Dear Mr. Echoes,
From my apartment I hear wind. The room is small and I am grateful for the wooden stairs that lead into it from the harsh outdoors. I would not tolerate the sound of an elevator ringing in my brain. It would create incohesion, such a blatant contradiction between the world I’ve invested myself in and the one I tiptoe around to avoid depression. It is a constant battle, reframing the human world to more fully understand the essence of humanity.
I find myself observing the water, seeking out the reflections of Juneau as if I were the fish, believing if I step outside of myself and attempt to observe from their world I might understand this story. I tried to explain my human perspective to Odessa. When she did not understand she assumed there were quintessential differences between human thought and animal thought. I might agree. What man calls order, Mother Nature knows as destruction. Where man sees chaos, Mother Natures sees potential. We seek the same thing, but the earth is torn between two masters, one wildly more successful at symbiosis than the other.
Odessa… sweet Odessa… could not see how our worlds were at odds. She sighted the shipwreck, a meeting of our metaphorical minds. The world of man met the world of nature, Odessa claimed, and a new world emerged as a compromise. Men died so anemones might live! As she was sure that, from time to time, on land anemones died so that men might live. Certainly humans could comprehend that!
I did not have the heart to tell her that men would not see justice in dying for invertebrates. I don’t believe it would have been helpful- for either of us.
Imagine Reflections. You’re insight into the movement of water has proved helpful before. Any magic up that sleeve of yours Oliver?
Best,
Sebastian
Friday, November 28, 2008
Sunday, November 23, 2008
The Whole Story... in one piece... so far
Chapter 1
This is a story about a barnacle. But like most good stories, it starts with something else. In this case our story starts with a fish. A flounder. A flounder who had lost the will to live.
Had she known how popular she was with the humans above she might not have felt so chronically morose. She was the single entertainment for a crew of six, who idly killed time between boat tours fishing off of the dock. To the flounder, who’s only goal in life was to end it, the continuous game of catch and release was too much to bear, and not enough to kill.
The barnacle, our barnacle, lived on this dock, amongst the many thousands of other barnacles who had been fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to have been spawned in the cool Alaskan waters of Auke Bay. This barnacle witnessed the attempted suicide numerous times before it began to acknowledge the event was tragedy instead of comedy. After all, none of the other barnacles found it strange, and without precedent for understanding death as morbid it took quite some time for this particular barnacle to form an opinion on the cheerless fish.
Barnacles are social creatures by nature. Prone to gossip and small talk with their ever present neighbors. The permanence of their geography makes it difficult for barnacles to politely bow out of conversations and most of them opt to embrace the constant company and keep up a near constant stream of belligerent chatter. The only Our barnacle, however, was not born with the gift of gab and having had all the meaningless conversations it could muster it took a vow of silence, swearing not to speak until it had something sincere to say. This barnacle, unlike its societal neighbors, looked forward to low tide more than any other time of day, the few precious hours when its world surfaced and noisy neighbors closed up tightly in their shells to avoid dehydration. In these precious hours of silence the barnacle had time to think. It was during one of these low tides that the barnacle decided it would speak to the fish.
“What’s you’re name?” the young barnacle asked. “I’m a flounder.”
“Yes, I know you’re a flounder, but what’s your name? What are you called?” “Nothing, no one cares enough about a flounder to give it a name.”
This puzzled the barnacle. For as long as it had been watching the moving world pass by, it had believed each of it’s creature had a name. It had comforted itself with this fact. The barnacle you see, desperately wanted a name, and had satiated it’s aching desire with the knowledge that once it managed mobility, a name would be soon to follow. It makes sense then, that in order to keep this worldview alive the barnacle approached the flounder’s lack of name not as a universal problem, but as the singular, and solvable problem of one very unhappy fish.
“Well, what do you want to be called?”
“Nothing. I want to die.”
“C’mon anything. I’ll call you anything you like.”
“Dinner.”
“Anything else.”
“Lunch.”
“I’m not calling you lunch.”
“Breakfast.”
“Stop it.”
“You said anything I wanted. I want to be called Breakfast.”
“I’ll call you Fast.”
“Call me Biff.”
There was no real reason to dislike the name. Yet something in the smugness with which the flounder picked it seemed suspicious, and unwilling to be the butt end of some joke the barnacle felt discomfort at dropping the issue with ‘Biff.’ So despite eagerness to name the fish the barnacle prodded on.
“That’s a boy name.”
“Can’t a flounder have a boy’s name?”
“Are you a boy?”
“I’m a flounder. “
“But are you a male flounder, or a female flounder?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Do you want to be a mother or a father?”
“Neither. I want to be Breakfast but that isn’t good enough for you.”
There was an awkward pause as the Barnacle looked at the flounder. Looked at Biff. Biff full of scars, rust marks on her chin, wanting so desperately to be bludgeoned and eaten. No one loved this pathetic example of fish. No one cherished its slimy scales. Biff was indeed a poor specimen of flounder, her eye not quite migrated over the top of her head was an indication of the fish’s status as a late bloomer. Her scales hung loose on her bare bones body, her flesh stringy and limp from repeated exposure to air. Abandoned as a small fry at the ocean’s edge Biff had no family or friends to inspire her to greatness, or to inspire her to anything.
The barnacle began to consider: maybe Biff would be better off as Breakfast, although given her current physical state it didn’t appear that any animal lacking a tetanus shot would be willing to eat her. With that morbid thought in the barnacle’s head another hook with a shiny pink lure dropped into the water beside them.
“Are you going to eat that?” The barnacle asked Biff. “It only throws you back.” The fish replied. The lure began to jingle in the water. Someone up there was jigging. The barnacle watched. Biff watched. The two entranced, as sea creatures are apt to be, in the strange dance. “Biff?” The barnacle whispered. No answer. “Biff…?” It whispered again. But it was too late. Biff, in a sudden change of heart, went dashing after the pink hoochie swallowed it hook line and sinker, closed her eyes and began the violent ascent. She cleared the surface. The barnacle sighed, counted to ten, and Plop! Biff came sinking back down in the water awash in a tragic sense of déjà vu.
Humans cry. Fish cannot. Their bodies are in constant symbiosis with the ocean. Their meticulous systems continuously assessing the salient permeation of the environment in which it lives. A body this connected with salt water has no knowledge of individual tears. But as close as a fish ever came to crying was Biff after her sixth failed suicide attempt that morning. No soul could be more tortured than one that cannot even properly die.
Barnacles are not known to be emotional creatures. They lack both heart and brain, but we’ll overlook that for the purposes of this story. For interwoven somewhere into its physiology this barnacle was different, and as Biff’s body awash with teary water began to sink the barnacle felt the most intense twinge. It had been overwhelmed with something no barnacle before had ever been faced with- compassion.
“I think Biff suits you. It’s a strong name. Which is awfully good for us because it will take a good strong disposition like yours to get us through this ocean.” “Pardon?” Biff replied, stopping her moribund decent, albeit briefly. “Well,” shouted down the eloquent barnacle “I’ve been searching all day for the perfect companion to carry my into this ocean, and you are easily more qualified than any of the other fish who’s passed by. You’ve been training, I see, in the fine sport of travel. And have been wildly successful, for a bottom feeding fish, in withstanding the great pressures of these waters. Yes, I insist that you accompany me on my journey; no other fish has your qualifications, or your strong name, or such tenacity in the face of death. Are you ready then? The tide is falling and we haven’t much time to get me off this rock!”
Biff, perplexed at first, attempted to resist this offer, but flounder are not bright fish and given an order, or a shiny lure, have a tendency to follow. The barnacle, meanwhile had not intended to leave its post, but the words rolled easily off its tongue because they were, in fact, quite true. Biff might have been the perfect ride for this barnacle. She was quite fearless of the dangers of open ocean. Many other flounder might have found resistance in fear. Yet as the barnacle had illuminated Biff did not struggle with cowardice, and with nothing to fear Biff had nothing to hold her back. Without much hesitation she agreed to go.
*******
Dear Mr. Echoes,
To write this book I had to become a sociologist of invertebrates. Spending long hours studying not merely the anatomy and physiology of the barnacle population, but of far grater importance, I studied their interactions with each other. It took some time to determine that it was in fact a barnacle who was charismatic enough to lead this story. Many others fought for Odessa’s position. One particularly charming character was a mayfly I met in my early twenties. He died quite quickly but was periodically and repeatedly replaced with his descendants, who had very little knowledge themselves of just how much life time they were wasting convincing me to center my novel around them. Sweet line of mayflies. I believe tenacity was a genetic trait with them, otherwise they’d have never found the time to spend on me and still successfully mate.
