the dominance of others. Or a delusion about one's own power or importance.” Bingo. This definition is Ahab through and through.

To start with, Captain Ahab is a very charismatic, persuasive individual. He knows how to get his whole crew (minus one pious first mate), to buy into his quest to hunt the White Whale. In the chapter titled “The Quarter Deck,” he talks to his men with passion, zeal, and conviction, telling them that hunting Moby Dick is their first and foremost priority—everything else is secondary. He then uses the story about losing his leg to get them to join in his hatred of the white whale. Here's an example:

“ 'It was Moby Dick that dismasted me; Moby Dick that brought me to this dead stump I stand on now. Aye, aye.' He shouted with a terrific loud, animal sob, like that of a heart-stricken moose. ... 'Aye, aye, and I'll chase him round Good Hope, and round the Horn...and round perditions flames before I give him up!'

'Aye, aye!” shouted the harpooners and seamen, running closer to the excited old man: 'A sharp eye for the White Whale; a sharp lance for Moby Dick!'” (p. 176)

After this scene, Ishmael, the narrator, reflects that:

“My shouts had gone up with the rest; my oath had been welded with theirs; and stronger I shouted, and more did I hammer and clinch my oath, because of the dread in my soul. A wild, mystical, sympathetical feeling was in me; Ahab's quenchless feud seemed mine. With greedy ears I learned the history of that murderous monster against whom I and all the others had taken our oaths of violence and revenge.” (p. 194)

These two passages show Ahab's incredible ability to persuade, as well as the huge amount of respect and awe with which the entire crew regards him. He has convinced them to join him in the foolhardy quest of hunting a whale reportedly bigger than any other seen on earth, as well as one that is unusually vicious and intelligent. The guy knows how to make a hard sell.

The next part of Ahab's megalomania that I want to explore is the outrageous, even blasphemous (according to his first mate) reasons why he is so obsessed with hunting Moby Dick. I just mentioned that this obsession is about more than losing a leg, and it definitely is much more than that. But it's important to note the part that it did play in the whole issue. When the whale “reaped away Ahab's leg, as a mower a blade of grass in the field” (p. 199) it was as if the whale was the unfortunate being who dropped a match on Ahab's powder keg of madness. Melville writes that as the captain was recovering from the injury, he “and anguish lay stretched together in one hammock...then it was that his torn body and gashed soul bled into one another; and so interfusing, made him mad” (p. 200). Even more so, it's important to note that:

“Ever since that almost fatal encounter, Ahab had cherished a wild vindictiveness against the whale, all the more fell for that in his frantic morbidness he at last came to identify with him, not only all his bodily woes, but all his intellectual and spiritual exasperations. The White Whale swam before him as the monomaniac incarnation of all those malicious agencies which some deep men feel eating in them, till they are left living on with half a heart and half a lung” (p. 200)

It's clear that Ahab had some serious philosophical misgivings before he ever met Moby Dick. Ahab casts all his frustration and hatred of the unknowable things in the world that he cannot master onto this whale, dragging his whole crew into the fray. He is a man who cannot bear being dominated, bested, or wronged by anything, even the inanimate forces of nature. Earlier in the story he says that he would “strike the sun if it insulted him.” And the scary thing is, I believe he actually would try if he could.

So how does Melville wrap this story up? Is Ahab successful in his unholy quest? If you haven't read the book yet, and don't want to know how it turns out, then you should stop reading now, because I'm going to spoil the ending. The final chapters of the book have some of the most terrifying scenes of the whole novel. The crew embark on a three day chase of the whale, tirelessly pursuing their quarry. When they finally do end up catching up to him, Ahab lands a harpoon, which only angers the whale, who then, with “retribution, swift vengeance, and eternal malice...in spite of all that mortal man could do...[with] the solid white buttress of his forehead smote the ship's starboard bow, till men and timbers reeled” (p. 622). Instead of going after the smaller whaling boats, Moby Dick goes straight for the main ship, The Pequod. I can't imagine the terror and dread that everyone must have been feeling as they sat in the middle of the Ocean watching their ship be destroyed by this monstrous whale. Soon after this, Ahab's able to get another harpoon into the whale. This is what happens: “with igniting velocity the line ran through the groove; ran foul. Ahab stooped to clear it; he did clear it; but the flying turn caught him round the neck, and voicelessly as Turkish mutes bowstring their victim, he was shot out of the boat, eye the crew knew he was gone” (p. 623). Just for clarification, in a whaling boat, the harpoon is connected to a large coil of rope that is in turn attached to the boat. The rope runs through a guide that keeps it from springing loose. In this case, the whale took off so fast that the line came unfixed and caught Ahab round the neck, pulling him down to his death.

