Moby-Dick :: Chapter 9 :: The Sermon

Mister Ishmael ~

A fishier tale was never spun than that of Jonah and the Whale.
A tighter brotherhood has never been conceived than that of seamen.
A deeper bondage has never been foraged than that of a death bond.

"We are all pirates in our own way."

Trust Your Journey (tm)
~ ijil Rainbow Hawk Giver

* original quote by ijil RHG

:: Historiaverophobia – fear or aversion of truthful history.

Moby-Dick :: Chapter 8 :: The Pulpit

Mister Ishmael ~

Great pulpit climber, no better the crow's nest for a far view what maybe coming. The marbles remind of what has gone before, and even on obtaining a glimpse of the numerous stones present, the traveler continues as if there will be no unpleasant consequence for them. That our travels will be under fair winds and easy seas. No matter how many orders we acquire, how many lines we have crossed, Davy Jones will always be able to find us, and Neptune will reign supreme.

We bow as we take stock of the mental boat, asking for the last rum libation before all reason escapes, and our world becomes a world where no world is the world. Winter is summer and up is down, the entire world is turned around. Around and around the journey can go on forever. Willful winds push us beyond our limit. There is no edge. No stopping point. No way to get off. Have you tied enough knots in your line to let out one by one so that you can return? The maze on land is confusing and the maze at sea is deep.

Is your pen ready? Will the ship's log be full? Will you have enough to retain the facts, share no secrets, and come out alive after you find your sea legs?

"No fortress is fortress enough if you, the enemy, are within."

Trust Your Journey (tm)
~ ijil Rainbow Hawk Giver

* original quote by ijil RHG

Moby-Dick :: Chapter 7 :: The Chapel

Mister Ishmael ~

Oh Mad Captain of my own vessel which doth bob and duck cork-wise upon the blustery oceans of reason, and indeed, moral or immoral life-eternal, weighs each moment against the next, and against the last, for what? What prize is sought? and to what end?

Truth be told, I like my dreams better than my life, on some days, and except the nightmares of course, which can wage havoc upon the smoothest glass-like sea, on twenty-first century hardened glass, I shatter but there are no sharp shard's for all is tempered against the newly energized lessons of life.

I can not purchase insurance enough, nor time enough, to stave safe my soul.

I pause under the harsh light, looking both ways along the street I enter, drawing my jacket tighter before closing the church door quietly behind me, soon the hard teak bench rises to support me. Eyes closed for a moment, I relax, all raging thoughts calm under the soft candle glow. The inside quiet, like a cave, a shelter. I lean back and breathe.

Having seen my shadow, I now breathe even deeper.

Trust Your Journey (tm)
~ ijil Rainbow Hawk Giver

* original quote by ijil RHG

Essay Review:

In the 2011 The BEST American Essays on page 90, Pico Iyer delivers to us a reflection of his calm space - CHAPELS - the places that he has found around the world as he has traveled and wrote as a journalist for Time Magazine. 
Essay first published by Portland Magazine.

Moby-Dick :: Chapter 6 :: The Street

Mister Ishmael ~

The sweet odor of a bustling seaside town. A look in both directions; to the northeast lie the docks, seacrafts of every class, whalers among them, and sea catch; to the southwest the same. Behind, the commotion of New Bedford rises along the lanes. Mine eyes a bustling for focus, for here no one walks on one side or the other of separation, and all must walk at some point, searching out the haul of the day or a trade in time with what doth float ashore. All can be seen here, with an owl's swivel of the head, the horizons are immense.

I have wondered about the opposite of this recently, how an empty street signals an empty life. Where few people walk because there is plenty and adequate access; no need to be out - not even a dawg. Still the very poor have always walked everywhere there is to go, while the wealthy will find another way. And the wealthiest of all rarely go out, but rather enclose themselves unto themselves, and fear what is outside. I wonder about the enclosed life. The life shaped by only familiar things set around in a very particular order and dusted on a very particular day.

