Although my fiction writing has been said to resemble his by one of those websites that tell you who you write like, I’ve never read any Ernest Hemingway before.In the wake of Melville I had a hankering to read his The Old Man and the Sea.I honestly had no idea what it was about or how the story went.I’d read Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner,” so Hemingway’s classic was the last of the holy trinity of sea-faring literary classics to remain unread.Not knowing what to expect, I was blown out to sea by it.Published about a century after Moby Dick, The Old Man and the Sea visits some of the same themes but also pulls into new ports as well.
Santiago has hooked a massive fish after nearly three months with no luck.To do so, however, he has gone out too far from land.This watery hubris leads him to make fast to a reasonable stand-in for God.I don’t know Hemingway’s religious outlook, but sea-faring novels already have such a large dose of Jung that it’s difficult to imagine there’s nothing divine in the massive marlin Santiago snags.With many classics the end is known before beginning to read.I wasn’t sure if Santiago was going to make it back to land, or indeed, if he would kill the fish.The old man’s conversations with himself are the heart of the novel.And one in particular turns to the religious idea of sin.
Not a religious man, Santiago bargains Hail Marys and Our Fathers for the successful catching of the fish.Then he begins to reflect on sin.In words similar to lyrics discussed in a recent post, Santiago declares everything a sin, even though he doesn’t believe in sin at all.His view of life is stunning at this point, and commentary on which theologians would do well to chew.Sin is a concept meant to impute guilt to mistakes, often made unintentionally.What might’ve begun as a form of social control has grown into a mass neurosis for those who believe humans are capable of no good.This is especially worth pondering if the reader considers the marlin to be God.Try it and see what you come up with.I know little about Hemingway, but having read his Nobel Prize-winning novel, I do feel that I have learned something worthwhile.And I also feel the trilogy is complete.
Apart from being Shakespearen click-bait, the title of this post reflects a present-day fear.We live on the edge of rural Pennsylvania.If you’re not familiar with the state, let me assure you, there are tons of woodlands and rural communities. You can drive for hours in a straight line and seldom leave the forest.When my wife sent me a warning email—I go to bed early and can’t seem to sleep late—I paid heed.A bear has been ambling through our town.My usual morning jog is along a trail at the edge of the woods.Bears are crepuscular.I watch horror movies.Put it all together and a Shakespearean level of anxiety quickly builds.It wouldn’t be so bad, but the photos show the bear romping through backyards and one of the reasons I jog the way I do is to avoid other people.
I see wildlife on my jogs.I see deer frequently, along with feral cats, rabbits, and, in season, ducks.I’ve seen raccoons, foxes, groundhogs, and even snapping turtles and salamanders.It’s not much of a stretch to think a bear could be lurking there.So instead I took to jogging the human streets.The danger out here, of course, is the human-borne kind.Covid-19 lurks, and even though I jog at 5 a.m. there are other elderly out and about.I hear a cough and wonder whether my chances might be better with the bear.The broken sidewalk’s a problem too.I have tripped before in the half light, but without Superman’s knack for flying. Or at least landing gracefully.
Thinking back, I wonder what has happened.As I child I lived in truly rural Pennsylvania.My brothers and I used to sleep on our open porch in the summers, even though we could occasionally hear bears going through the trashcans around the side of the house.Our place was hard up on the woods, right at the edge of town.I didn’t worry about the bears back then, though.We’ve perhaps become more afraid of nature because we know we’ve not been good to it.The episode of the X-Files we watched before bed last night had Scully saying that nature’s always out to get us.Perhaps we’ve drawn too solid a line between ourselves and brother or sister bear.We’re not above nature; we are nature.But still, I’d rather not be pursued, or eaten by a bear, no matter how much I like Shakespeare.So I’ll jog in town for awhile, taking my chances with the dangers of my own kind.