After all the carnage settles, Moby Dick presumably swims off to nurse his wounds and do whatever it is that giant sperm whales do. He essentially dismisses the whole event without so much as a few harpoons to take away as souvenirs; what does he care about some sea captain trying to show that he should be recognized as an equal...or even a superior?

To close, I read an interesting introduction to the novel by Alfred Kazin, who writes that as Ahab makes his war against the white whale, a symbol of the vastness of creation and the natural order of things, it is important to notice that this creation and natural order is totally and entirely indifferent to what Ahab is doing; it just doesn't care.

So as I said earlier, the whole megalomaniac thing didn't work out so well for old Ahab.

Eating Worms

I saw a student eat a worm today. I didn't know that these sorts of things still happened, to be honest. When I was in elementary school there was this guy named Derek, a really tall, lanky guy with an ear ring and dyed hair. We all stood around him in the soccer field on a day it had rained real hard and someone was daring him to eat some worms that had just crawled up out of the ground to get some air. Anyways, he did it. He ate three. Chewed them up and swallowed them. It was disgusting, but we all thought it was great. Some kid asked to smell his breath after.

So today, this grade four girl, kind of tall and lanky like Derek, ate a worm. A live, dirt covered, slimy worm. When the kids were lining up to go back into school I was walking past and saw this girl tilt her head back, mouth open, lowering something that looked like a living spaghetti noodle into her mouth. The kids around her thought it was awesome. It was a spectacle, a show, a daring act of nonsense and revolting courage that was new and exciting to them. I think it almost made the other teacher's throw up when they heard about it.

The whole incident, disgusting as it was, made me really happy. Not because I like to see my students do stupid things, or because I enjoy senseless violence against invertebrates. It made me happy, quite simply, because I'm a writer.

Please resist the urge to stop reading and hear me out. What I mean is that to be a writer is to be one who observes. It means you live life with your eyes wide open to the mysteries, puzzles, pains, and joys that you come across and experience. It's about developing a habit of perceiving the mundane details you see every day as un-quarried stone, or diamonds that get looked over because they're covered in the “dirt” of your daily routine; to be a writer is to notice things that other people don't.

As Flannery O'Connor said, “fiction is about everything human, and we are made out of dust, and if you scorn getting yourself dusty, then you shouldn't try to write fiction. It's not a grand enough job for you.” What I'm learning as I write more and more is that the best ideas are right in front of me, and always have been. Writing a good story, or even a great story isn't about waiting for that brilliant moment of sublime revelation to come to you in a blaze of glory, but about digging around in the dusty reality you live in each and every day.

So when I saw this little girl eat a worm today at recess, a couple things happened. First, I almost gagged, but I also knew that what was going on in front of me was something that I shouldn't, or couldn't, forget. That momentary picture of her hanging the writhing worm above her open mouth could be the start, or the inspiration, or maybe even just a critical image in the next story I write.

As weird as it sounds, I'm glad kids still eat worms.

The Lighthouse Man: A Short Story

Here's a short story I've been working on.  Stay tuned for the ending, which should be coming along sometime soon.

A lightning bolt burst the sky open as Marlow Alderson carried out his nightly routine at the Rocky Point Heritage Lighthouse. You could see him walking through the rain, but if he was saying anything, you wouldn't hear it over the storm.