Yet, like Ledyard and Buddha, some have forsaken their comfortable life to seek another, one with more adventure and experiences. When traveling there is found a zestful excitement for life in the differences and extremes of other places. Twenty-first century planned travel tours often means the 'looking at of things' which are deemed valuable or worthy, hoards guided quickly by with no time relish any relishable thing and little gained substantial substance. But is not the value of worth being more in what you need when you need it? Rather than in what others want you to see and pay them to view? To have an exciting tale to tell, have others hear the tale, possibly have all the world read the tale, and then pass that tale onto offspring - that is value - that is experience - the lesson secured.

And yet the view out to sea, across the harbors and inner waterways, over the ocean, beyond the blue, is the grandest of all. Maybe it is the blue itself that calls like the snow-capped apex of a mountain or the vast dry-sand nothingness of a desert. It is the going, the journey, the travel. Should Paulo alchemize a young boy any more than Don and Dante transform and define the worlds. Is not the journey experience the ultimate practice for the development of intuition? Practiced everyday, in every decision, with every encounter, intuition develops well, "practice makes permanent"*. Yes indeed, intuition can be developed/taught through practice, listening inwardly and choosing well. Like a silent breakfast, a good thoughtful walk will sort out your mind. Practice walking meditation of time and space. Even good Thomas spoke of the within and without. "He who walks with wise men is wise, but he who walks with the divine I is the wisest of all."* A good practice is good practice. The experience journey of the without develops the cool intuition of the within. Grapple a few beefsteaks towards yourself, and note to self, anything done coolly is done genteelly.

Looking outward now Mister Ishmael, I long for color, experience, walking and difference here in my life. Not the usual and mundane, the soul-crushing same, as safe as the grave experience.

Trust Your Journey (tm)
~ ijil Rainbow Hawk Giver

* original quote by ijil RHG

Moby-Dick :: Chapter 5 :: Breakfast

Mister Ishmael ~

Silence. The great ritual seldom observed. Yet a mighty good thing. Still, withal often uncomfortable, if not practiced regularly. As for the company, having greatmen together in anything particular does not guarantee any level of conversation, as I have noticed the most accomplished men often speak of the most mundane, indeed silly, verse ever uttered. And these men with vitals on their brains would already be engaged in another, albeit more simple yet needed, pursuit. The fact that you were able to see clearly around you, with no charades nor shenanigans, is probably the better feat of the day. For unlike yourself, these men had been here before, had said all that needed to be said, and saw of each other all that could be seen, on or off the water. So what tale would they tell now to others who have already heard and in fact has already done the same or more. Instead they practiced as well as could be practiced the best practice of all, which is of course - silence. The great ritual so seldom profoundly observed.

First only to the second great ritual of only if necessary. Just because another desires something lays nothing on the other to do it. So on the great morning of your second day is the second great ritual so well displayed, do nothing unnecessarily, for more than that would be a waste; and the difference between living and dieing is often in the waste. Waste of materials and supplies surely, but the waste of life energy in the last, the most horrendous and often fatal of the poorest decisions. Spearing across the table with great deft and skill, as Queequeg demonstrated, when walking would have been the polite thing to do, carries no foul. Safe and swift is good, skill can win your life, were polite and hesitation can get you killed. Which would you rather see practiced, Oh Good Reader? Yes, me also. As so eloquently said by one ijil RHG,  "Practice makes permanent"*, rather than the more commonly spoken, but truly incorrect, sentiment of "practice makes perfect". If you have practiced incorrectly you have still practiced, but it is not correct, thus not perfect. Practice rightly and speak naught more than is needed, as here in Mister Coffin's parlor. Men are just men throughout most moments of the day; and hungry men are just hungry men.

Trust Your Journey (tm)
 ~ ijil Rainbow Hawk Giver

* original quote by ijil RHG

Moby-Dick :: Chapter 4 :: The Counterpane

Mister Ishmael ~ 

Amazing how a good night's sleep can change the harshness of our thoughts and the sharpness of our actions. Last night you were so angry with Mister Queequeg, and now, you are almost loving. Is it when another does a tender thing, conscious or unconscious, that we are more able to return a tender gesture? Sleeping two to a bed is not as horrible as was once thought, and maybe returning avant garde. Children know the good dream of a warm body beside them as they crawl into bed beside parents, siblings or cousins. It is not so lonely, nor so scary, as sleeping alone; nightmares and awful fears are held at bay, and it is easier to stay warm. Plus the best plans are concocted during sleepovers while relaxed and safe with great-great-great-great grandma's handiwork.

