Harpoon Shopping

I love titles. I love the specific flavors, the promises, the mysteries. I must drive my friends and students crazy sometimes going over the titles of the pieces we read or listen to. As a boy, I remember trying to figure out the meaning of Neil Young's "Cowgirl in the Sand," a title I found so attractive, so racy, so compelling and evocative of who-knows-what. I knew I wanted to know her, that cowgirl, and have the same desiring-yet-dismissive attitude that I heard in Neil's voice. (That mood seemed so worldly then.) Eventually, listening to the song over and over, I settled on a rich-girl-in-Malibu-caught-playing-games image, and I still hold to that.

I love titles, sometimes more than I love the book, the album, song, whatever, that each belongs to. When I see a book title that triggers my horde of . . . what? synapses? hobgoblins & sprites? . . . up in that cauldron-of-plenty I call my skull, I don't want to open that book at all. I keep the cover closed and let myself just roam through the field of possibilities. I want to consider the story I might write if I had that title to guide me. Eventually, I'll open the dust jacket, read the blurbs, check out the bio, and read a few pages at the beginning and in the middle to see what I'd be getting into, to see if that writer rises to my expectations for that title. Pretty dodgy? What gall, since I've never written a book, and yet I'm expecting the published authors to match or surpass my bare imaginings. I'm a very appreciative and generous reader, but when we're talking about the imagination, I don't respect too many boundaries . . . at least in the privacy of my own head. (I wouldn't stoop to plagiarism, of course, because such theft is obviously wrong and an admission of creative bankruptcy. I may sin creatively as a procrastinator, a would-be perfectionist, and a shameless ham, but I'm no deadbeat cheat-thief.)

Notice: just thinking about titles and their suggestive powers has me pounding the drum, even if the music turns out cacophonic. Rein in the metaphors? I'd rather let the contact high of a good title spur me to produce even bad prose; I can always revise and refine later. Let the floodgates open. Yes, I am mixing my metaphors. I'm no Pablo Neruda, but the best lesson he teaches is to allow--even to court--exuberance and possibly incoherent or puzzling associations and juxtapositions. (Neruda will also teach you to reflect and revise, reflect and revise, but that's the subject of another blog.) In other words, when the Muse nudges, sing as best you can.

"Harpoon Shopping": I haven't even addressed my title for this blog-entry yet.

A friend of mine, a fellow aficionado of Melville and hands-on literary responses, was trying to get me to visit Back East with a special trip to Nantucket. I had to decline, reluctantly, and in the back & forth of our correspondence he lamented that he'd been planning to take me "harpoon shopping," much in the spirit of Ishmael and Queequeg, of Melville and Hawthorne, his muse at the time. The potential homosocial implications are obvious, but so what? We'd quest through Nantucket and New Bedford seeking some old iron implement of destruction, possible corkscrewed by use and abuse, probably fake and overpriced. Still, we'd be able to hold the proper tool to accompany Ahab's pursuit of the white whale, for wouldn't the story come alive just that much more if we could heft such a harpoon in our own hands? When my friend insisted that he'd take his wife instead on that shopping trip, she declined vehemently, and something in that moment, the triangulation of characters and cross-purposes, demands a story from me. Not the actual events, not non-fiction, but something fictional, something made-up to catch some emotional resonance in a net of words. Her tone (which I did overhear while on the phone) and the phrase itself have sparked some sort of story-idea that I haven't yet written or fully realized.

And that's fine. I love having unwritten stories in my head. And yet . . . right? I have written very little of all that I've a mind to, so I really ought to take that title and fish that appropriate story out of that cauldron-of-plenty in my skull. Instead, I'm writing a blog about a story I'll probably never write. I should be harder on myself? I should just laugh at myself, with compassion? Am I squandering my creative resources? Again, who cares? I'm having fun thinking about and yakking about all of the above. Good enough for now. (But not good enough forever.)

"Harpoon Shopping" also reminds me of a rock song I wrote back in my early 20's during the mid-80's: frustrated desire in 4/4 time, painfully obvious unconscious imagery. I mean, "a harpoon in the cellar / Lying underneath a tarp"? What was I thinking I was thinking? Was I describing a murder-mystery or sewing a full-length Freudian slip? I can't even recall the melody now, though I still sing these lyrics to any tune that seems appropriate at the time. Good, bad, and ugly--here's that old, aging, definitely dated chunk of song:

BETTER AT BREAKFAST

I left the harpoon in the cellar

Lying underneath a tarp

You would never be a suspect

Without this pin-up of your heart

Found in the trunk up in the attic

That you never used to lock

If you always ring the bellboy

There's room enough for talk

Things can be seen as simple as that

A round of applause against the crack of a bat

Was this love gone wrong pawned from the start?

Why would you want to leave me with a broken heart?

Why would you want to leave me with a broken heart?

But the friend of a friend once said

I'll bet she's better at breakfast than bed . . . .

[Repeat Everything.]