Photo credit: Manitoba Provincial Archives, via Wikimedia Commons
One of my motivations, I have to admit, for re-reading Moby Dick this year was my wife’s gift of Ahab’s Rolling Sea: A Natural History of Moby-Dick, by Richard J. King.I wanted to read the latter, and I’d been toying with the idea of reading the former.So I did both.King’s book explores the oceanic world introduced by Herman Melville’s classic.The various creatures and natural phenomena mentioned by Melville are examined in the light of what we now know today and a few key finding emerge.We continue to know little about our oceans, even as we deplete them.The book is about whales, but not only about whales.Anyone who’s read Moby Dick knows the novel encompasses about a year at sea and describes the many sights experienced by a crew that sets out with few port calls and many long hours on the open ocean.
King does a fine job here.It’s particularly refreshing that he doesn’t hide from what he calls Melville’s natural theology.Many science writers fear to go to such places.Clearly Melville looked at the world through such lenses, however.The novel is one of the American philosophical masterpieces.Not only philosophical, but also theological.We can only guess what Melville’s true beliefs were, but he described the book to Nathaniel Hawthorne as wicked, and he knew that he was butting heads with orthodoxy throughout.Natural theology was, of course, an early form of science.Today scientists tend to be embarrassed by their heritage, but King shows that in the hands of a genius like Melville the results can be extraordinary.
This is also a disturbing book.Any volume dealing with the natural world these days likely is.The over-exploitation of the ocean, our use of it as a dumping ground, and global warming have combined to make the recovery of whales, as well as many other species, slow if not impossible.While commercial hunting of whales has largely ceased, the leviathans haven’t made much of a comeback, and several species are well on their way toward extinction.Sea birds are less common than they were when Melville was writing.We’ve influenced our world in such a bad way that we’ve likely set the clock ticking on the extinction of our own species.In a sense then, natural theology is facing its own apocalypse.Ahab’s Rolling Sea is not a dour book—it is a celebration of the world as it was once known, even if that world was less than just two hundred years ago.
A few weeks back I posted about a dove that had built a nest on an unused planter on our front porch.I’d read that mourning doves choosing your house was a sign of peace and tranquility.Each morning I went out for a jog, the dove’s little head would pop up and she would eyeball me.There was no fear in that gaze, but rather serenity.She was sitting on her eggs and knew I wouldn’t hurt her.Several days ago she was gone from the nest.We were out for a family walk when my daughter noticed.We crept up to see two good-sized chicks sitting there instead.Within days we had a couple of young birds flapping around the yard, trying to learn how to live on their own.
I missed the dove, though.The nest was empty.I felt less bad about stepping into somebody else’s bedroom every time I went out the door, but still, I’d grown accustomed to having her—them—on the porch.This week when I again went out for a jog (the jogging never ends), she was back.She looked at me with a knowing stare.Ours was apparently a safe house.Mourning doves, I read on the Cornell University ornithology site, can raise a brood of two in six to eight weeks.From the laying of eggs to abandoning the nest is only a two-month proposition.The website then went on to say that doves will sometimes return to their previous nest.This one obviously had.
Peace is a rare commodity these days.Stress seems to be our daily matrix.How long will our jobs hold out?Will opening up the economy lead to a second wave?(Likely yes.)Will we be able to make mortgage payments if our companies can’t weather the storm?Who really owns this house anyway?There is a serenity to relinquishing anxieties of ownership.A kind of freedom to belonging to a world that will, at least in some nations, help you make it through a crisis intact.There’s a wisdom to the animal world that we too often ignore.We can find peace if we look for it.One cold morning I found one of the chicks sheltering on the leeward side of our fence.I took her some sunflower seeds since she looked so miserable.I don’t know if she ate them or not, but I knew that we humans had benefited from having her under our roof.Such gifts are worth more than might be imagined.
“Ne’er cast a cloot ’til May be oot,” as we heard it in Scotland, was a warning, loosely translated, to “never take off a layer until May is over.”That bit of lowland wisdom fits this spring pretty well.As I was donning full winter regalia for my jog this morning my thoughts naturally turned toward the weather.Memory distorts things, of course, but I keep coming back to my youth and thinking late May used to be reliably warm.There were chilly mornings from time to time, but yesterday held a touch of November in the air, as if the world somehow switched axes.Even the usual animals I see—deer, groundhogs, ducks, and the occasional fox or raccoon—all seemed to be sleeping in this morning.Who could blame them?
