moby update

[phosfate]

The Pequod's first attempt at whale killin' is unsuccessful, despite an extra boat full of ringers Ahab's kept hidden belowdecks. This is also Ishmael's first time out, which is a shame as his boat is overturned. Later he quizzes the crew members as to whether they realize just how fucking dangerous this whole business is. They nod and smile.

The Pequod sights a ghostly whale plume in the dead of night for many days running, but fail to catch it. They encounter another ship and ask if its crew have any news of the White Whale. The other ship reacts by kind of sort of accidentally going in the opposite direction.

Ishmael tells us stories about...whaling!

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From Today's writer's almanac

[tamnonlinear.livejournal.com]

Poem: "Reading Moby-Dick at 30,000 Feet," by Tony Hoagland, from Donkey Gospel (Graywolf Press).

Reading Moby-Dick at 30,000 Feet

At this height, Kansas
is just a concept,
a checkerboard design of wheat and corn

no larger than the foldout section
of my neighbor's travel magazine.
At this stage of the journey

I would estimate the distance
between myself and my own feelings
is roughly the same as the mileage

from Seattle to New York,
so I can lean back into the upholstered interval
between Muzak and lunch,

a little bored, a little old and strange.
I remember, as a dreamy
backyard kind of kid,

tilting up my head to watch
those planes engrave the sky
in lines so steady and so straight

they implied the enormous concentration
of good men,
but now my eyes flicker

from the in-flight movie
to the stewardess's pantyline,
then back into my book,

where men throw harpoons at something
much bigger and probably
better than themselves,

wanting to kill it, wanting
to see great clouds of blood erupt
to prove that they exist.

Imagine being born and growing up,
rushing through the world for sixty years
at unimaginable speeds.

Imagine a century like a room so large,
a corridor so long
you could travel for a lifetime

and never find the door,
until you had forgotten
that such a thing as doors exist.

Better to be on board the Pequod,
with a mad one-legged captain
living for revenge.

Better to feel the salt wind
spitting in your face,
to hold your sharpened weapon high,

to see the glisten
of the beast beneath the waves.
What a relief it would be

to hear someone in the crew
cry out like a gull,
Oh Captain, Captain!
Where are we going now?

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