Thinking about dreams & amateur cetology

On the train I thought about the dream (or nightmare, really) that I had last night, wondered how it was that I was able to wake myself up out of it before things went to an even-worse place, and how it was that I could feel convinced that the dream was a recurring one but not really remember much of it then (on the train) or now. I suspect that watching a National Geographic special on whales in crisis right before bed didn’t help matters (note to self: programs with “in crisis” in their titles are almost certainly not going to be peaceful or reassuring).

I hadn’t picked up Moby-Dick in a day or so, and had forgotten that I’d left off on the verge of something I knew would be great: Chapter 32, in which Ishmael provides readers with a taxonomy of whales — organized in terms of book sizes. I didn’t get to finish before the train arrived at my stop, but did get to listen to “The Mariner’s Revenge Song” as I walked through town, which was almost as good.

Detour through JP

I was feeling a little cranky about having to get up early early in order to make it to a rescheduled appointment in JP by 8 a.m. But the T worked in my favor & I didn’t have to wait long at any one stop. I left the house at 6:45, arrived in JP around 7:35, and had enough time to visit Canto 6 & eat half of a delicious, light & fluffy pear scone and drink some coffee before heading over to the office. Because there’s a gap in outbound trains — between 8:50 & 11 a.m. there aren’t any — I headed to Kendall & called T. to ask for a schedule-check on the bus to campus. He confirmed that the next one was at 10, leaving me 15 minutes to browse at the MIT bookstore again, and hold one of my most-currently-desired books in my hands, and then put it down and not buy it, once again. On the bus, I ate the other half of my scone & laughed along to an interview with Maria Bamford; so great when host & guest crack each other up.

Getting close

On the way to & on the T, I listened to Terri Gross talk with the oral historian who recorded interviews with Clinton during his presidency. Compelling & intriguing, but not enough to keep me away from M-D when I got on the train. I paused midway through my reading to send a message to T. with advisory quotation re: hair oil* (figured this was need-to-know information for someone inclined to use pomade), and felt glad for Ishmael, Queequeg & co. finally embarking upon their voyage.

On my walk to campus, I listened to the song for my act for the kazillionth time, and then listened a couple more times, more out of a superstitious approach to performance (must listen to music everyday, rehearse in head as well as with body, need to be able to know exactly what’s happening with the song & the choreography so that if something goes awry I don’t lose my bearings) than actual fear that I don’t know what I’m doing. The performances are tomorrow night & Saturday night. I’m very excited, but also can’t wait for 10 p.m. on Saturday when this will all be over and I can stop listening to that song, stop worrying about whether I’ll smoothly get the ankle-straps on my heels buckled, my bra clasped, my zipper zipped & finesse other moves that require steady hands.

* “In truth, a mature man who uses hair-oil, unless medicinally, that man has probably got a quoggy spot in him somewhere. As a general rule, he can’t amount to much in his totality” (128).

It’s not over until, well, it’s over

I thought I wouldn’t have anything interesting to report today, just the same-old, same-old: signs of autumn, I’m enjoying the chill and the color; reading & Moby-Dick & finding gems on just about every other page*; listening to more of the same music; walking, riding the train, trying not to fall asleep. But then, in the last block of my walk, before I crossed the street & walked through the campus gate, a local woman, middle-aged, dedicated to bodily-self-preservation via exercise & cosmetic enhancement, was sitting on the sidewalk holding a small dark grey bird in her hand, petting it. Another passerby asked her if it was hurt. The bird-handler said she didn’t think so, but the bird seemed awfully still there in her hands, eyes open, not moving, not blinking.

* e.g.,
“it’s better to sail with a moody good captain than a laughing bad one” (97)
“Betty, go to Snarles the Painter, and tell him to paint me a sign, with — ‘no suicides permitted here, and no smoking in the parlor — might as well kill both birds at once” (99)
“hell is an idea first born on an undigested apple-dumpling” (102)
& also, I should note: I’m currently on pg. 114, Ishmael & Queequeg are on board the ship, ready to set sail, but are not yet actually sailing on the water, not yet.

Taking the early train

I was scheduled to introduce myself to an early-morning class, so I was on board the commuter rail at 7:30, not yet awake enough to focus on Moby-Dick, nor the podcast I started. So instead, I listened to C’s birthday mix (which to the best of my knowledge is — in its material form — still floating around somewhere in the US-Canadian postal delivery system). I also envied the nurse across the aisle who’d taken up a three-seater, stretched out as much as she could, and fallen asleep. I resisted my strong desire to do the same.

Enjoying the smell of the leaves on the ground

Though yesterday’s commute soundtrack was comforting in its way*, this morning I decided to quit it with the (Bon Iver + Scout N + BPB + Van Morrison -enabled) mooning about and be a bit more upbeat. So it was Cornershop for the walk through downtown crossing, and Wolf Parade for my don’t-rush-to-work stroll across campus, during which I smelled fall for the first time, enough leaves have hit the ground & gotten mostly-dried after the rain.