Sometimes it is hard to separate the images in our minds with the images in our eyes; the angles and arcs reflect the same and then they are distorted. Looking for understanding or even something that makes sense and has reason. Chased by either canis or panthera, uniequus or taurus, we traverse the untamed pagan patch-worked landscape sometimes alone, but better with a shamanic friend, even one with strange customs and odd herbs in his rag, never carrying a book. Witness the wildness of wisen unfamiliar ways, foreign to ourselves, body stiff with tenseness, defenses on high-alert. And then as now, a thick arm thrown across, a shoulder after a game well-won, camaraderie is the language we speak, the feelings we feel, and the justice we recognize. When our minds are still enough, we know when something is right or wrong; we can discern the difference, our body, nature's true compass, pointing the way. Intuition can be taught as surely as ciphers and starpaths, squares and triangles, well, at least improved. Given the actions of man or the words of man; actions will never lie as consistantly as words will.

Is the threshold sill so dark and the jamb to tight, that without help, a friend, or supernatural hand, we will never be able to open the sun-lit window? Hold tight to the cord of connection. Circling, circling, circling, unwinding the center of our selves. No matter what this pilgrimage is called - correct name or no - maze or labyrinth; mightily warned against the dangers, regardless, the capri soul will not stay home. The innerlands call us to journey, whether one path or many, straight away or dead-end, false-starts or marsh; our boredom is now banished by fresh sights and newness of characters; we come more alive, nerve endings tingling with each new smell and vista, whether a painting on a wall or a painting on an arm, el signos we find around us are many, and the incredibly helpful hands even greater. But are you watching? Are all your eyes open? Do you follow your proper path? Where will your soul lie tonight, in a heathen-laden countryside or fanatically clean marble floor, or someplace worse? Who is the devil and who is the savior? Will the trice masted dawg crawl far enough to win the true-blue heart from the iceberg? I will watch for you and your son Tom in the rigging at the edge of water. Play at no curses, sing a sharp song, tools in good repair, right at hand, get your boots on.

The passat are blowing rhythms. The chill air will not keep us here much longer.

Trust Your Journey (tm)
 ~ ijil Rainbow Hawk Giver

Moby-Dick :: Chapter 2 :: The Carpet-Bag

Mister Ishmael ~

Surely, you know the value of having a safe place to lay your head at night, or at the end of the day, or even for a nap. A safe and quiet place, where you can not even hear the crickets' chirp, where slumber and dream time are encouraged to come as assuredly as the rising sun. This place need not be fancy, as you well pointed out, or even all that clean, but the respite that comes when a proper spot can be secured to hold the small bones of those weary of walking, moving, and doing - that bed that cradles the cranium, shelters the skin, moulds the mind like no schoolroom, no apprentice shop, no stoic under a tree can. Nay, the gods themselves send Hermes with dreams to a well-supported head, the nightmares too, for the peace-doves and the ankhs, the zombies and werewolves, mere symbols which have endured and withstood time come unhindered by conscious thought, which is often best, to warn us, encourage us, guide us, and to give us pause to ponder. Is that what you meant? That we too should miss the boat, maybe on purpose, so the sea-side stay can last through the weekend or longer?

With a warm Starbucks blowing in my hand and points of light overhead maybe I will ~ maybe I will donne my red silken night wrap, sit by the cooling coals keeping my toes safe, read some Sapphio, Robert or Joseph, finish planning my trip to Carthage, Santorini and Cyprus, or if I am feeling really wight, dive into contemplation of my fortune & copestone, and just make it so.

Trust Your Journey (tm)
 ~ ijil Rainbow Hawk Giver


note to self: 

• check the worthliness of my water craft. 
• pick up photos at store and get more batteries.
• see if Mister Temple can come by for a spot of White Lotus tea and crackers at the Five Trees Inn this afternoon.

Moby-Dick :: Chapter 1 :: Loomings

Mister Ishmael ~

Very smart of you to appeal to my inner-escape artist, to my perennial Sagittarian world traveler and my general all-around philosopher scallywag, very smart, very smart indeed. For now I am onboard with you. I will sojourn across the watery ways and bi-ways of our world not as captain, cook nor paying passenger, but as a freeman for hire always seeking the grandest adventure from the very best vantage point.