But it was, in the end, a barnacle who captured my heartstrings. I believe that it was due in large part, however, to the contrast between a stationary barnacle and my beloved Auke Bay Flounder. Biff- now identified and seeking treatment for depression with a very successful therapist aboard the Princess Sofia shipwreck- was a true inspiration for working on this book. Daily she would appear gasping for death, and daily we would throw her back. Hoping that she would understand that it was not out of malice that we turned her away, but out of sheer artistic potential. Any animal with that level of commitment was destined for great things. To be honest, if she were plump and healthy, and had we not been working at the time, it is likely that Biff's wish for death might have been fulfilled. My cohorts and I are not above tenderly roasting and eating a fine flounder in a light lemon butter and white wine sauce. Biff, however, was slightly less than succulent. To eat her would have been to choke on her, not to mention to invoke the premature end to what has the potential to be an interesting story.
Odessa and Biff were meant to leave Auke Bay. I was happy to create an adventure for them. The mayfly, after all, would never have survived chapter one.
Left Sincerely,
Sebastian
Gulls, ravens, the occasional bear or dog, have all attempted to pry unwilling barnacles from their roosts. The task is so taxing that the barnacle’s post in the inter-tidal food web is almost non-existent. Barnacles glue themselves to flat surfaces when they are young. So young that few barnacle remember the experience of being a free floating polyp. Their memories typically begin to form about the time they develop the sticky adhesive which they are constantly reinforcing with old age. It is in the life story of all barnacles, no matter how much ignorance they may feign on the issue, to undergo a period of wandering and uncertainty. A time period where their small pre-exoskeleton bodies are at the mercy of the tides and the luck of the ocean dwelling gods. They say- and by they I mean the higher ups in the barnacle world- that barnacles do not remember this stage in life because the skills gathered in wandering are unnecessary in mature life. The experience is traumatic, they claim, and the great Mother Nature has blessed them with ignorance of the experience.
Occasionally some poor soul comes along who remembers the dark nights of free floating. They are barnacles driven mad with memory, pariahs of the community for their constant raving during spawning nights. They live on the fringes of the barnacle world, with no suitors and few friends. Our barnacle, unbeknownst to her friends and family was one of those barnacles, with the memory of freedom.
I mention this now because it is pertinent to the little barnacle’s escape from the Auke Bay piling. Most barnacles would have been inexorably stuck to their homes. This barnacle was not. With the memory of free floating life still alive this particular barnacle had defied society and taken the greatest risk a barnacle could- save letting go entirely- the brave invertebrate had neglected to reinforce her glue, thus making it possible for Biff, with relative ease, to pry the barnacle free from its rusty home and resituate it delicately on her cheek, precisely where her eye might have been, had it properly migrated.
The barnacle, being quite crafty, had intentionally sought out his particular position. The two attempted to fool the dangers of deeper water by convincing them that Biff was as mature as any other flounder. With the barnacle perched atop the flounder’s forehead it looked precisely like a fully migrated eye. Happy to play the part of a living eye the barnacle would even flutter her shell slightly from time to time in an attempt to mimic a dilating eye. Unbeknownst to them, it was Biff’s immaturity provided for them a great boon, not their mimicry. While predators might have assumed she was blind to the water below, Biff’s eyesight was in fact quite keen in that direction. With Odessa’s additional attention to detail topside the two were more than adequately equipped to identify any struggles that lay ahead in open water- a journey both flounders and barnacles are typically hindered against by their anatomy. They did not know, of course, that their blundering attempt to cover up Biff’s “disability” brought them such a vantage point- but then there is a great deal of luck necessary to survive adventures at sea. The two at least began their journey with this.
********
“So, do you have a name?” Biff asked the barnacle. It had been nearly three hours since the two left the intertidal zone, and with the longevity of their situation sinking in Biff had opted to attempt some of the pleasantries she had abandoned in her bottom feeding life. The barnacle knew very little of the flounder’s former social life having only witnessed her attempted deaths, and she did not know that this moment represented an enormous therapeutic breakthrough for the dismal fish. Biff, like the barnacle, had avoided making small talk in her former life. She had believed that any information she gained would have been in vain given her impending death. What Biff’s question represented was a newfound believe that she might live out the day. A belief that Biff had not held since she was quite quite small.
Had the barnacle known this it would have certainly taken the opportunity to congratulate Biff on her breakthrough, it was after all one of the world’s unlikely sympathetic barnacle’s. But that conversation the two strangers were still quite some distance from.
They were, however, at the apropos moment to discuss an issue very near and dear to the barnacle’s heart- a name. Biff, just as ignorant of the barnacles life as it was of hers, had asked the magic question. The question that the patient barnacle had been waiting to hear for quite some time.
The water of Auke Bay is relatively clear compared to the glacially carved fjords of Southeast Alaska. It is a well named body of water- Auke being the Tlingit word for peaceful or tranquil. The Tlingits colonized the shores for many generations, fishing, gathering mussels and edible seaweeds. Had Biff lived at the height of the people her death wish would have been quickly carried out. They were, and are, a resourceful and shrewd people. No fish seeking death would want for a belly to rest. The water in the bay is protected from wind which keeps the silt settled and the crabs content with wallowing muck. Outside of the bay wind is a greater force to contend with. Mother Nature created a safe haven when she gave birth to Auke Bay, she created no protection for those who choose to leave it.
“My name is Odessa,” The barnacle said as the two passed out of the bay and, for the first time in either of their lives, entered into open ocean.
******
Dear Mr. Echoes,
Something amazing happened to me today. I was searching through Darwin’s texts and I found a block print plate of a group of flowers. I wanted to include them as some sort of artwork for our project… After nearly mutilating the book with copy machines and scanners the very simple, and haunting result was this-
It isn’t a finished piece of artwork by any means, but in the strangest way it- like this book- is the shadow of something real. It is entirely unique, having passed from the literal flower to the mind of Darwin, to the hands of the print maker and under the scrutiny of the publisher, and then one hundred and fifty years after the small treatise was written on this flower I revived its shadow on a piece of parchment paper doused in acetone. I resurrected it as an afterthought to a new text. Is not this story the same thing? Something real that has existed far longer than you or I have, embellished with curiosity and then infused with artistry? Isn’t that what we are seeking to accomplish by writing this story to begin with? Are we not through a rather simple and childlike plotline working our hardest to resurrect the shadows of a long forgotten history and a dull biology? We in that regard, are like the image of the flower.
Best in thoughts,
Sebastian
Chapter 2-
Barnacles are remarkably resilient creatures. Accustomed to the constant pounding of great waves against their fragile shells. They take pride in this fact, often touting it as a credo to the passing fish diving to escape a dangerous incoming tide. The brassiest of barnacles laughs at the scuttling crabs retreating toward the depths as the barnacles themselves are thrust upward toward the most dangerous of all elements: air. But for this barnacle, our barnacle, sinking closer and closer to the submerged shadow of the Princess Sofia shipwreck, she doubted the strength of her carefully constructed shield. The pressure of the ocean grew greater, and her nerves began to shake. Do not despair, for our barnacle was never a typical barnacle; and unlike her chalky counter parts she had prepared herself for an adventure greater than even the lowest tides, fortifying her shield, for reasons at the time that were merely dreams of an unknown future. This memory, of herself as a young optimistic and cautious barnacle, comforted her as Biff’s scaly body settled onto the deck below.
“This is an awfully big adventure we’ve started on,” whispered Odessa. But Biff didn’t answer. She was preoccupied, yet again, with the contemplation of death, and when the barnacle addressed one of the three thousand anemones on the wreck, they hardly responded, continuing instead to wave idly in the currents, subtly destroying the last remnants of what was once a very proud ship.
Although our bold fish knew very little about the shipwreck of the Princess Sofia the same was not true of Odessa. The world above had been inadvertently tutoring this ambitious invertebrate. The dock she had been lodged on for so many years was a small vessel port where vacationers met to travel the waters of the inside passage. Odessa often listened to the stories told by the passersbye and the guides. The world above filled her mind not only with the facts that any tour guide might spew toward an overgrowing industry, but also filled it with stories and mythologies of a land littered with inconstants.
Alaska is a temperamental land. The Princess Sofia is evidence of that. She sank on October 26th 1918 in the height of a winter storm and took 364 people down with her. Odessa explained this to Biff as they traveled toward the ruins on Vanderbilt Reef. Biff cracked an inkling of a smile when she learned of the devastation, and swam a bit faster when Odessa explained that more Alaskans died in the incident than in the greatest of their above ground wars.
The quiet at that depth is deafening. Odessa had never experienced such oppressive silence and was overwhelmingly relieved when Biff spoke. “It isn’t as eerie as I expected a shipwreck to be. Not like a graveyard at all.” Biff announced seeming downright disappointed. “There are no bones. No bodies. There is no devastation at all.” Odessa listened intently to this, eager to distract her mind from the pressure threatening her soft internal body, and she noticed the distinct change in Biff’s tone when she went on to say- “This place isn’t littered with death, it’s littered with Gone. Like death, only… afterward.”