I postulated in Weathering the Psalms that the weather is somehow connected in our psyches with the divine.It’s God’s big blue heaven, after all.The weather is something we can only control in a bad way, though.While other people are fixated on surviving the coronavirus outbreak Trump has been quietly (although well documentedly) been relaxing environmental regulations so that when this is all over the beleaguered wealthy will have further income streams.And so global warming gets a head start on opening the doors of industry again.Those older than even me tell me the weather is far wilder than when they were young.Perhaps it’s just the Anthropocene hadn’t had time to settle in yet.Or maybe environmental degradation is spitting in the face of God.
First light is beautiful.I’ve been awakening before the sun for so many years now that I can’t recall what it’s like to stumble out of bed when blue begins edging the curtains.When it does I pull on my sneakers and head out the door.It’s easy to pretend out here that everything’s okay.When I do spot a deer, statue-still until I’m mere feet away, I wonder what life was like before the koyaanisqatsi of industrialization.When our human impact on the earth was humble, like that of our fellow animals.Now the weather has turned.It’s chilly out here this morning.I’m wearing a stocking cap and gloves and I’m watching my own breath forming the only clouds in the sky.The weather is a kind of psalm, I guess.I should pull on another clout and consider the wisdom of my elders.
If you’re like me, and I sincerely hope you’re not, you spent your childhood worrying about killer bees.You see, I was stung a lot as a child, having stepped on a yellow-jacket nest hidden in an old tree stump.That event was one of the most formative of my life.Oh, I act brave, shooing wasps and carpenter bees away, but that’s all a front.I was repairing a piece of furniture out in the garage over the weekend and a big old bee got in and started buzzing around.It drove me to distraction.I once had a bee land on my back and sting me for no apparent reason.Alone in the garage I had no one to watch my back.I decided to do some repairs back in the house instead. Let it have the garage.
During this pandemic, then, the last thing I needed to hear was that “murder hornets” have made it to the United States.And Republicans are bad enough!The murder hornet is responsible for double-digit deaths in its native land, and now my childhood nightmares of killer bees have reemerged.We had a warming trend over the weekend.There were so many wasps and bees around outside that I could even hear their buzzing with the windows safely closed.Insects are the future, of course.They adapt better and more quickly than we do, and there are many, many more of them.The Bible often uses insects as vehicles of divine wrath.No wonder horror movies often make use of them!
Image credit: SecretDisc, via Wikimedia Commons
More rational minds soothe us, saying that murder hornets seldom attack people or pets.If provoked, however, they can do so fatally.Perhaps it’s the anger of stinging insects that bothers me the most.The yellow-jackets that attacked me certainly seemed angry.My stepping on their home was an innocent accident.It was also a learning experience.I don’t step on old stumps any more.I haven’t since the incident.Such early traumas can stay with you all your life, and the buzzing co-inhabitants of the earth, I have to remind myself, have as much right to be here as we do.In cases like killer bees, we invented them.When we play Doctor Frankenstein nature responds in kind.The monster was angry.Bees, wasps, and hornets may be intelligent but they can’t reason out the motives of bumbling humans who accidentally disturb them.And now a bigger variety has moved in.It’s probably best to keep calm and not get anybody angry.
We are all, I think, looking for hope.Probably due to the way I was raised, I often seek signs.There’s no way to know if said signs are mere coincidences or the more intense variety known as synchronicities, yet we have a hopeful sign here at home.On our front porch we have some plant hangers.Spring crept up on us this year and we haven’t got around to putting any pansies in them yet.The other day when I was stepping out to get the mail, I noticed feathers in one of them and feared there’d been a bird-related accident there.As I took a step toward the planter, the head of a mourning dove popped up.She blinked at me curiously, but didn’t fly away.I knew then that she had built a nest in the as-yet unused planter and she was sitting on her eggs.
Monday was fiercely windy around here.And rainy.I wondered how any birds could fly in such weather.A mourning dove flew up—perhaps one of the pair on our porch—and landed on the electric wire leading to our house.The wire was swaying and bucking so furiously that the dove constantly had to shift and fluff and flutter just to stay in place.The poor bird was in constant motion.Then it showed a sign of animal intelligence.There’s a much larger wire that runs down our street, from which other houses are supplied.It’s more stable in the wind due to its girth.The dove flew up to that wire instead.There it was able to perch without having to constantly adjust itself to the gusts.Peaceful and intelligent.That’s what the world needs.I have hope.