Between these walks & this music, it was more time with Moby-Dick. I finished the chapter on (former harpooner & sailor turned chaplain) Father Mapple’s sermon about Jonah & the whale, and was rewarded with chapter 10, “A bosom friend,” featuring more homosocial bonding between Ishmael & Queequeg. Really, with paragraphs like:

How it is I know not; but there is no place like a bed for confidential disclosures between friends. Man and wife, they say, there open the very bottom of their souls to each other; and some old couples often lie and chat over old times till nearly morning. Thus, then, in our hearts’ honeymoon, lay I and Queequeg–a cosy, loving pair.

who needs fan fiction??? Can’t wait to start chapter 11, “Nightgown.”

* And maybe distracting, because I might have walked right by you, but I’m not sure. It was rainy and dark and we don’t know each other well. And I felt propelled ahead to home, already running late for dinner with my farmer friend. And the idea of a run-in with you, soundtracked by the music playing through my headphones at that moment seemed a little uncanny. Finally, I have reservations about interrupting people who are engrossed in books, and who might prefer to be left alone. So I decided to continue along & remain uncertain.

Still marveling about fall

I didn’t want to go to work today, but students need help on Sundays, too, and those printers aren’t going to (re)supply themselves with reams and reams of paper. And who would fix the jammed staplers during these crucial end-of-weekend homework hours if I didn’t come in??? Despite my overarching complaint (the having to work at all bit), there was plenty to appreciate about the commute: it’s rainy & a little cold today, and I didn’t need to rush, so on my walk from home, & then from station to station, I listened to Bon Iver; For Emma, Forever Ago being one of those albums I’ve reserved for colder, grayer days (i.e., not summertime fun songs). I remembered to sit on the right side of the train, and was rewarded for thinking ahead: as we puled out of the station, I spotted the railyard cats (all three of them!) huddled in their little plexiglass-and-wood box shelter, staying warm & dry. I read a little of M-D but realized my concentration wasn’t up to the task, so I listened to the soundtrack for my upcoming act, rehearsing the choreography in my head, thinking about what to do with my face at key moments. The best part of the trip happened when I walked on campus, and discovered it’s one of those days when this place smells & feels like a forest, and at that moment, I was happy to have left the city, even if it meant sitting here at this desk.

Some gadget love

Last night, I signed up to have dispatches pushed from McSweeney’s to my little (non-telephonic) ipod. This morning, I read my first set of updates, and laughed out loud at one of them, it was that great. It’s kind of perfect commute-reading, smart, funny, and short. This is no small thing, especially since I’m already carting around M-D in old-fashioned, many-paged print format.

Then, on the walk to campus, I felt like I needed to listen to something with heavy drumming, and the Decemberists were the first to come to mind, so I listened to The Rake’s Song, then thought some about HONK! and how excited I am for it, and remembered that I need to send info about it to a new member of the TraniWreck crew (who, like you, would probably have a totally fantastic time dancing in the streets with rad marching bands), and then listened to the closest things to marching bands on the little music gadget right now: Flaming Lips, Le Tigre, Nomo (forgot about Elvis Perkins in Dearland, but that would’ve been a good choice too — Doomsday, especially).

Getting lost, reading Chapter 3

Discovering that it was only 8:06 (and my train wasn’t leaving South Station til 8:50), I decided I would see if I could make my way from the Park St. stop to Flour to get something tasty for breakfast. I started walking through Downtown Crossing, but took a couple of different streets, feeling a little sad that I know the area well enough to not get lost anymore. But then! It happened. Somewhere along the way, I realized I wasn’t hitting the streets I thought I should be, and noticed that all signs (the way the light was hitting the buildings, where a hill became a horizon, where the street lights seemed to change) of waterfront were not where I expected them to be. That I can get lost here is no big shock, but it was a pleasant surprise this morning. The getting-lost meant no getting-pastry, but I was just fine with the trade-off.

On the train, I read chapter three of Moby Dick, in which Ishmael frets about bed-sharing with Queequeg (who we meet in the same chapter, after much build-up), then finally shares the bed, and gets the best sleep of his life. I took a break partway to send T. a quote-message: “Better sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.” Also made note to self to investigate what article of clothing Ishmael’s referring to as a “monkey coat”. I’m falling in love with this book.

Unexpected vegetation

Had enough extra time on the walk between the Park St. stop & South Station to stop and admire the fancy florist’s window display. It was great: arrangements with miniature lillies and kale (!), big bouquets with small white & purple japanese eggplants, and inside the store, a bowl of heirloom tomatoes waiting to be deposited in one vase or another. I thought of M., tried snapping some photos with my camera-phone, but the images were dark & couldn’t possibly communicate my enthusiasm for the flower + vegetable combinations.

A couple of blocks later, I noticed the fruit vendor (the one with the stall in front of the Bank of America building) was wearing a button-down shirt patterned with bunches of grapes & vines, and an apron with a floral pattern. So spiffy! Such a visual treat in the middle of so many suits.