And to set an even loftier goal before us as you have - b r i l l a n t . To find not just any leviathan in the great deep cold waters of the earth would reveal, but the largest Holy Grail, for surely there is one that plies the world's darkest depths, yet has to surface, at least once in its life, for those cavernous lungs to fill so that it may live long enough for one more unfathomable dive. Our prize, not just the average prize of which there are many, but of the most obscure and wight prize to find, that keeps any good man or good woman seeking for the entirety of their life. Seeking, seeking, always seeking.

And while seeking, one can never be bored for in each turn, each twist, each block, and each full stop, there is presented another glorious moment of decision-making, another moment of sorting through the details of life to determine and discern friend or foe, dark alley or golden way, glorious captain or detestable beggar. Which one is for us? How will we know but to board a trusty ship while she anchors in calm harbour and ride her through all the grand waterways, all the tempest seas, or sit out the doldrums of life with shipmates? Always seeking what looms before us and yet never truly ever arriving; a life with a constant and continuous project; what a delight and a distraction against ever making a real decision again, for the needs of the moment will always keep one busy, and rarely facilitate a pure moment of calm or nothingness which could suggest the ancient compass heading of true south of our own soul.

And so we will take together, as the poor poet from Tennessee, on a ship this year into our own Bloody Battle in Affghanistan, as two thieves, carrying no rags, seeking escape from the worst damp and drizzly November, armed with Seneca and the Stoics, praying our caravan is supplied with a metaphysical professor and our inner resident hermit and crucifix do not kill each other, while paying homage to Jove and Poseidon each in their turn, hoping for good exercise and a good view, while receiving a general universal thump, knowing it was our own freewill and discriminating judgment that made us scratch the everlasting itch that tormented us until we bled, and scabbed over and over again and again.

Will we seek a brief reprieve against the onslaught of our own makings, which surely will come? Surely not. Carry on!

Trust Your Journey (tm)
 ~ ijil Rainbow Hawk Giver

Moby-Dick :: PreReading, Explanations & Reasons Why

It may have been Hurricane Irene that blew through the east coast of Virginia last weekend, or it may be something that by adding another year to my age has changed a foundational pier in me, or it may be that it is just time - finally - to read this tome.  Moby-Dick  has been calling to me over this past week ... read me ... REEEAD MEee...  And you should know, Moby-Dick  has never called to me before, in fact more of the opposite is true, I have shunned every opportunity prior, until now, to read this book.

So here I am - starting this year's the "one thing I will do every day for an entire year" - a practice I started in 2003. (I have done a different activity each year - never the same activity two years in a row.) This, however, will be the first time I will make the string of experiences and my personal musings available on the web through this Moby Dick in 365 days blog.

These are my reasons for writing this blog:

• read Moby-Dick  (I know, a bit of a duh)
• the 365 day thing
• learn how to create and maintain a blog
• improve my writing with a mandatory writing assignment
• and hopefully, connect with others through this literary classic

Well, that is way too much about me, and not enough about this classic, Moby Dick by Herman Melville.

There are 135 chapters in Moby-Dick. And thankfully very short chapters they are. Reading Moby-Dick  in one year averages about one chapter every three days. This is completely doable.

The volume I am reading is from the Barnes & Noble Classics collection - a rather large perfect bound book; I hope it can withstand 365 days of being handled. I was hoping for a smaller volume like the Everyman's Library collection published by Knopf, something pocket sized and hardback, to add to my own small book collection, but when I went to the B&N bookstore this edition was the only one. In fact, it took myself and the sales clerk over twenty minutes to locate even one copy of Moby Dick  in the store. We each looked in several sections (including the back room - twice). But this intense searching and not easily finding made the trip much more memorable, as I suppose the classic beginning of any worthwhile hero's journey, or heroine's journey, should be! Yes - I am taking this as an omen of the year ahead and an indicator of what may come.

So I will start, in my next post, Moby-Dick in 365 days. Maybe you will choose to read along with me. As I said before, it is a good thing these chapters are short, most under ten pages, completely doable.

Trust Your Journey (tm)
 ~ ijil Rainbow Hawk Giver