The dove has long been a sign of peace.It’s understood that way in the Bible.It was the dove that brought an olive twig to Noah, indicating that although all he could see was water there was, somewhere, dry land.These days we need to be reminded that although it seems that the storm will last forever, even hurricanes eventually exhaust themselves.The dove, clearly not happy about the horrendous wind buffeting it on that wire, nevertheless persisted in a kind of stoic optimism that things are as they should be.There is great wisdom in the natural world.If we can get to a window we can see it playing out before our very eyes.Now when I step out the door, I glance at the dove, and she looks back at me. We wink at each other.She doesn’t fly away, for she understands.She has a wisdom to which we all should aspire.
Our garage came with a house.That’s one of the reasons we bought it.You see, the one thing we don’t have is time.(Well, that and money.)When we were contemplating moving, we had no time off.Vacation days for the remainder of the year had been allocated, and employers don’t like to encourage personal improvement.Not on company time, anyway. Which, of course, is as it should be.We had to find a house with space enough to sort through things after we moved.Ha!As if there would be more time!Still, the sorting would have to wait.Our house has a detached garage with a second story.It’s a converted barn, but I doubt its conversion story.It still seems pretty heathen to me.The neighborhood squirrels love it.
We store our unsorted stuff upstairs.Shortly after we moved in, the squirrels had chewed through the stop-gap remediation the previous owners had put in place to satisfy our post-inspection demands.It was pretty clear their solution wouldn’t keep out rodents, but our lease was about to expire and the market favored sellers, so we closed anyway.Shortly after moving in I noticed styrofoam poking through the ceiling boards of the garage.Then I began to find styrofoam chips in the yard nearly every morning.I soon figured it out.Squirrels raid the trash receptacles behind restaurants in town, and bring their carryout here.No, seriously!They haul styrofoam between the roof and ceiling, presumably licking off the scraps before tossing out the remaining foam.I figure it’s a form of insulation, if nothing else.
Squirrel remediation is on our list of projects.I’ve seen the squirrels run up the side when they spy me stepping outdoors.When I reach the garage, they’ll stick their little heads out the hole they chewed and scold me.This is their place, the garage.They’ve insulated it, and the inside is a mess where the birds also get in and there are little animal parties every night.I don’t have time to clean up after the squirrels.It occurs to me that if we didn’t have a throw-away culture we wouldn’t have styrofoam containers for the poor beasts to plunder.The food’s probably not healthy—the squirrels I see look plump and sassy.They like the convenience of living in a shelter someone else built and on which someone else pays the taxes.Perhaps I should start a zoo.But first I’ve got some stuff to sort through, when I find the time.If only I could teach the squirrels some other tricks beyond dining out.
Symmetry.It’s pleasing to the eye.And significant dates are often the basis for holidays.Today is one of those extremely rare palindrome days.As my wife pointed out to me 02-02-2020 is a configuration that hasn’t occurred since 01-01-1010, or over a millennium ago.The next one will be after we’re all long gone, on 03-03-3030.Not only that, but today is part of a holiday cluster.It’s Groundhog Day.Yesterday was Imbolc, the Celtic cross-quarter day initiating spring.Imbolc is also known as St. Brigid’s Day.Today is called Candlemas, by liturgical Christian tradition.We are living through a truly unique day.Every day, I suppose, is unique, but the spirits are afoot today.
I’ve written about Groundhog Day before.With its prognosticating rodent, it tells us if spring is on the way or if it’s going to be delayed.Imbolc falls about halfway between the winter solstice and the vernal equinox.In Celtic cultures this was a cross-quarter day, a time of uncanniness.Spirits cross between worlds on days such as this.In days of yore, it was also the feast of the goddess Brigid.Christianity has always been an opportunistic religion.When missionaries to places like Scotland and Ireland couldn’t convince the locals to give up their deities, they made saints of them.St. Brigid is a fabrication of a Celtic goddess, not an actual saint.For similar reasons in the quarter-year counterpart to Imbolic, Samhain, the church moved All Saints Day to November 1 and All Souls to November 2.The Celts continued using the trappings of their cross-quarter day and eventually gave us Halloween.Imbolc never caught on in quite the same way.