The most noticeable thing about Marlow was his jacket. It was disgusting, revolting even. It was way too big for the old man, stank like moth balls, and showed mold under the arms. There was an ID badge sewn into the breast pocket that read: Maintenance, Rocky Point Lighthouse.

When he reached the iron door and passed inside, things went dead quiet real quick. The old man was whistling to himself, repeating the same melodies like a stuck record.

He always took the stairs, despite the fact that there was an elevator. Maybe it was stubbornness and a refusal to get old, or filling the daily necessity for exercising an old body, or maybe it was nothing like that. Nothing like that at all. So if you peeped your head into the door you'd see this old man ascending the stairs like a rickety scarecrow, and you'd be praying he doesn't fall and break his hip.

The lighthouse was always cold. Marlow never turned the heat on, claiming it was to save the Heritage Association money. Truthfully, he had forgot where the thermostat was. I guess it made sense why he wore that overcoat.

When he reached the top of the lighthouse, he smiled a smile of elderly satisfaction at accomplishing something that would surprise the younger people in his life.

“Still got it” he said to himself, under his breath. There was a white tower in the center of the lighthouse, crowned with a massive Fresnel bulb that still operated from time to time.

Fifty years ago this lighthouse was necessary to guide ships coming to port with food and supplies for the isolated town of Rocky Point. There were no ships tonight however, nor had there been for a number of years.

It was the hour between daylight and darkness; the time when yellow twilight smears itself on the horizon. Marlow looked out to sea. Of course, no one would see him if they gazed up, and even less would the seldom ship (the very seldom ship) passing in the distance care to send even a simple wave of thanks to the old man.

There was a table in one corner of the lighthouse. On it lay a shabby record player and a couple crumby speakers. Marlow thumbed through a small collection of records he stashed up there to keep him company. He put on “Warm Valley” by Duke Ellington, grabbed a decrepit broom, and started sweeping in time to the melody. He swayed back and forth with rhythm that belonged more in a care home talent show than the top floor of a lighthouse. But he didn't think of it like that. Not at all.

The hours passed. He was done for the night and made the journey down the stairs, whistling “Nancy” by Paul Desmond all the way. As you can expect, when he opened the door, the peaceful whistling became inaudible. The ocean upstaged him as it scratched its salty arms on the rocks. Up ahead of Marlow was a blue, weather-beaten cottage, just a half-kilometer away. A small wooden fence with peeling paint and an old iron gate wrapped its way around the house, and a small vegetable patch (or what used to be one) lay adjacent to the westernmost face of the house. By the time Marlow got inside, his boots were soaked through, so he bent over to take them off. His back snapped like a series of bottle rockets.

Marlow's forty-something son, Ronald sat watching TV in the wallpapered living room. Slightly overweight with a head of dark brown hair and a large nose, Ronald wore a permanently ironic expression on his face. Living with his father into his forties was not what he had expected, nor what he had wanted. However, he didn't really have a choice due to some bad business deals he had made with a roulette table in Vegas.

“Did you take your boots off, Dad?” he said without turning around.

“Mmhm.” replied Marlow.

“Don't forget your pills. They're on the dresser. You didn't take them this morning, so make sure you don't forget tonight. I'm getting tired of reminding you.” He took a sip of beer and slouched further into the couch.

“What's to eat?” asked Marlow.

“No idea. Just take something out of the freezer. I think there's some soup or something. Check the freezer.”

Marlow furrowed his brow and pursed his lips, but ultimately chose to comply and walked into the kitchen. It was no use arguing with Ronald.

“And take off that bloody coat, will you? It stinks.”

Marlow waved his hand dismissively towards his son, but when he got into the kitchen, he looked back, sighed, and took the soaking coat off, hanging it over a chair at the kitchen table. He looked like a brittle candle that was about to be snuffed out.

Freezer burnt hot dogs and some left-over cabbage soup were his dinner.

*

“Night, Ronald. I'm off to bed. Sleep well.” His son responded by raising his hand lazily, not turning from the TV.