The fish was correct. This shipwreck was almost unrecognizable as a vessel. The ship had long since split its bow from stern, the hull itself had peeled away becoming a reef for deep cold water animals. The anemones had so fully colonized the wreck that there was not a hard surface in sight. No rough decks for Biff to slide her fragile body across, no sharp edges to impale her pathetically morbid heart, despite her persistent scans for them. Long before our travelers visit to the sight of such tragedy men encased in metal suits, seeking breath from heavy iron diving bells, had stripped this wreck of her history. They had gathered up the jewels, the spoons, the chairs and cushions, even the numbers from the stateroom doors, and had carried them back to the world above to be scattered about the world. In an effort to preserve the memory of the ship and its passengers the men had only succeeded in scattering the tragedy into such frailty that it was no longer recognizable as a cohesive event. It was diluted by the world- a piece of petticoat sent to a relative in Montana, a diary to a bereaved widow in Vancouver, each artifact removed from Alaska failed to return. The remains of the Princess Sofia looked like the translucent shadow of a ship, bereft of any signs of her former life.
“What do you mean Gone?” Odessa asked, more in an effort to continue conversation than to gain insight. Biff may have been disappointed in the ghastliness of the ships remains, but Odessa who knew the stories was more thoroughly impressed with its memory. She was petrified. “There’s no carnage, no destruction left. I guess … I always imagined that death was permanent. But it isn’t. It’s only the Gone… the not being anymore, that is permanent. Death is short lived. “
“I see.”
“Odessa?”
“Yes Biff?”
“What do we have to live for?”
“For this.” Odessa replied “To fill the Gone.”
With that, in their moment of greatest sincerity, a moment when perhaps Biff might have been swayed to forsake this notion of death and find a reason to live, the moment, if there was ever to be such a moment, for Odessa and Biff to talk about Biff’s persistent obsession with mortality and to help her grasp a more hopeful life view, in this precious moment they were crudely interrupted by a massive school of sex obsessed sockeye salmon. They erupted like fifteen year old boys let out of school early and given free passes to a girlie film. They came flying through the anemone forest screaming with the stings as they demolished the gelatinous animals and yet hardly slowed down with the pain. These were fish on mission. That mission? Spawn till we die.
Odessa and Biff were hurled into the school bouncing back and forth between the salacious fish. They were smashed and beat, awkwardly rubbed and pseudo-violated, then ensnared by a group of rowdy males who demanded to know in almost choral unison “How far to fresh water, and how do we get your eggs?!” One lewd female even flipped Biff over once, twice, three times, trying to find some sign of gender, but knowing little of flounder anatomy came to the conclusion and loudly announced that “the weird shaped salmon has no genitals!” The salmon rolling and spasmodic immediately abandoned the petrified fish, and as quickly as the liquid orgy began it rushed on leaving our two travelers very very dazed.
Biff, her eyes bugging with violation, her heart screaming with embarrassment, and her body insane with jealousy, barely managed to whisper the words “I quit” before she began to violently sink toward the poisonous anemone bed below.
Odessa panicked. She began rapidly shouting to Biff not to do it, to find the reason to go on living, not to sacrifice them both to a painful end within the brutal arms of complacent anemones! Did she not understand?! Odessa implored as they sank. Did she not see that they were destined for great things! The words rolled from her passionate barnacle mouth, but even the most articulate barnacle could not, and did not, persuade this intransigent fish to forgo her attempt at suicide. With opaque arms outstretched the anemones seemed to be gesturing the fish toward their tiny mouths.
In the brief moment before contact Odessa, unable without the aid of Biff to release her firm grip on the scaly cheek, saw her life flash before her eyes. She saw her days as a polyp free floating through the sea, gleeful with freedom and daring. She recounted her life amongst barnacle society, and the friends and family she left behind. She revisited Biff being lurched over and over from water to air in her continued attempts at death. And she commemorated the moment, only days earlier when she and Biff began this adventure, and the moment she chose her name. By the time Biff made contact with the first anemone Odessa had made peace with life.
Biff’s body jerked and tensed with the stings. The anemone fingers grabbing her and injecting her with an unseen toxin, beginning the process of digestion. Biff lurched with pain ready for the end, and was immediately disappointed. The anemones managed, with some dignity, to spit her out.
“You are not food.” Their collective voice stated calmly. “Pray do not accost us until you have thoroughly decomposed to edible size. Do not tease us with the promise of food, or yourself with the promise of afterlife. ” Biff, crazed with the experience, turned a deaf ear the polite creatures. She thrust herself once more toward floral death, and forsaking her earlier drifting motion she swam full force toward the promise of paralysis. The sting ran through her body and the anemones, again with dignity, spit her out. “Our food is small and still. You are large and fast. We are not adept at killing, only digesting. Kind thanks for the donation, but we must return your gift of yourself… to yourself.” Biff and Odessa sat, hovering above the helm of the ship. Not speaking, not moving, barely breathing. Exhausted with the weight of it all.
“You are odd visitors to us” the voice said. “Such big opinions on such simple things. Life, death, fish, and men.” “Is it simple?” Biff asked. The anemones replied, “We sit, we eat, we live. When we are through we will die. We, like the passengers on the ship, will be forgotten.”
********
Dear Mr. Echoes,
I realize it’s been some time since I’ve written you. I apologize for the delay in letters, and in pages, but I’ve run up against a sort of personal dilemma. It’s a silly quandary really, and I know this, but it has none the less trained my eye far away from our dear Odessa and has me focusing instead on much more inane matters.
It began in the library. Libraries, at least in my mind, have always been sacred romantic places. Like museums. My love for the written word is only enhanced by the intensity of emotions I feel when my olfactory senses kick in and instead of reading words I begin to smell the ink with which they were printed. Its as if my imagination can distinguish the hormones sinking from the fingerprints of the man who typed the word “delicious” or “candid” as he left behind a trace amount of scent, colored by his very biology, in the text of the book.
That is why I love libraries. It begins with the myriad of scents, coupled with the sight of books upon books upon shelves piled high, and then marries to the textures of heavy grainy paper- thick paper is like heavy bread, healthy. This is what a library should be! Books should be sitting on mahogany! Or at least on wood!
But they are not. And that is the root of my troubles.
It is hard, my friend, not to grow cynical with the world for not living up to my visions of integrity. I feel so heavy with the sterility of it all! Museums are free from dust! Except of course the dust that is neatly packed into glass cylinders and labeled with plastic plaques. Why can they not let the dust at least live in the oddly shaped medicine bottles that once littered the apothecaries desk!
Biff’s greatest disappointment is to come to the sight of death and find no signs of mortality. My greatest disappointment is to come to a hall of records and find no signs of history.
I will find a way to reconcile my research and my romance, but I may need some time. I will write as soon as I can. Until then Biff and Odessa will remain perched on the verge of open ocean with adventure precariously looming.
Best in Actions,
Sebastian
The seal lion was following the salmon no doubt. I can only imagine he stopped at the Sophia for a snack when he saw Biff, but upon closer examination found her distinctly unappealing. The sea lion declined to give any details on his prior whereabouts, or his intended destination. And who can blame him? Sea lions are notorious for their precarious behavior, teasing young diving birds often to the point of emotional disturbance. One young alcid never recovered from the taunting he received in Gastineau Channel by a rapscallion pup. That particular bird migrated north and failed to return for three years, at that point too shy and inexperienced to find a mate. Because of this reputation even kindly and honorable sea lions are often discriminated against. Whether this sea lion belonged to the school of the honorable or the wicked remains to be seen. What is clear is that the sea lion was both precocious and wise. The conversation was brief. Who are you and where have you come from. For even a rowdy sea lion could identify the travelers were misplaced. When he heard the words ‘Auke Bay’ he enthusiastically, relayed the story of the storm. There was no need for Odessa to doubt the information, only the motivation behind such a gleeful and detailed recounting of it. On either account had the sea lion not arrived, she might have never known.
“Great tragedies befall those who cling too dearly, and often only the sea herself is left at fault.” The words echoed in Odessa’s ears for many hours as she contemplated the loss of her family. She had grown up knowing the dangers of travel; she had come to accept the air of fatality lingering about her as she roamed. But it came as a great shock to learn of the carnage that befell her home.
Odessa had grown up at the 12-foot mark of an intertidal piling. A large pillar as it were, the diameter at 16 inches was large enough to isolate westward facing barnacles from their eastward, and thus inland, facing neighbors. And even though the two never knew each other first-hand there was a certain rivalry between them. The westward facing barnacles gloated on their view of the sea and the sun, while the inland facing barnacles reveled in how few deaths occurred due to evaporation or predation. And while it was true that the westward facing barnacles lost a few each day to the terrors of exposure, they reassured themselves with the fact that a life well lived was worth the risk of death, while a life hidden away was in fact not worth living.