The early Christians didn’t know when Jesus was born.Christmas was established on December 25 because of all of the solstice celebrations at that time of year.All that pagan jubilation had to be subsumed under a more solemn occasion.Building on that mythical date, New Year’s Day was January 1 because that’s when Jesus would have been circumcised, eight days later.Thirty-three days after a male child’s circumcision, a woman was to make an offering for purification in the temple.According to Luke, Mary did this, and 33 days after January 1, in keeping with our fictional date-keeping, is February 2.A tradition grew that Christians would bring their candles to church to be blessed that day (Jesus being the light of the world).This blessing of candles was named Candlemas.I first encountered it at Nashotah House, where it was still celebrated even as a sleepy woodchuck in Punxsutawney was rubbing his eyes.Not exactly a palindrome, but there’s a remarkable symmetry to it, no?
With the sunshine coming in my office can feel pleasantly warm in winter.I chose this location not because of its southern exposure, but because it is a small room and it’s a good place for books.Although it’s January, the sun brought a shield bug to life the other day.At first I didn’t know what it was.I’d hear a loud buzzing followed by a rather obvious crash, but I saw no insect.Since we had a string of sunny days it kept reawakening in the mornings, warmed by sunlight on my windowsill and spent the days climbing on and sometimes attempting to fly through the glass.I identified the beetle quickly once I saw it.As I watched the poor creature’s progress (or lack thereof), I was sorry that I couldn’t release it outside.It was still quite cold out, and I didn’t think it would survive.
Spending long hours in the same room with my perplexed insect friend, I came to ponder what its experience of life was like.I’m no Franz Kafka or Thomas Nagel, but I had to wonder when it chose to spend the night on a clay replica I had made of an Ugaritic abecedary.I’d made this clay model when I was teaching, and I used it as one of several visual aids to help students understand how writing had developed.(I had even ordered authentic papyrus to pass around, and the single sheet of vellum cost more than an entire book in those days.)My doctoral work largely focused on Ugarit, and in the 1990s it looked like that sub-specialization might be on the ascendant.We often live to have our mistakes rubbed in our faces.But why had the shield bug picked this very spot to roost?It looked as if it were trying to learn to read cuneiform.It needn’t bother.
Although I habitually awake quite early, it isn’t easy getting out of bed.Especially in a cold house during winter.My entomological friend, of course, had to wait for the sun itself to come back to life.Night on the windowsill can’t be comfortable, especially when the radiator is under the other window in the room.No matter how much I try, I’ll never know if I’ve succeeded in understanding the experience of that bug.How it is enslaved to the sun, and how it keeps on climbing, even after it falls, raising a tiny geyser of dust.How it flies full speed into a barrier it cannot see, and then tries again.I may not be able to understand this beetle sleeping on my Ugaritic alphabet, but I do think there’s something here to learn.
A story in Discover back in December discusses cave drawings from Indonesia.Dating back almost 40,000 years before the creation of the world, these cave paintings represent the oldest yet discovered.The interesting thing about such cave art is the representation of figures—both human and animal—that are instantly recognizable.Scientists studying the art are able to identify likely species, but, as John Morehead pointed out on his Theofantastique Facebook post, there are also fantastical beasts.We might call them monsters.It’s interesting to see how scientific writers shift from their awe at life-like illustration to a nearly palpable embarrassment when the creatures become mythical.Indeed, the article itself suggests such figures point to a very early sense of either fiction or spirituality.The monstrous and religion have long trod parallel paths and we are only now beginning to explore the implications.
Monsters are beings over which we have no control.They don’t abide by human rules and often the only recourse against them is religious.When monsters come knocking, it’s often wise to drop to your knees.Or at least reach for your crucifix.Many rationalists like to claim that human civilization developed without religion.The discoveries at sites such as Göbekli Tepe gainsay that assessment, indicating that humans first gathered for religious reasons and agriculture and all the rest followed from that.Perhaps they came together for fear of monsters?That’s only a guess, but I recall the defensive tower of Jericho.The archaeologist lecturing us as we stood by this neolithic structure asked “What were they afraid of?”He never answered that question.