I'll confess: I'm not even sure what that last line means, really. I do think it's concretely suggestive with the contrast of "breakfast" and "bed," with the bitterness of tone, and so I think there's a focused and fairly limited set of meanings possible. And that's not the same as not having any meaning at all; I wasn't writing nonsense, but I wasn't writing an essay either. Rather, the meaning is a little loose, a little more suggestive than asserted, and so dependent upon the reader or listener to work out the meaning for herself or himself in the context of the whole song, the whole story. That's how any story, any poem, any piece of art--good or bad--works, right? That's how it all works for me.

The three words surfaced one day in my head--"Better at Breakfast"--and the alliteration and suggestiveness held them there, front and center, until I wrote the song to fit them. There were more lyrics, but they've sunk into the morass of memory. I'd written this song and a collection of others without any formal musical training, I'll confess, but with the absolute need to match lyrics to the distinct tunes in my head; I called the whole thing, an album's worth, "B-Side," which says it all. Too many tales of fickle women; too much self-destruction and anger. I was in my early 20's, so go figure. Here are some of the titles from that imagined, unrealized album: B-Side, Better at Breakfast, I Have a Girl, How Can You Tell, Maximum Security, This Must Be the Place, Not Wanted, The Perfect Crime, Permanent Press, Rome Fell, Shotgun Wedding, and Woke Up Knowing. I never did finish the lyrics or tune to these lines that--perhaps too well--stand in for all those lost songs: "Mexicali Rose / By any other name . . . / You mix the drinks / But they taste the same." I never quit my day-job. Give me some credit for that.

Note: I originally posted a version of "Harpoon Shopping" on a myspace page back in September, 2007.

Annotations: Castro, Charton & Tietjen, & Chase

Castro, Peter, and Michael E. Huber.  Marine Biology.  7th ed.  Boston: McGraw Hill, 2007.

This is the text assigned by Dr. Bibit Traut and Dr. Dean Lauritzen for the Fall 2008 Bio 32: Marine Biology, the class I took during my sabbatical.  These two instructors team-taught the course, and they are lively, worthy lecturers.

I own the first edition of Marine Biology, and I can attest that this 7th edition is a wonderful improvement over a solid original text.  Castro and Huber write clearly, and their textbook offers appropriate illustrations and organization.    As a student somewhat familiar with the subject, but still new to many aspects of this complex field of exploration and discovery, I was very pleased by this text.  

Charlton, Barbara, and John Tietjen.  The Facts on File Dictionary of Marine Science.  New York: Facts on File, 1988.

When I wanted to check specific terms of marine science and I didn't have access to the internet, this is the book that I turned to.  Often, I have needed fuller explanations, but to get the basics quickly, this has been a handy reference.  I was glad I had the book, though I don't know whether I would recommend it.

Chase, Owen.  Narrative of the Most Extraordinary and Distressing Shipwreck of the Whaleship Essex.  New York: Lyons, 1999.

A classic presentation, especially for anyone interested in whales, whaling, or Melville's Moby Dick.   I picked up this book on all three accounts, but also because the 19th century is yet another fascinating century for study.  (Aren't they all?)  Yes, here we have evidence that a whale really did sink a whaleship.  Chase's account, written in 1821, is readable and gripping, a nice antidote to the poisonous claim that everything written in previous centuries is unnecessarily long-winded and lacking grip.

Touchstone: Neruda, Once Again

I want to quote Neruda, if only because this woman he describes, he evokes, he invokes, is such a riddle to me.  An enticing, arousing, provoking riddle: the best kind.   I want to know her, my version of Neruda's her.  Is that such an inappropriate desire?

I offer the translation from Stephen Tapscott.  The original is readily available: Eris Hija Del Mar Y Prima Del Oregano.

You are the daughter of the sea, oregano's first cousin.

Swimmer, your body is pure as the water;

cook, your blood is quick as the soil.

Everything you do is full of flowers, rich with the earth.

Your eyes go out toward the water, and the waves rise;

your hands go out to the earth, and the seeds swell;

you know the deep essence of water and the earth,

conjoined in you like a formula for clay.

Naiad: cut your body into turquoise pieces,

they will bloom resurrected in the kitchen.

This is how you become everything that lives.

And so, at last, you sleep, in the circle of my arms

that push back the shadows so that you can rest--

vegetables, seaweed, herbs: the foam of your dreams.

Neruda, Pablo.  100 Love Sonnets.  Trans. Stephen Tapscott.  Austin, TX: U of T Press, 2004.

Annotations: W. Hodding Carter

Carter, W. Hodding. Off the Deep End: The Probably Insane Idea That I Could Swim My Way Through a Midlife Crisis--And Qualify for the Olympics. Chapel Hill, NC: Algonquin, 2008.

The title really does tell you what you'll get, but Carter isn't quite as insane as his goal may seem. On the one hand, a classic midlife crisis in action, and on the other, a great how-to for training to swim at an Olympic level, this book takes you for a ride. Carter has an engaging (or annoying, for some) lack of embarrassment as he documents some truly stupid behavior. Mostly, he offers a model of crisis, self-assessment, positive response, frailty and partial failure, and finally, actual progress in self-awareness, commitment and performance. (As a 47-year-old male, I like watching someone else go through the rough stuff and emerge at least somewhat victorious, even if chastened.)