Odessa was a westward facing barnacle. I suppose she took the credo much more to heart than her neighboring community had hoped. It nearly destroyed her family the first time she merely mentioned the prospect of undersea exploration. In fact, it was the day she mentioned her eventual intention to travel that one of her siblings was devoured by a hungry raven. The family blamed her, tacitly of course, for stirring up bad air.
It had been rumored for years that one day a storm would come that would trouble the westward facing barnacles… though few, even among the inland community, put much stock in its validity. For barnacles are commonly the only survivors of the fiercest hurricanes. And it was certainly not the assumption of the barnacles that the dock itself, their home, would ultimately grind them into a fine dust tinged purple for mixing with the shells of the resident mussels. You see, the piling that the barnacles resided on plunged directly into the sea below, but it did so through a carefully instructed 24 by 24 inch square hole cut through the wooden dock. The dock was free to rise and fall with the tides, as was the ramp connected to it, so that it might be accessible despite the daily lunar tug. A typical Alaskan railing, wooden, mossy, guarded the hole around the piling, damp, but extremely durable. Never before in the history of barnacles living on this piling- and to ask the barnacles their history is to beg a very long story- had there been contact between railing and piling. The communities were separate, civil, but separate. The railing, being permanently exposed to air, was free of barnacles. Occasionally a crab would ride on it, and often it acted as a resting spot for cold beer and other human victuals, the banister’s only permanent residents were immobile, laconic, sea lice. So the barnacles historically viewed the railing as a danger only in that it provided an excellent perch for food-maddened sea gulls to pick off the blue mussels, an avian delicacy, and gobble them down. The barnacles were considered edible only in the direst of famines.
I digress. The October seas are dangerous in Southeast Alaska. Even the most nascent sailor has heard the tales of whipping winds and cruel maelstroms. This October proved to be an unusually tragic one for the small community. Under a 90 mile and hour gust, and at the height of an incoming wave the free floating dock was pushed off her normal course of rise and fall and made, for the first time, direct contact with the life encrusted piling. As the dock was pitched about in the torrential sea the heavy railing pulverized the westward facing side of the piling, scraping the metal clean of any creatures, young or old, and turning them into a silty powder to be blown about the pier. The communities living between the seven-foot mark and the eighteen-foot mark were in a single storm demolished.
With it went something of Odessa.
Do not let Odessa’s sentiment about the loss of her family distress you too much. It is important at this point in her timeline to give you a bit of information on why she was prone to leaving to begin with. Yes, her adventurous behavior combined with an ingrained pride in taking risks all influenced her desire to take to the sea, but for anyone who has taken an invertebrate zoology class you might remember a few shocking facts about the reproductive life of barnacles. For the sake of propriety I will omit the details and only allude to the fact that if all humans were as endowed as barnacles we wouldn’t need muscle cars or Harley Davidsons. In every species courtship is an issue- but Odessa was not prepared in her adolescence for the repeated probing her neighbors so unabashedly exhibited. Barnacles are stationary creatures. They keep their heads firmly planted on the ground leaving their waving feet to catch edible passersby, and keep their unmentionable region easily accessible for raucous nighttime behaviors.
This is a story about a barnacle. But like most good stories, it starts with something else. In this case our story starts with a fish. A flounder. A flounder who had lost the will to live.
Had she known how popular she was with the humans above she might not have felt so chronically morose. She was the single entertainment for a crew of six, who idly killed time between boat tours fishing off of the dock. To the flounder, who’s only goal in life was to end it, the continuous game of catch and release was too much to bear, and not enough to kill.
The barnacle, our barnacle, lived on this dock, amongst the many thousands of other barnacles who had been fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to have been spawned in the cool Alaskan waters of Auke Bay. This barnacle witnessed the attempted suicide numerous times before it began to acknowledge the event was tragedy instead of comedy. After all, none of the other barnacles found it strange, and without precedent for understanding death as morbid it took quite some time for this particular barnacle to form an opinion on the cheerless fish.
Barnacles are social creatures by nature. Prone to gossip and small talk with their ever present neighbors. The permanence of their geography makes it difficult for barnacles to politely bow out of conversations and most of them opt to embrace the constant company and keep up a near constant stream of belligerent chatter. The only Our barnacle, however, was not born with the gift of gab and having had all the meaningless conversations it could muster it took a vow of silence, swearing not to speak until it had something sincere to say. This barnacle, unlike its societal neighbors, looked forward to low tide more than any other time of day, the few precious hours when its world surfaced and noisy neighbors closed up tightly in their shells to avoid dehydration. In these precious hours of silence the barnacle had time to think. It was during one of these low tides that the barnacle decided it would speak to the fish.
“What’s you’re name?” the young barnacle asked. “I’m a flounder.”
“Yes, I know you’re a flounder, but what’s your name? What are you called?” “Nothing, no one cares enough about a flounder to give it a name.”
This puzzled the barnacle. For as long as it had been watching the moving world pass by, it had believed each of it’s creature had a name. It had comforted itself with this fact. The barnacle you see, desperately wanted a name, and had satiated it’s aching desire with the knowledge that once it managed mobility, a name would be soon to follow. It makes sense then, that in order to keep this worldview alive the barnacle approached the flounder’s lack of name not as a universal problem, but as the singular, and solvable problem of one very unhappy fish.
“Well, what do you want to be called?”
“Nothing. I want to die.”
“C’mon anything. I’ll call you anything you like.”
“Dinner.”
“Anything else.”
“Lunch.”
“I’m not calling you lunch.”
“Breakfast.”
“Stop it.”
“You said anything I wanted. I want to be called Breakfast.”
“I’ll call you Fast.”
“Call me Biff.”
There was no real reason to dislike the name. Yet something in the smugness with which the flounder picked it seemed suspicious, and unwilling to be the butt end of some joke the barnacle felt discomfort at dropping the issue with ‘Biff.’ So despite eagerness to name the fish the barnacle prodded on.
“That’s a boy name.”
“Can’t a flounder have a boy’s name?”
“Are you a boy?”
“I’m a flounder. “
“But are you a male flounder, or a female flounder?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Do you want to be a mother or a father?”
“Neither. I want to be Breakfast but that isn’t good enough for you.”
There was an awkward pause as the Barnacle looked at the flounder. Looked at Biff. Biff full of scars, rust marks on her chin, wanting so desperately to be bludgeoned and eaten. No one loved this pathetic example of fish. No one cherished its slimy scales. Biff was indeed a poor specimen of flounder, her eye not quite migrated over the top of her head was an indication of the fish’s status as a late bloomer. Her scales hung loose on her bare bones body, her flesh stringy and limp from repeated exposure to air. Abandoned as a small fry at the ocean’s edge Biff had no family or friends to inspire her to greatness, or to inspire her to anything.
The barnacle began to consider: maybe Biff would be better off as Breakfast, although given her current physical state it didn’t appear that any animal lacking a tetanus shot would be willing to eat her. With that morbid thought in the barnacle’s head another hook with a shiny pink lure dropped into the water beside them.
“Are you going to eat that?” The barnacle asked Biff. “It only throws you back.” The fish replied. The lure began to jingle in the water. Someone up there was jigging. The barnacle watched. Biff watched. The two entranced, as sea creatures are apt to be, in the strange dance. “Biff?” The barnacle whispered. No answer. “Biff…?” It whispered again. But it was too late. Biff, in a sudden change of heart, went dashing after the pink hoochie swallowed it hook line and sinker, closed her eyes and began the violent ascent. She cleared the surface. The barnacle sighed, counted to ten, and Plop! Biff came sinking back down in the water awash in a tragic sense of déjà vu.
Humans cry. Fish cannot. Their bodies are in constant symbiosis with the ocean. Their meticulous systems continuously assessing the salient permeation of the environment in which it lives. A body this connected with salt water has no knowledge of individual tears. But as close as a fish ever came to crying was Biff after her sixth failed suicide attempt that morning. No soul could be more tortured than one that cannot even properly die.
Barnacles are not known to be emotional creatures. They lack both heart and brain, but we’ll overlook that for the purposes of this story. For interwoven somewhere into its physiology this barnacle was different, and as Biff’s body awash with teary water began to sink the barnacle felt the most intense twinge. It had been overwhelmed with something no barnacle before had ever been faced with- compassion.
“I think Biff suits you. It’s a strong name. Which is awfully good for us because it will take a good strong disposition like yours to get us through this ocean.” “Pardon?” Biff replied, stopping her moribund decent, albeit briefly. “Well,” shouted down the eloquent barnacle “I’ve been searching all day for the perfect companion to carry my into this ocean, and you are easily more qualified than any of the other fish who’s passed by. You’ve been training, I see, in the fine sport of travel. And have been wildly successful, for a bottom feeding fish, in withstanding the great pressures of these waters. Yes, I insist that you accompany me on my journey; no other fish has your qualifications, or your strong name, or such tenacity in the face of death. Are you ready then? The tide is falling and we haven’t much time to get me off this rock!”