Bringing monsters into the discussion isn’t an attempt to make light of these significant discoveries.Rather, we need to learn to appreciate the fact that monsters are serious business.Religion, whether or not literally true, is important.Civilization has been running the opposite direction for some time now.When surveys emerge demonstrating that the vast majority of the world’s population is still religious, analysts frown.It does make me wonder, however, if nature itself programs us this way.To other sentient creatures who experience us as predators, humans must look monstrous.We come in a variety of colors and textures (clothing), we smell of deodorant, shampoo, soap, aftershave, or none of the above.We emit strange sounds (our music).Are we not the monsters of the natural world?And should animals develop religion, would we not be one of the causes?It’s just a guess, but I need to sit in my cave and think about it for a while.
It came to me vividly when I heard a speaker self-deferentially say he was crazy.This was, I suspect, a way of defusing the fact that when vegans speak others often think they’re being judgmental or preachy.I’m pretty sure this speaker wasn’t, and I try my best not to be.It can be difficult when you’re passionate about something.At the event, which included several people in age brackets more advanced than even mine, the question of “why” was predictably raised.Apart from the rampant cruelty of industrial farming—some states even have laws preventing people from knowing what actually goes on in such places—there are other considerations.One of them involves Greta Thunberg, Time magazine’s person of the year.
Global warming is no joke, no matter how much the Republican Church laughs it off.Greta Thunberg has become the face of a generation with a conscience, but one fact few wish to know is that industrial farming is by far the largest environmental threat to our planet.The amount of pollution it causes is staggering.The rain forests are being cleared for grazing land because people will buy beef.The largest methane emissions come from farms, not factories.Our lifestyle of eating animals on an industrial scale is one of the many hidden costs to the modern way of living.Or of dying. There are doubters, to be sure.It’s pretty clear, however, that the agriculture business is massive and it is just as powerful as the other great offender—the petroleum industry.
Making facts known isn’t being judgmental.People’s eating choices are up to them.I’ve only been a vegan for about two years now and I sometimes can’t comply with my own ethical standards when I go out to eat.Or when other people give food.Many places have no concept of dining without animal products.I’m not trying to make everyone else accept my standards; I have beliefs about animals that are based both on personal experience and lots of reading about faunal consciousness.I fully accept that many others don’t agree.What I do hope, however, is that people like the speaker I recently heard will not have to jokingly call themselves crazy because they’re vegan.The narrative must change.We must be willing to look at the way we live on this planet, and accept the fact that just because major polluting industries hide behind large, brown cow eyes doesn’t mean we shouldn’t question what they feed us.We need to look at our plates and count the cost.
Why not try Veg Out, Bethlehem’s new vegan restaurant, if you’re in the Valley?
Like those who write long books, those who write very many books ask for some level of commitment from their fans.I’m sure I’m not alone in wishing I had more time to read.I tend to be driven to Stephen King’s novels by the movies made around them, and there’s nothing wrong with that I suppose.I decided I wanted to read Cujo some years back when I was on a werewolf kick.I knew it wasn’t a werewolf story, yet as one who suffers from cynophobia even a large household pet will do.I didn’t know the story in advance, and I had no idea how it ended.It’s good to read novels like that sometimes.
I took it with me to San Diego and read most of it on the plane, finishing it somewhere over the mountain west.It is a bleak story, one of King’s more drawn-out and wrenching tales.It’s made more so by the fact that it could happen, at least in the main storyline.Or could have happened.Maybe I waited too long to read it, but I kept thinking as I was going through—today we have cell phones.A large part of this story unfolds because of Donna Trenton’s inability to contact anyone while a rabid dog keeps her trapped in her car during a record-breaking heat wave in Maine.I suspect it’s kind of a story about redemption, but I really need some time to think about it before rushing to such conclusions.There’s not much you can really consider religious in this particular tale, and perhaps it’s because Cujo is a very natural kind of monster.