Marlow muttered to himself as he made his way up to the second floor master bedroom. There were a number of black and white photos framed on the wall along the stairs. A wedding photo showed a bride and groom running through a low archway made by the arms of the bridal party. The frame hung crooked and was broken on one side. Would there be a day when he wouldn't remember the people in the photo? The thought puzzled, worried, and slightly intrigued him. Would the decay of his brain be gradual, or just happen, like a blister popping under too much pressure? Had it already started? Ronald always told him he was senile.

Without brushing his teeth Marlow slipped into bed. Pajamas, in his mind, were over rated and a compromise made by the modern man. He chose to sleep in his underwear instead.

On his bedside table stood a framed picture of a young woman, full of life—the same woman in the picture by the stairs—and at the foot of the frame were two thin gold bands, both identical save for the fact that one was set with a modest diamond.

“Goodnight, love.” Marlow said to the picture, then turned out the light. The television mumbled through the floorboards and rain pattered softly against his window.

Falling asleep is delightful, if it comes to you easily. That night, for Marlow at least, it didn't; he had struggled the last few years with borderline insomnia. There were specialists, sleep clinics, and bucket loads of melatonin; but there was still the odd night when he found himself lying awake, turning his life over in his mind like a magic eight ball in the hands of a child.

After a few hours he couldn't stand it anymore. He had to do something, anything, other than lying awake in bed. He moved out from under the covers, put on his slippers, and walked over to his old suitcase record player across the room.

As soon as he put the needle down, the slow, steady, night-time rhythm of a Johnny Coltrane track filled the room. With one hand in the air, the other holding the waist of an invisible partner, he swayed back and forth in time to the music. If you could have seen him, you wouldn't think about how well he danced (because he didn't), but of something more than that. There was an indescribable vitality under the surface of the moment; something beautiful and full of life and hope that wasn't going to be beaten by old age and the passage of time.

*

The next morning he woke up in his bedroom easy chair with a crick in his neck that was sure to be stubborn as an angry donkey. The house smelled like maple bacon and coffee.

“If I didn't know my son...I'd say he made breakfast,” thought Marlow.

When he made his way downstairs, not only did he realize that his son had made breakfast, but that there was also a tall, clean shaven man with light hair and dark brown suit sitting in his usual spot at the table. Official looking papers were spread out everywhere. Marlow stared at them for a few seconds before the man stood up and introduced himself.

“Mr. Alderson, I presume? My name is Jacob Furrows, I'm from City Hall. I'm here on behalf of the department of tourism and heritage sites for Rocky Point.”

Marlow nodded hesitantly. Awkward silences didn't bother him.

The same couldn't be said for Furrows. “Lovely home you have here, Mr. Alderson. You're son and I were actually just talking about...”

“Thank you!” Marlow said. “I built it myself, as a matter of fact.” He walked over to the window, pointing. “All around us here used to be empty field, save for the lighthouse. That's been here forever. It's true, and what's more...”

Politely interrupting, Furrows assured him, “that's very interesting, Mr. Alderson. Really it is. But...I'm afraid I'm on a tight schedule here and I have a few things to speak to you about.”

“Oh...of course” said Marlow, quite crestfallen.

Furrows cleared his throat nervously.

“Well, you see. Hmm...I suppose I may as well just come out and say it. The department of City Hall, along with members of the Council have begun to question the...relevance of having the Lighthouse function as it currently does, albeit in a very limited capacity. They feel that the cost of maintaining such a....um....hmm, what's the word? Novelty...is no longer worth the cost.”

Marlow scratched his face. He knew this day had been coming, and had prepared in advance.

“If it's paying me you're worried about, just forget about it. I don't need the money as much as people think I do...life insurance can a long way if you use it properly. You got life insurance Furrows?

“Um, yes I do, Mr. Alderson. But...”

“We just want to live peacefully right here, just me and Ronnie. And if taking a pay cut is all this is about, then we've got nothing to settle.”

Furrows nodded a few times, staring at the ground as he did so.