Biff, perplexed at first, attempted to resist this offer, but flounder are not bright fish and given an order, or a shiny lure, have a tendency to follow. The barnacle, meanwhile had not intended to leave its post, but the words rolled easily off its tongue because they were, in fact, quite true. Biff might have been the perfect ride for this barnacle. She was quite fearless of the dangers of open ocean. Many other flounder might have found resistance in fear. Yet as the barnacle had illuminated Biff did not struggle with cowardice, and with nothing to fear Biff had nothing to hold her back. Without much hesitation she agreed to go.
*******
Dear Mr. Echoes,
To write this book I had to become a sociologist of invertebrates. Spending long hours studying not merely the anatomy and physiology of the barnacle population, but of far grater importance, I studied their interactions with each other. It took some time to determine that it was in fact a barnacle who was charismatic enough to lead this story. Many others fought for Odessa’s position. One particularly charming character was a mayfly I met in my early twenties. He died quite quickly but was periodically and repeatedly replaced with his descendants, who had very little knowledge themselves of just how much life time they were wasting convincing me to center my novel around them. Sweet line of mayflies. I believe tenacity was a genetic trait with them, otherwise they’d have never found the time to spend on me and still successfully mate.
But it was, in the end, a barnacle who captured my heartstrings. I believe that it was due in large part, however, to the contrast between a stationary barnacle and my beloved Auke Bay Flounder. Biff- now identified and seeking treatment for depression with a very successful therapist aboard the Princess Sofia shipwreck- was a true inspiration for working on this book. Daily she would appear gasping for death, and daily we would throw her back. Hoping that she would understand that it was not out of malice that we turned her away, but out of sheer artistic potential. Any animal with that level of commitment was destined for great things. To be honest, if she were plump and healthy, and had we not been working at the time, it is likely that Biff's wish for death might have been fulfilled. My cohorts and I are not above tenderly roasting and eating a fine flounder in a light lemon butter and white wine sauce. Biff, however, was slightly less than succulent. To eat her would have been to choke on her, not to mention to invoke the premature end to what has the potential to be an interesting story.
Odessa and Biff were meant to leave Auke Bay. I was happy to create an adventure for them. The mayfly, after all, would never have survived chapter one.
Left Sincerely,
Sebastian
Gulls, ravens, the occasional bear or dog, have all attempted to pry unwilling barnacles from their roosts. The task is so taxing that the barnacle’s post in the inter-tidal food web is almost non-existent. Barnacles glue themselves to flat surfaces when they are young. So young that few barnacle remember the experience of being a free floating polyp. Their memories typically begin to form about the time they develop the sticky adhesive which they are constantly reinforcing with old age. It is in the life story of all barnacles, no matter how much ignorance they may feign on the issue, to undergo a period of wandering and uncertainty. A time period where their small pre-exoskeleton bodies are at the mercy of the tides and the luck of the ocean dwelling gods. They say- and by they I mean the higher ups in the barnacle world- that barnacles do not remember this stage in life because the skills gathered in wandering are unnecessary in mature life. The experience is traumatic, they claim, and the great Mother Nature has blessed them with ignorance of the experience.
Occasionally some poor soul comes along who remembers the dark nights of free floating. They are barnacles driven mad with memory, pariahs of the community for their constant raving during spawning nights. They live on the fringes of the barnacle world, with no suitors and few friends. Our barnacle, unbeknownst to her friends and family was one of those barnacles, with the memory of freedom.
I mention this now because it is pertinent to the little barnacle’s escape from the Auke Bay piling. Most barnacles would have been inexorably stuck to their homes. This barnacle was not. With the memory of free floating life still alive this particular barnacle had defied society and taken the greatest risk a barnacle could- save letting go entirely- the brave invertebrate had neglected to reinforce her glue, thus making it possible for Biff, with relative ease, to pry the barnacle free from its rusty home and resituate it delicately on her cheek, precisely where her eye might have been, had it properly migrated.
The barnacle, being quite crafty, had intentionally sought out his particular position. The two attempted to fool the dangers of deeper water by convincing them that Biff was as mature as any other flounder. With the barnacle perched atop the flounder’s forehead it looked precisely like a fully migrated eye. Happy to play the part of a living eye the barnacle would even flutter her shell slightly from time to time in an attempt to mimic a dilating eye. Unbeknownst to them, it was Biff’s immaturity provided for them a great boon, not their mimicry. While predators might have assumed she was blind to the water below, Biff’s eyesight was in fact quite keen in that direction. With Odessa’s additional attention to detail topside the two were more than adequately equipped to identify any struggles that lay ahead in open water- a journey both flounders and barnacles are typically hindered against by their anatomy. They did not know, of course, that their blundering attempt to cover up Biff’s “disability” brought them such a vantage point- but then there is a great deal of luck necessary to survive adventures at sea. The two at least began their journey with this.
********
“So, do you have a name?” Biff asked the barnacle. It had been nearly three hours since the two left the intertidal zone, and with the longevity of their situation sinking in Biff had opted to attempt some of the pleasantries she had abandoned in her bottom feeding life. The barnacle knew very little of the flounder’s former social life having only witnessed her attempted deaths, and she did not know that this moment represented an enormous therapeutic breakthrough for the dismal fish. Biff, like the barnacle, had avoided making small talk in her former life. She had believed that any information she gained would have been in vain given her impending death. What Biff’s question represented was a newfound believe that she might live out the day. A belief that Biff had not held since she was quite quite small.
Had the barnacle known this it would have certainly taken the opportunity to congratulate Biff on her breakthrough, it was after all one of the world’s unlikely sympathetic barnacle’s. But that conversation the two strangers were still quite some distance from.
They were, however, at the apropos moment to discuss an issue very near and dear to the barnacle’s heart- a name. Biff, just as ignorant of the barnacles life as it was of hers, had asked the magic question. The question that the patient barnacle had been waiting to hear for quite some time.
The water of Auke Bay is relatively clear compared to the glacially carved fjords of Southeast Alaska. It is a well named body of water- Auke being the Tlingit word for peaceful or tranquil. The Tlingits colonized the shores for many generations, fishing, gathering mussels and edible seaweeds. Had Biff lived at the height of the people her death wish would have been quickly carried out. They were, and are, a resourceful and shrewd people. No fish seeking death would want for a belly to rest. The water in the bay is protected from wind which keeps the silt settled and the crabs content with wallowing muck. Outside of the bay wind is a greater force to contend with. Mother Nature created a safe haven when she gave birth to Auke Bay, she created no protection for those who choose to leave it.
“My name is Odessa,” The barnacle said as the two passed out of the bay and, for the first time in either of their lives, entered into open ocean.
******
Dear Mr. Echoes,
Something amazing happened to me today. I was searching through Darwin’s texts and I found a block print plate of a group of flowers. I wanted to include them as some sort of artwork for our project… After nearly mutilating the book with copy machines and scanners the very simple, and haunting result was this-
It isn’t a finished piece of artwork by any means, but in the strangest way it- like this book- is the shadow of something real. It is entirely unique, having passed from the literal flower to the mind of Darwin, to the hands of the print maker and under the scrutiny of the publisher, and then one hundred and fifty years after the small treatise was written on this flower I revived its shadow on a piece of parchment paper doused in acetone. I resurrected it as an afterthought to a new text. Is not this story the same thing? Something real that has existed far longer than you or I have, embellished with curiosity and then infused with artistry? Isn’t that what we are seeking to accomplish by writing this story to begin with? Are we not through a rather simple and childlike plotline working our hardest to resurrect the shadows of a long forgotten history and a dull biology? We in that regard, are like the image of the flower.
Best in thoughts,
Sebastian
Chapter 2-
Barnacles are remarkably resilient creatures. Accustomed to the constant pounding of great waves against their fragile shells. They take pride in this fact, often touting it as a credo to the passing fish diving to escape a dangerous incoming tide. The brassiest of barnacles laughs at the scuttling crabs retreating toward the depths as the barnacles themselves are thrust upward toward the most dangerous of all elements: air. But for this barnacle, our barnacle, sinking closer and closer to the submerged shadow of the Princess Sofia shipwreck, she doubted the strength of her carefully constructed shield. The pressure of the ocean grew greater, and her nerves began to shake. Do not despair, for our barnacle was never a typical barnacle; and unlike her chalky counter parts she had prepared herself for an adventure greater than even the lowest tides, fortifying her shield, for reasons at the time that were merely dreams of an unknown future. This memory, of herself as a young optimistic and cautious barnacle, comforted her as Biff’s scaly body settled onto the deck below.
“This is an awfully big adventure we’ve started on,” whispered Odessa. But Biff didn’t answer. She was preoccupied, yet again, with the contemplation of death, and when the barnacle addressed one of the three thousand anemones on the wreck, they hardly responded, continuing instead to wave idly in the currents, subtly destroying the last remnants of what was once a very proud ship.
