--- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, "Robin Carlsen" <maskedzebra@...> wrote: > > http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7dSTdHziMs >
So uh...let's see now...mmm...you are making the connection between...uh mmmm uh well I guess you could be...no...could the white whale be...that doesn't seem like it could...well maybe if you were looking at it from the perspective of...no that seems unlikely...a whale is not a fish so... OK, you got me. Funny you should bring up whaling because outside the context of what I wrote it makes so much sense you might be able to claim it was all a psychic vision about me. You see I vacationed on Nantucket Island off the coast of Cape Cod for many years and was well infused growing up with the history of what was arguably the most important industry in American History, our own Saudi Arabian liquid gold, whale oil. It literally lit up our nation. This week in cleaning out our ancestral house with my siblings I took home whaling harpoons that my father had carefully tied ropes onto, duplicating the complicated knots he studied at the Nantucket whaling museum. I spent hours there as a ten year old staring at real shrunken heads and thumb screws and other devices designed to bring discipline to the motley eclectic crew on a whaling ship that could spend up to three years to find and process whales, before returning home to their opium addicted wives on Nantucket. These ships were a model of multiracial and multicultural society way before their time. There is a great movie on streaming Netflix telling the story of this history that I recommend: American Experience, Into the Deep As a boy on Nantucket I spent a lot of time picking out sperm whale's teeth to buy. This was before the ban and they were cheap enough for my thin wallet. My dad took up the arcane art of scrimshaw and I have a few beautifully etched teeth telling the story of the ill fated Essex where a particularly ambitious whale turned the tables and with whatever is the blow hole equivalent of "no, no fuck YOU" crashed the boat to splinters. Nantucket was the whaling hub, the center of the universe long before it became a place where the hoity and the toity could stock up on highball glasses etched with sailing ships. What that promo showed very well was how audacious it was to spear one of these massive creatures and go on a "Nantucket sleigh ride" until it tired enough for them to get close in their tiny boat. What they got wrong was how many spears they threw into it as if that was supposed to kill the whale. What really happened was that after the whale got tired pulling the boat along and they got close, they used a long lance that was plunged over five feet into the whale to hit its heart. I have one of those now too. I am hoping to use it on a home intruder some day as a distraction while I dispatch him with my Walther. I also have a Masey Toggle Iron which was the height of whale technology. It was a spear that once inside the whale toggled outward to set the lance with a wider pivoting head to make sure it wouldn't pull out during the ride. All modern sensitives to these magnificent creatures aside, it was a ballsy thing to do taking them on in their element. So I may have missed your intent but thanks for the nostalgic writing prompt Robin. --- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, "Robin Carlsen" <maskedzebra@...> wrote: > > http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a7dSTdHziMs > > http://tinyurl.com/nwjste > > --- In FairfieldLife@yahoogroups.com, "curtisdeltablues" <curtisdeltablues@> > wrote: > > > > Crowds of people are like schools of fish. They swim by an outside > > performer with the mentality of a single entity. The trick for a busker is > > to break them out of the trance so they will pay attention to me. "Pay" is > > the key word here. I need them to stop their internal dialog long enough to > > extract something green and crisp from their wallets and purses. > > > > Bring on the children! They are perfect for this agenda. Easily > > distracted by novel things in the environment (me and my instruments), and > > lacking the intense internal dialog of having mortgage payments and making > > it to their car before the meter maid, they are ideal co-conspirators. I > > invite them up with maracas so they can join the show. Parents get it > > right away, artistic enrichment for the center of their universe. Now that > > the stage is set, I have something hidden to show you. > > > > She was one of those little girls with something extra, the sparkle of > > magnetic charisma. I see plenty of them coming out of the good homes in > > Northern Virginia. The right schools, plenty of vitamin D enriched milk, > > and tons of confidence to project a beamer of a smile full of orthodontist > > approved, well-flossed teeth. She was around eleven. Her brown hair was > > pulled into a loose pony tail by some fluorescent pink scrunchy fabric. > > The only thing out of the ordinary was that she crowded me a bit after she > > got her maraca. Younger kids will do this, and as the Mayor of Munchkin > > Land, it is up to me to get them to back off and give me some performance > > space. Decking one of the kids with my heavy steel resonator guitar in one > > of my tip inspiring flourishes, leaving them cold cocked on the boardwalk, > > would definitely cut into profits. But a girl this age usually keeps her > > distance, so it got my attention that she was standing very close to me > > with one side of her body. > > > > I swiveled my head and my eyes caught something that instantly put me on > > red alert. The arm she was crowding me with was cut off right below the > > elbow and she was using me to shield it from the audience. Her arm was not > > this way from birth. Something sinister and terrible had done this, and it > > left a fiery red zipper of violated flesh. Our eyes met and I gave her a > > nod. We were thick as thieves in an instant and she relaxed into a nervous > > giggle. Like a Sicilian made-man, I was bonded to her through omerta. It > > was a matter of trust, and I felt it in my chest. > > > > We began to play close like Sonny and a miniature Cher. People probably > > thought she was my niece or something, who else would play together with > > this familiarity? Her father was all smiles. She was a brave kid, this is > > not easy performing in front of strangers. A crowd formed supporting the > > cute little girl and the bluesman. They had no clue to the fierceness of > > her jagged asymmetry. She kept herself sideways, showing the world who she > > wanted to be, and they bought it. At the song's end she shot me a > > conspiratorial look. I sensed something gritty in those eyes. A > > steeliness forged by the fires of pediatric ward hell. I wondered about > > her mom and dad, who had spent the hours in the hospital making the painful > > decisions that lead to this. Oh bullshit, I have no idea. She ran off > > back to her dad. His look combined sincere thanks with "you have no idea". > > Or maybe I just read all that in myself, it is so hard to tell sometimes. > > When our eyes met I forgot to breath for a moment. I saw people moving in > > with tips in slow motion. > > > > Someday I hope she finds a real stand up guy. A guy who will always take > > her left side, and wrapping his arm around her far shoulder, will press her > > close, feeling her arm halfway across his own back, and she will feel safe > > and brave, facing the world. > > >