I saw my first rabid dog when I was maybe five.My brothers and I reported a dog acting strange to our mother, after which she kept us in the house.That wasn’t the origin, I don’t think, of my cynophobia.Two of my brothers were bitten by a family dog when I was little, and I was once chased by a dog about as big as I was, certain that it was going to eat me.At the same time, we had dogs as pets, and apart from the one that liked to bite, they never gave cause for fear.Cujo tapped into those memories and made me reflect on what it means to befriend wolves.It won’t be my favorite King novel, but it did help to pass the time from coast to coast.
Perhaps it has happened to you as well.At some undisclosed period life became so busy that you felt as if—in a good southern California metaphor—you were riding on a huge wave and you couldn’t get off.Back in my teaching days I had time to plan my trips to AAR/SBL and fit in some human activities as well as maybe even getting around to see the outside once in a while.It’s great to run into so many people from every stage of my academic life—toddlerhood at Grove City College through my current doddering editorship—but I can’t help having the feeling that I’m popular now because I’m thought to have something others want.The keys to the kingdom.A possibility of getting published.
Those of you who read my daily reflections know that I’m glad to share publishing knowledge.I encourage academic authors to learn a bit about the publishing industry.It’s rapidly changing and when you have an inside track (here is the real added value) you need to look beyond your current book project to see what goes on behind the veil.Widen the focus.There’s a whole world out there!My glimpses out the hotel window inform me that there’s an entire bay to be explored.I watched seals or sea lions (it’s hard to tell from this distance) playing in the water as the sun rose.Then a seagull flew up and landed inches from my face on the windowsill of my room.It stayed for nearly a minute, looking me over as I looked it over.Noticing the tiny white feathers that formed a W on the edges of its beak.Its Silly Putty pink feet with small black nails.The emerging red patch on the underside of its bill.It took a step off the ledge, spread its wings and looked elsewhere for a snack.I soon learned why.A second later a larger gull landed in its place.We too regarded one another curiously.Had the glass not been there, we could’ve easily touched.It also lept off to be replaced by an even larger, more mature gull.None of the three were in any hurry to get away, but when they realized I couldn’t give them what they wanted, they left.
I’m a great fan of metaphor.Academic writing, unfortunately, doesn’t encourage the craft of utilizing it (neither does it often encourage being coherent).Later this morning—it will be early afternoon back home—I have to rush to the airport to catch a hopeful tailwind back east.Someone else will check into my room.If, perchance they sit by the window with the curtain drawn before dawn, the gulls will visit.And maybe a lesson will be taken away.
I wish I had more time for reading short stories.I grew up on them since, like many young boys I lacked the attention span for entire novels.Many collections of short stories sit on my shelves, but I’ve been drawn into the world of extended stories, perhaps because so much of reality bears escaping from these days.In any case, I find myself neglecting short story collections.I have a friend (and I tend not to name friends on this blog without their express permission—you might not want to be associated with Sects and Violence!) named Marvin who writes short stories.This past week his tale called “Meh Teh” appeared in The Colored Lens.Marvin often uses paranormal subjects for his speculative fiction.
“Meh-Teh” is a Himalayan term for “yeti.”Since we jealously guard our positions as the biggest apes on this planet, science doesn’t admit yetis to the realm of zoology without the “crypto” qualifier in front.Still, people from around the world are familiar with the concept of the abominable snowman.Maybe because I grew up watching animated Christmas specials, I knew from early days that a mythical, white ape lived in the mountains, and that he needed a visit to the dentist.The yeti has even become a pop culture export from Nepal, since those who know little else about that mountainous region know that strange footprints are found in the snow there.Apes, however, like to dominate so we tend to drive other apes to extinction.Still, they had to be there on the ark, along with all other cryptids.
I recall an episode of Leonard Nimoy’s In Search of that dealt with yetis.Or was it a Sun Pictures presentation about Noah’s Ark?I just remember the dramatic earthquake scene where either the skullcap of a yeti or a piece of the true ark was buried, lost forever under the rubble.Yeti is also a brand name for an outdoor goods company based, ironically, in Austin.This fantastical ape has become a spokesperson, or spokesape, for the great outdoors.All of this is a long way from the story Marvin spins about the great ape.As is typical of his fiction, religion plays a part.I really should make more time for reading short stories.In a world daily more demanding of time, that sounds like a solid investment.And free time is more rare than most cryptid sightings these days.