Although our bold fish knew very little about the shipwreck of the Princess Sofia the same was not true of Odessa. The world above had been inadvertently tutoring this ambitious invertebrate. The dock she had been lodged on for so many years was a small vessel port where vacationers met to travel the waters of the inside passage. Odessa often listened to the stories told by the passersbye and the guides. The world above filled her mind not only with the facts that any tour guide might spew toward an overgrowing industry, but also filled it with stories and mythologies of a land littered with inconstants.
Alaska is a temperamental land. The Princess Sofia is evidence of that. She sank on October 26th 1918 in the height of a winter storm and took 364 people down with her. Odessa explained this to Biff as they traveled toward the ruins on Vanderbilt Reef. Biff cracked an inkling of a smile when she learned of the devastation, and swam a bit faster when Odessa explained that more Alaskans died in the incident than in the greatest of their above ground wars.
The quiet at that depth is deafening. Odessa had never experienced such oppressive silence and was overwhelmingly relieved when Biff spoke. “It isn’t as eerie as I expected a shipwreck to be. Not like a graveyard at all.” Biff announced seeming downright disappointed. “There are no bones. No bodies. There is no devastation at all.” Odessa listened intently to this, eager to distract her mind from the pressure threatening her soft internal body, and she noticed the distinct change in Biff’s tone when she went on to say- “This place isn’t littered with death, it’s littered with Gone. Like death, only… afterward.”
The fish was correct. This shipwreck was almost unrecognizable as a vessel. The ship had long since split its bow from stern, the hull itself had peeled away becoming a reef for deep cold water animals. The anemones had so fully colonized the wreck that there was not a hard surface in sight. No rough decks for Biff to slide her fragile body across, no sharp edges to impale her pathetically morbid heart, despite her persistent scans for them. Long before our travelers visit to the sight of such tragedy men encased in metal suits, seeking breath from heavy iron diving bells, had stripped this wreck of her history. They had gathered up the jewels, the spoons, the chairs and cushions, even the numbers from the stateroom doors, and had carried them back to the world above to be scattered about the world. In an effort to preserve the memory of the ship and its passengers the men had only succeeded in scattering the tragedy into such frailty that it was no longer recognizable as a cohesive event. It was diluted by the world- a piece of petticoat sent to a relative in Montana, a diary to a bereaved widow in Vancouver, each artifact removed from Alaska failed to return. The remains of the Princess Sofia looked like the translucent shadow of a ship, bereft of any signs of her former life.
“What do you mean Gone?” Odessa asked, more in an effort to continue conversation than to gain insight. Biff may have been disappointed in the ghastliness of the ships remains, but Odessa who knew the stories was more thoroughly impressed with its memory. She was petrified. “There’s no carnage, no destruction left. I guess … I always imagined that death was permanent. But it isn’t. It’s only the Gone… the not being anymore, that is permanent. Death is short lived. “
“I see.”
“Odessa?”
“Yes Biff?”
“What do we have to live for?”
“For this.” Odessa replied “To fill the Gone.”
With that, in their moment of greatest sincerity, a moment when perhaps Biff might have been swayed to forsake this notion of death and find a reason to live, the moment, if there was ever to be such a moment, for Odessa and Biff to talk about Biff’s persistent obsession with mortality and to help her grasp a more hopeful life view, in this precious moment they were crudely interrupted by a massive school of sex obsessed sockeye salmon. They erupted like fifteen year old boys let out of school early and given free passes to a girlie film. They came flying through the anemone forest screaming with the stings as they demolished the gelatinous animals and yet hardly slowed down with the pain. These were fish on mission. That mission? Spawn till we die.
Odessa and Biff were hurled into the school bouncing back and forth between the salacious fish. They were smashed and beat, awkwardly rubbed and pseudo-violated, then ensnared by a group of rowdy males who demanded to know in almost choral unison “How far to fresh water, and how do we get your eggs?!” One lewd female even flipped Biff over once, twice, three times, trying to find some sign of gender, but knowing little of flounder anatomy came to the conclusion and loudly announced that “the weird shaped salmon has no genitals!” The salmon rolling and spasmodic immediately abandoned the petrified fish, and as quickly as the liquid orgy began it rushed on leaving our two travelers very very dazed.
Biff, her eyes bugging with violation, her heart screaming with embarrassment, and her body insane with jealousy, barely managed to whisper the words “I quit” before she began to violently sink toward the poisonous anemone bed below.
Odessa panicked. She began rapidly shouting to Biff not to do it, to find the reason to go on living, not to sacrifice them both to a painful end within the brutal arms of complacent anemones! Did she not understand?! Odessa implored as they sank. Did she not see that they were destined for great things! The words rolled from her passionate barnacle mouth, but even the most articulate barnacle could not, and did not, persuade this intransigent fish to forgo her attempt at suicide. With opaque arms outstretched the anemones seemed to be gesturing the fish toward their tiny mouths.
In the brief moment before contact Odessa, unable without the aid of Biff to release her firm grip on the scaly cheek, saw her life flash before her eyes. She saw her days as a polyp free floating through the sea, gleeful with freedom and daring. She recounted her life amongst barnacle society, and the friends and family she left behind. She revisited Biff being lurched over and over from water to air in her continued attempts at death. And she commemorated the moment, only days earlier when she and Biff began this adventure, and the moment she chose her name. By the time Biff made contact with the first anemone Odessa had made peace with life.
Biff’s body jerked and tensed with the stings. The anemone fingers grabbing her and injecting her with an unseen toxin, beginning the process of digestion. Biff lurched with pain ready for the end, and was immediately disappointed. The anemones managed, with some dignity, to spit her out.
“You are not food.” Their collective voice stated calmly. “Pray do not accost us until you have thoroughly decomposed to edible size. Do not tease us with the promise of food, or yourself with the promise of afterlife. ” Biff, crazed with the experience, turned a deaf ear the polite creatures. She thrust herself once more toward floral death, and forsaking her earlier drifting motion she swam full force toward the promise of paralysis. The sting ran through her body and the anemones, again with dignity, spit her out. “Our food is small and still. You are large and fast. We are not adept at killing, only digesting. Kind thanks for the donation, but we must return your gift of yourself… to yourself.” Biff and Odessa sat, hovering above the helm of the ship. Not speaking, not moving, barely breathing. Exhausted with the weight of it all.
“You are odd visitors to us” the voice said. “Such big opinions on such simple things. Life, death, fish, and men.” “Is it simple?” Biff asked. The anemones replied, “We sit, we eat, we live. When we are through we will die. We, like the passengers on the ship, will be forgotten.”
********
Dear Mr. Echoes,
I realize it’s been some time since I’ve written you. I apologize for the delay in letters, and in pages, but I’ve run up against a sort of personal dilemma. It’s a silly quandary really, and I know this, but it has none the less trained my eye far away from our dear Odessa and has me focusing instead on much more inane matters.
It began in the library. Libraries, at least in my mind, have always been sacred romantic places. Like museums. My love for the written word is only enhanced by the intensity of emotions I feel when my olfactory senses kick in and instead of reading words I begin to smell the ink with which they were printed. Its as if my imagination can distinguish the hormones sinking from the fingerprints of the man who typed the word “delicious” or “candid” as he left behind a trace amount of scent, colored by his very biology, in the text of the book.
That is why I love libraries. It begins with the myriad of scents, coupled with the sight of books upon books upon shelves piled high, and then marries to the textures of heavy grainy paper- thick paper is like heavy bread, healthy. This is what a library should be! Books should be sitting on mahogany! Or at least on wood!
But they are not. And that is the root of my troubles.
It is hard, my friend, not to grow cynical with the world for not living up to my visions of integrity. I feel so heavy with the sterility of it all! Museums are free from dust! Except of course the dust that is neatly packed into glass cylinders and labeled with plastic plaques. Why can they not let the dust at least live in the oddly shaped medicine bottles that once littered the apothecaries desk!
Biff’s greatest disappointment is to come to the sight of death and find no signs of mortality. My greatest disappointment is to come to a hall of records and find no signs of history.
I will find a way to reconcile my research and my romance, but I may need some time. I will write as soon as I can. Until then Biff and Odessa will remain perched on the verge of open ocean with adventure precariously looming.
Best in Actions,
Sebastian
The seal lion was following the salmon no doubt. I can only imagine he stopped at the Sophia for a snack when he saw Biff, but upon closer examination found her distinctly unappealing. The sea lion declined to give any details on his prior whereabouts, or his intended destination. And who can blame him? Sea lions are notorious for their precarious behavior, teasing young diving birds often to the point of emotional disturbance. One young alcid never recovered from the taunting he received in Gastineau Channel by a rapscallion pup. That particular bird migrated north and failed to return for three years, at that point too shy and inexperienced to find a mate. Because of this reputation even kindly and honorable sea lions are often discriminated against. Whether this sea lion belonged to the school of the honorable or the wicked remains to be seen. What is clear is that the sea lion was both precocious and wise. The conversation was brief. Who are you and where have you come from. For even a rowdy sea lion could identify the travelers were misplaced. When he heard the words ‘Auke Bay’ he enthusiastically, relayed the story of the storm. There was no need for Odessa to doubt the information, only the motivation behind such a gleeful and detailed recounting of it. On either account had the sea lion not arrived, she might have never known.