“Well, you see, it's actually quite a bit more complicated than that. The City Council has had some concerns, and sent me here to assess the situation. And talking with your son has brought some unfortunate news to light. He's told me you're on a few different medications. Pills to help with your arthritis, as well as high blood pressure and insomnia? It also seems to me that you are having some trouble walking this morning?”

“No no, there's no trouble walking at all. It's just because of this blasted twist in my neck from last night. Plus you got me straight out of bed. Give me a few hours and I'll be loose as a spring chicken.”

“But what about the other problems, Mr. Alderson? Especially your arthritis. Surely you can understand our concern.”

Marlow stared at the man in the brown suit.

“So what are you saying then, Mr. Furrows?”

Furrows shuffled his papers. “Well, sir, what I have in front of me are formal letters outlining what I've just told you. Essentially...I'm here to tell you that we're willing to relocate you to more suitable accommodations. I've also been instructed to strongly recommend that you comply.”

“More suitable?” Marlow choked out, “how can there be any place that's more suitable for me? I've spent the last forty years attending this lighthouse, keeping it up, making sure it stays what it should be,” he took a breath. “And you come in here, with all due respect, Mr. Furrows, and tell me that I'm more suitable somewhere else? I'm sorry, but neither me nor Ronald here are going to buy that.”

“Well, actually Dad...” Ronald began, “I think the man's right. You barely remember to feed yourself half the time, and...I'm, well I'm not able to take care of you like you need to be.”

Marlow felt like he was shot in the chest. He had to sit down on a nearby chair, staring at Ronald and searching for words.

Furrows once again broke the silence.

“I've got a brochure here for the care facility we would be placing you in. It's just been built this last year and already eighty percent full. I've heard nothing but good things, I assure you...”

Marlow reached across the table and looked at the brochure. He still couldn't find any words to say.

“How long do I get to decide?” He finally said.

Furrows and Ronald exchanged glances.

“Dad, the decision's already been made...you just need to sign the papers. You got to trust us.”

Marlow sighed and pushed himself away from the table. He grabbed his moldy overcoat and ratty boots, saluted the two gentlemen and walked outside.

*

The air was cold. Almost as cold as it would have been inside the hard concrete walls of the lighthouse. Marlow felt the salt air dig into the contours of his wrinkled face. Near the lighthouse was a wooden lookout platform. This is where Marlow found himself, leaning precariously on the weather beaten railing and gazing out over the water. How easy it would have been for him to bring those damn papers out here, to just drop them into the sea; to just drop them and let the waters take the problem away.

A Short Sentence Challenge

A while ago I read a book on writing by Ursula Le Guin called Steering the Craft.  She issued a writing challenge where you can only use very short sentences, with a maximum of seven words each.  Here is my attempt at the challenge.

Feel free to try it for yourself and post the result in the comments section.

*

Hi, my name is Karl Anders. I'm thirteen, and I have a superpower. Not just any superpower…an inconvenient superpower. Simply put, I disappear at random times.

Very random times, mind you. Unpredictable, without warning...it's very awkward.

Sure it’s a superpower, I guess. But I think I got shafted. Some guys get all the luck, you know? Take those high profile, tight wearing studs. Faces on comic books, movies...they’re everywhere. What do I get…a nonchalant gasp? A slight look of disbelief, perhaps? Not much of a high flying adventure.

But it’s not all bad.

I did get to choose a name. Right now I’m trying "Inconsistently Disappearing Boy." It’s still a work in progress.

And what else does every hero need? A slogan, of course! A catch-line to inspire fear / respect. Depending on who you're talking to.

But I've got lots. "Here today, gone...who knows when!" "Empty chair...or superhero in waiting!" "Evildoers beware...that's not just thin air!"

OK, I'll keep working at it.

I've got time...loads of it.

I don't have a nemesis yet. “Nemesis”...what a great word. Some words should be used way more. Nemesis...NEMESIS. Squint your eyes when you say it. Nemesis.

Right now my biggest foe is algebra. “Fiendish polynomials, take heed! I will disappear faster than your inequalities!" Teachers don't buy my excuses, either. "I couldn’t operate in physical reality, honest!"