P.S. What's the name of the 40-something swimmer who did reach the Olympic Games this past year? Well, not Hodding Carter, but still . . . .

---. A Viking Voyage: In Which an Unlikely Crew of Adventurers Attempts an Epic Voyage to the New World. New York: Simon & Schuster, 2000.

The first book by Carter I'd read. Here, he presents a potentially silly obsession that he manages to take from an idle thought (and he has a boatload of those) to serious completion, struggling and straggling all the way. One part how-to-build-a-viking-boat and another part friendships-are-built-on-shared-adversity, the book is a model of having a goal and getting to the goal-line. Very humorous too.

Annotations: Rachel Carson

Carson, Rachel.  The Edge of the Sea.  Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1955.

While The Sea Around Us is the better known volume, I prefer The Edge of the Sea because I prefer . . . the edge of the sea, the intertidal zone, the rocky shores, sandy beaches, and even the mudflats.  Here, Carson walks us through the different types of shores, of creatures, and of plants.  I was happy to reread this volume for this project.  I'd forgotten how well Carson presents the material; the book is academic without the mere dryness of most academic texts.

---.  The Sea Around Us. Revd. Ed.  New York: Signet, 1961.

Carson's book is a classic, and it is still relevant.  Her accurate and practical descriptions of the ocean and of ocean processes are presented in a style that can only be described as poetic and philosophical.  Grounded in reality, the book still soars.  I am always cheered up by reading even a few pages of this book.

Touchstone: The Testament of Daedalus

Consider this quotation from Michael Ayrton's The Testament of Daedalus:

What there is in me of poesis rests in my fingertips and in my eyes, but because the poem exists in the thing I make, and not in me, it comes to me in the act of discovery. I make votives of one sort and another and celebrate possibilities in gold and bronze and other materials. In the making of things and especially in the making of images, lies an act of conquest which is sufficient exercise of power for a proper man.

I put this passage next to Seamus Heaney's "The Diviner" (and next to various parts of Mary Renault's The King Must Die and The Mask of Apollo) when I think about teaching, about art, about craft, and about ambition. The books I haven't written yet; the stories I tell, have told, will tell.

Ayrton, Michael. The Testament of Daedalus. London: Robin Clark, 1991.

Renault, Mary.  The King Must Die.  New York: Pocket Books, 1965.

---.  The Mask of Apollo.   New York: Pantheon, 1966.

Annotations: Broad, Carey, Carr

Broad, William J. The Universe Below: Discovering the Secrets of the Deep Sea. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1997.

Broad is a Pulitzer-Prize-winning science writer, who had two books on Stars Wars Weapons Systems under his belt before he shifted from sky-high to ocean-deep. The deep sea is one of the last territories on Earth to be explored, and Broad brings us up to date (into the 90s, anyway) through interviews, explanations, and some adventuring of his own. My favorite chapter, which I could excerpt for English 1A or for an aquatic-literary elective, is "Canyon," an in-depth look at the vast submarine canyon in our nearby Monterey Bay. The Packard family and MBARI, the Monterey Bay Aquarium Research Institute, are the stars for this epic descent.

Carey, Robin. Baja Journey: Reveries of a Sea-Kayaker. College Station, TX: Texas A & M UP, 1989.

Carey is an English professor from the Pacific Northwest, on vacation in the waters of Baja Mexico, full of thoughts of Shakespeare, the local scenes, and human frailty: philosophical, but with groundedness, despite being all about the water.

After reading this book, I rented a kayak and explored Monterey Bay for a few hours. Yes, I spent a little thought on Shakespeare and I considered how much colder it was off Monterey than off Cabo San Lucas, but mostly I thought how getting closer to the surface of nature really can get you closer to yourself, in the best ways possible.

Carr, Archie. So Excellent a Fishe: A Natural History of Sea-Turtles. New York: Anchor, 1972.

Carr's book is the Bible for sea turtle science, at least for many people. My wife is now reading this book in preparation for her own trip to Costa Rica and to the specific turtle station in Tortuguero. Carr sets the bar high with this in-depth study. He also walks the reader through the developing body of knowledge as he and other researchers work to answer the questions that beset them. How do turtles know how to navigate? Must they return to the same beaches they were hatched on? Where do the turtles go while developing from hatchlings to young adults, since no one seems to know: And further questions. Carr reports what he learns, and he includes us in the learning process, which makes the book and enjoyable and worthy model for thinking and discovering the things of the world.

P.S. Since Carr's book was published in 1972, obviously there are more up-to-date treatments, but So Excellent a Fishe is foundational. If all you want is information, then pick a more recent book. Indeed you should--I should--read current material too. Carr's book takes you on the journey, and that's a compelling consideration, I hope. (As a further note, the more recent reprints reverse the subtitle and title, making the book easier to discover when looking for sea turtle material: A Natural History of Sea-Turtles.)