“Great tragedies befall those who cling too dearly, and often only the sea herself is left at fault.” The words echoed in Odessa’s ears for many hours as she contemplated the loss of her family. She had grown up knowing the dangers of travel; she had come to accept the air of fatality lingering about her as she roamed. But it came as a great shock to learn of the carnage that befell her home.
Odessa had grown up at the 12-foot mark of an intertidal piling. A large pillar as it were, the diameter at 16 inches was large enough to isolate westward facing barnacles from their eastward, and thus inland, facing neighbors. And even though the two never knew each other first-hand there was a certain rivalry between them. The westward facing barnacles gloated on their view of the sea and the sun, while the inland facing barnacles reveled in how few deaths occurred due to evaporation or predation. And while it was true that the westward facing barnacles lost a few each day to the terrors of exposure, they reassured themselves with the fact that a life well lived was worth the risk of death, while a life hidden away was in fact not worth living.
Odessa was a westward facing barnacle. I suppose she took the credo much more to heart than her neighboring community had hoped. It nearly destroyed her family the first time she merely mentioned the prospect of undersea exploration. In fact, it was the day she mentioned her eventual intention to travel that one of her siblings was devoured by a hungry raven. The family blamed her, tacitly of course, for stirring up bad air.
It had been rumored for years that one day a storm would come that would trouble the westward facing barnacles… though few, even among the inland community, put much stock in its validity. For barnacles are commonly the only survivors of the fiercest hurricanes. And it was certainly not the assumption of the barnacles that the dock itself, their home, would ultimately grind them into a fine dust tinged purple for mixing with the shells of the resident mussels. You see, the piling that the barnacles resided on plunged directly into the sea below, but it did so through a carefully instructed 24 by 24 inch square hole cut through the wooden dock. The dock was free to rise and fall with the tides, as was the ramp connected to it, so that it might be accessible despite the daily lunar tug. A typical Alaskan railing, wooden, mossy, guarded the hole around the piling, damp, but extremely durable. Never before in the history of barnacles living on this piling- and to ask the barnacles their history is to beg a very long story- had there been contact between railing and piling. The communities were separate, civil, but separate. The railing, being permanently exposed to air, was free of barnacles. Occasionally a crab would ride on it, and often it acted as a resting spot for cold beer and other human victuals, the banister’s only permanent residents were immobile, laconic, sea lice. So the barnacles historically viewed the railing as a danger only in that it provided an excellent perch for food-maddened sea gulls to pick off the blue mussels, an avian delicacy, and gobble them down. The barnacles were considered edible only in the direst of famines.
I digress. The October seas are dangerous in Southeast Alaska. Even the most nascent sailor has heard the tales of whipping winds and cruel maelstroms. This October proved to be an unusually tragic one for the small community. Under a 90 mile and hour gust, and at the height of an incoming wave the free floating dock was pushed off her normal course of rise and fall and made, for the first time, direct contact with the life encrusted piling. As the dock was pitched about in the torrential sea the heavy railing pulverized the westward facing side of the piling, scraping the metal clean of any creatures, young or old, and turning them into a silty powder to be blown about the pier. The communities living between the seven-foot mark and the eighteen-foot mark were in a single storm demolished.
With it went something of Odessa.
Do not let Odessa’s sentiment about the loss of her family distress you too much. It is important at this point in her timeline to give you a bit of information on why she was prone to leaving to begin with. Yes, her adventurous behavior combined with an ingrained pride in taking risks all influenced her desire to take to the sea, but for anyone who has taken an invertebrate zoology class you might remember a few shocking facts about the reproductive life of barnacles. For the sake of propriety I will omit the details and only allude to the fact that if all humans were as endowed as barnacles we wouldn’t need muscle cars or Harley Davidsons. In every species courtship is an issue- but Odessa was not prepared in her adolescence for the repeated probing her neighbors so unabashedly exhibited. Barnacles are stationary creatures. They keep their heads firmly planted on the ground leaving their waving feet to catch edible passersby, and keep their unmentionable region easily accessible for raucous nighttime behaviors.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Reality and Romance
Dear Mr. Echoes,
I realize it’s been some time since I’ve written you. I apologize for the delay in letters, and in pages, but I’ve run up against a sort of personal dilemma. It’s a silly quandary really, and I know this, but it has none the less trained my eye far away from our dear Odessa and has me focusing instead on much more inane matters.
It began in the library. Libraries, at least in my mind, have always been sacred romantic places. Like museums. My love for the written word is only enhanced by the intensity of emotions I feel when my olfactory senses kick in and instead of reading words I begin to smell the ink with which they were printed. Its as if my imagination can distinguish the hormones sinking from the fingerprints of the man who typed the word “delicious” or “candid” and he left behind a trace amount of scent, colored by his very biology, in the text of the book.
That is why I love libraries. It begins with the myriad of scents, coupled with the sight of books upon books upon shelves piled high, and then marries to the textures of heavy grainy paper- in my mind the paper is thick with goodness like heavy bread. This is what a library should be! Books should be sitting on mahogany! Or at least on wood! But they are not. And that is the root of my troubles.
It is hard, my friend, not to grow cynical with the world for not living up to my visions of integrity. I feel so heavy with the sterility of it all! Museums are free from dust! Except of course the dust that is neatly packed into glass cylinders and labeled with plastic plaques. Why can they not let the dust at least live in the oddly shaped medicine bottles that once littered the apothecaries desk!
Biff’s greatest disappointment is to come to the sight of death and find no signs of mortality. My greatest disappointment is to come to a hall of records and find no signs of history.
I will find a way to reconcile my research and my romance, but I may need some time. I will write as soon as I can. Until then Biff and Odessa will remain perched on the verge of open ocean with adventure precariously looming.
Best in Actions,
Sebastian
I realize it’s been some time since I’ve written you. I apologize for the delay in letters, and in pages, but I’ve run up against a sort of personal dilemma. It’s a silly quandary really, and I know this, but it has none the less trained my eye far away from our dear Odessa and has me focusing instead on much more inane matters.
It began in the library. Libraries, at least in my mind, have always been sacred romantic places. Like museums. My love for the written word is only enhanced by the intensity of emotions I feel when my olfactory senses kick in and instead of reading words I begin to smell the ink with which they were printed. Its as if my imagination can distinguish the hormones sinking from the fingerprints of the man who typed the word “delicious” or “candid” and he left behind a trace amount of scent, colored by his very biology, in the text of the book.
That is why I love libraries. It begins with the myriad of scents, coupled with the sight of books upon books upon shelves piled high, and then marries to the textures of heavy grainy paper- in my mind the paper is thick with goodness like heavy bread. This is what a library should be! Books should be sitting on mahogany! Or at least on wood! But they are not. And that is the root of my troubles.
It is hard, my friend, not to grow cynical with the world for not living up to my visions of integrity. I feel so heavy with the sterility of it all! Museums are free from dust! Except of course the dust that is neatly packed into glass cylinders and labeled with plastic plaques. Why can they not let the dust at least live in the oddly shaped medicine bottles that once littered the apothecaries desk!
Biff’s greatest disappointment is to come to the sight of death and find no signs of mortality. My greatest disappointment is to come to a hall of records and find no signs of history.
I will find a way to reconcile my research and my romance, but I may need some time. I will write as soon as I can. Until then Biff and Odessa will remain perched on the verge of open ocean with adventure precariously looming.
Best in Actions,
Sebastian
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The Princess Sofia and what lay around her
Barnacles are remarkably resilient creatures. Accustomed to the constant pounding of great waves against their fragile shells. They take pride in this fact, often touting it as a credo to the passing fish diving to escape a dangerous incoming tide. The brassiest of barnacles laughs at the scuttling crabs retreating toward the depths as the barnacles themselves are thrust upward toward the most dangerous of all elements: air. But for this barnacle, our barnacle, sinking closer and closer to the submerged shadow of the Princess Sofia, she doubted the strength of her carefully constructed shield. The pressure of the ocean grew greater, and her nerves began to shake. Do not despair, however, for our barnacle was never a typical barnacle; and unlike her chalky stagnant counter parts she had prepared herself for an adventure greater than even the lowest tides, fortifying her shield, for reasons at the time that were merely dreams of an unknown future. This memory, of herself as a young optimistic and cautious barnacle, comforted her as Biff’s scaly body settled onto the deck below.