"That's a new one..." they always say. I’ve been told…

Sorry...I disappeared. I was still here though. I literally sat here for twenty minutes and waited to re-appear.

I really need a nemesis.

-The Frosty Hound

Four Things to Expect When Reading "Moby Dick"

I really had no idea how to start this post. I mean, to write about Moby Dick in any capacity is daunting, to say the least.  It's one of the most revered pieces of American literature and boasts a panoply of themes and ideas that are as broad and daunting to the casual reader as the sight of the whaling harpoons aboard the Pequod were the narrator of the story, Ishmael.

I finally settled on writing a simple introduction.  From there, the plan is to write a few pieces, each exploring a different part of the work. So in this post, if I can hook you (pun entirely intentional) into reading further, my job will be half-way done.

Let's get started.  Here are four things you can expect when reading Moby Dick.

Frustration: 

Almost every introduction to Moby Dick talks about how the novel was a failure when it was first published. People found it too long, with too many digressions, and language that was way too difficult for what was supposed to be a simple adventure tale.  I agree with them.  As I read through the book, I found I had to wade through pages and pages of whaling lore, explanations of anatomy, even the visual history of the whale as portrayed by artists. All this being said, though, it was totally and entirely worth all the frustration. Keep reading to find out why.

Excitement: 

 So there's frustration, but there's also some incredible action scenes in the novel. From the first time the crew of the Pequod lowers the boats to kill their first whale, to the final cataclysmic scenes with Moby Dick himself, Melville knew how to paint amazing mental pictures of what life was like on a whaling vessel. And the imagery he uses is incredible. Take this passage, for example, when a lightning storm illuminates the three harpooners of the crew:

“All their eyes gleaming in that pale phosphorescence, like a far away constellation of stars. Relieved against the ghostly light, Daggoo, loomed up to thrice his real stature, and seemed the black cloud from which the thunder had come. The parted mouth of Tashtego revealed his shark-white teeth, which strangely gleamed as if they too had been tipped by corpusants while lit up by the preternatural light, Queequeg's tattooing burned like Satanic blue flames on his body.” (p. 549)

There are many more instances where Melville makes it very difficult for you to put the book down, despite its difficulty.

Best Crazy Sea Captain Ever:

So, Captain Ahab. Absolutely insane. Insane, but ridiculously well spoken, highly respected by his crew, and incredibly complex. Here are some highlights:

“Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I'd strike the sun if it insulted me. For could the sun do that, then could I do the other, since there is ever a sort of fair play herein, jealousy presiding over all creations. But not my master man, is even that fair play. Who's over me? Truth hath no confines.”

“The lightning flashes through my skull; mine eyeballs ache and ache; my whole brain seems as beheaded, and rolling on some stunning ground.”

“Aye! Aye! It was that accursed white whale that razed me; made a poor pegging lubber of me! I'll chase him round Good Hope, and round the Horn...and round perdition's flames before I give him up!”

The guy hated this whale. 

A Story that You Won't Forget:

 I really mean this. Any story that can hook you (pardon the nautical pun) and pull you through the amount of digressions and encyclopedic references that Melville throws at you, is worth reading. It is a story about a man who challenges his place in creation,  only to be snubbed by nature's absolute indifference  (Kazin, 1997). It is also a story which explores the vast, endless world of the ocean, a place which is “pure, without man or God, the void.” 

Melville said of his story: “it is the horrible texture of a fabric that should be woven of ships' cables and hawsers. A Polar wind blows through it, and birds of prey hover over it.”  It is at times terrifyingly bleak in its outlook on man, life, and the world, but always brings it across in a way that resounds clearly and beautifully through the words of Ishmael.

Moby Dick has become one of my favorite books. Each time I open it I want to read it over and over. It's a book that has a lot to say, and even after reading a number of articles and commentaries, I feel like I'm barely beginning to scratch the surface of what Melville was really saying.

I hope that as I continue to find out, you'll join me for the ride.

- The Frosty Hound