“This is an awfully big adventure we’ve started on,” whispered the barnacle.
But Biff didn’t answer. She was preoccupied, yet again, with the contemplation of death. And when the barnacle addressed one of the three thousand anemones on the wreck, they hardly responded, continuing instead to wave idly in the currents, subtly destroying the last remnants of what was once a very proud ship.
The quiet at that depth is deafening. Odessa had never experienced such oppressive silence and was overwhelmingly relieved when Biff finally spoke.
“It isn’t as eerie as I expected a shipwreck to be. Not like a graveyard at all.” Biff began seeming downright disappointed. “There are no bones. There are no remnants. There is no death at all.” Odessa listened intently to this, eager to distract her mind from the pressure threatening her soft internal body, and she noticed the distinct change in Biff’s tone when she continued to say- “This place is littered with Gone. It’s like death, only… afterward.”
The fish was correct. This shipwreck was almost unrecognizable as a vessel. The ship had long since split its bow from stern, the hull itself had peeled away becoming a reef for deep cold water animals. The anemones had so fully colonized the wreck that there was not a hard surface in sight. No decks for Biff to slide across, no sharp edges to impale her, despite her persistent scanning for them. Long before our travelers visit to the sight of such death men encased in metal suits, seeking breath from heavy iron diving bells, had stripped this wreck of her history. Gather up the jewels, the spoons, the chairs and cushions, even the numbers from the stateroom doors, and had carried them back to the world above. The Princess Sofia looked like the translucent shadow of a ship, bereft of any signs of previous life.
“What do you mean Gone?” Odessa asked, more in an effort to continue conversation than gain insight. “I mean that there is no carnage, there is no moment of death, no drama, no destruction! There is what happens when life has faded away. I guess … I always imagined that death was permanent. But it isn’t death that’s permanent. It’s only the Gone… the not being anymore, that is permanent. Death is short lived. “
“I see.”
“Odessa?”
“Yes Biff?”
“What do we have to live for?”
“For this.” Odessa replied “To fill the Gone.”
With that, in their moment of greatest sincerity, a moment when perhaps Biff might have been swayed to forsake this notion of death and find a reason to live, the moment, if there was ever to be such a moment, for Odessa and Biff to talk about Biff’s persistent obsession with mortality, they were crudely interrupted by a massive school of insanely sex driven sockeye salmon. They erupted like fifteen year old boys let out of school early and given free passes to a girlie film. They came flying through the anemone forest screaming with the stings as they demolished the gelatinous animals and yet hardly slowed down with the pain. These were fish on mission. That mission? Spawn till we die.
Odessa and Biff were hurled into the school bouncing back and forth between the salacious fish. They were smashed and beat, awkwardly rubbed and encircled, then ensnared by a group of rowdy males who demanded to know in almost choral unison “How far to fresh water, and how do we get your eggs?!” One lewd female even flipped Biff over once, twice, three times, trying to find some sign of gender, but knowing little of flounder anatomy came to the conclusion and loudly announced that “the weird shaped salmon has no genitals!” The salmon rolling and spasmodic immediately abandoned the petrified fish, and as quickly as the liquid orgy began it rushed on leaving our two travelers very very dazed.
Biff, her eyes bugging with violation, her heart screaming with embarrassment, and her body dying with jealousy, barely managed to whisper the words “I quit” before she began to violently sink toward the anemone bed below.
Odessa panicked. She began rapidly shouting to Biff not to do it, to find the reason to go on living, not to sacrifice them both to a painful end within the brutal arms of complacent anemones! Did she not understand, Odessa implored as they sank. Did she not see that they were destined for great things! That the were at least destined for things! The words rolled and rolled from her passionate barnacle mouth, but even the most articulate barnacle could not, and did not, suede this fish to forgo and almost certain attempt at suicide. With waving milky arms outstretched the anemones seemed to be gesturing the fish toward their tiny mouths. In the brief moment before contact Odessa, unable without the aid of Biff to release her firm grip on the scaly cheek, saw her life flash before her eyes. She saw her days as a polyp free floating through the sea. She recounted her life amongst barnacle society, and the friends and family she left behind. She revisited Biff being lurched over and over from water to air in her continued attempt at death, and she commemorated the moment, only days earlier when she and Biff began this adventure, and the moment she chose her name. When Biff made contact with the first anemone Odessa had made peace with life.
Biff’s body jerked and tensed with the stings. The anemone fingers grabbing her and injecting her with an unseen poison, and then… releasing her.
“You are not food.” The anemones stated calmly with their collective voice. “Why do you accost us?” Biff, determined, thrust herself once more toward floral death. Again the sting ran through her body and the anemones again spit her out. “Our food is small and still. You are large and fast. Until the sea has dispersed you, you shall not feed us. Kindly leave us be.” Biff failed to respond. Odessa, in a state of half-zen, waited patiently for her fate to be determined. They sat, hovering above the helm. Not speaking, not moving, barely breathing. Exhausted with the weight of it all.
“You are odd visitors to us” the voices said. “Such big opinions on such simple things. Life, death, fish, and men.” “Is it simple?” Biff asked. “Of course,” the anemones replied, “We sit, we eat, we live. When we are through we will die. We, like the passengers on the ship, will be forgotten.”
“This is an awfully big adventure we’ve started on,” whispered the barnacle.
But Biff didn’t answer. She was preoccupied, yet again, with the contemplation of death. And when the barnacle addressed one of the three thousand anemones on the wreck, they hardly responded, continuing instead to wave idly in the currents, subtly destroying the last remnants of what was once a very proud ship.
The quiet at that depth is deafening. Odessa had never experienced such oppressive silence and was overwhelmingly relieved when Biff finally spoke.
“It isn’t as eerie as I expected a shipwreck to be. Not like a graveyard at all.” Biff began seeming downright disappointed. “There are no bones. There are no remnants. There is no death at all.” Odessa listened intently to this, eager to distract her mind from the pressure threatening her soft internal body, and she noticed the distinct change in Biff’s tone when she continued to say- “This place is littered with Gone. It’s like death, only… afterward.”
The fish was correct. This shipwreck was almost unrecognizable as a vessel. The ship had long since split its bow from stern, the hull itself had peeled away becoming a reef for deep cold water animals. The anemones had so fully colonized the wreck that there was not a hard surface in sight. No decks for Biff to slide across, no sharp edges to impale her, despite her persistent scanning for them. Long before our travelers visit to the sight of such death men encased in metal suits, seeking breath from heavy iron diving bells, had stripped this wreck of her history. Gather up the jewels, the spoons, the chairs and cushions, even the numbers from the stateroom doors, and had carried them back to the world above. The Princess Sofia looked like the translucent shadow of a ship, bereft of any signs of previous life.
“What do you mean Gone?” Odessa asked, more in an effort to continue conversation than gain insight. “I mean that there is no carnage, there is no moment of death, no drama, no destruction! There is what happens when life has faded away. I guess … I always imagined that death was permanent. But it isn’t death that’s permanent. It’s only the Gone… the not being anymore, that is permanent. Death is short lived. “
“I see.”
“Odessa?”
“Yes Biff?”
“What do we have to live for?”
“For this.” Odessa replied “To fill the Gone.”
With that, in their moment of greatest sincerity, a moment when perhaps Biff might have been swayed to forsake this notion of death and find a reason to live, the moment, if there was ever to be such a moment, for Odessa and Biff to talk about Biff’s persistent obsession with mortality, they were crudely interrupted by a massive school of insanely sex driven sockeye salmon. They erupted like fifteen year old boys let out of school early and given free passes to a girlie film. They came flying through the anemone forest screaming with the stings as they demolished the gelatinous animals and yet hardly slowed down with the pain. These were fish on mission. That mission? Spawn till we die.
Odessa and Biff were hurled into the school bouncing back and forth between the salacious fish. They were smashed and beat, awkwardly rubbed and encircled, then ensnared by a group of rowdy males who demanded to know in almost choral unison “How far to fresh water, and how do we get your eggs?!” One lewd female even flipped Biff over once, twice, three times, trying to find some sign of gender, but knowing little of flounder anatomy came to the conclusion and loudly announced that “the weird shaped salmon has no genitals!” The salmon rolling and spasmodic immediately abandoned the petrified fish, and as quickly as the liquid orgy began it rushed on leaving our two travelers very very dazed.
Biff, her eyes bugging with violation, her heart screaming with embarrassment, and her body dying with jealousy, barely managed to whisper the words “I quit” before she began to violently sink toward the anemone bed below.
Odessa panicked. She began rapidly shouting to Biff not to do it, to find the reason to go on living, not to sacrifice them both to a painful end within the brutal arms of complacent anemones! Did she not understand, Odessa implored as they sank. Did she not see that they were destined for great things! That the were at least destined for things! The words rolled and rolled from her passionate barnacle mouth, but even the most articulate barnacle could not, and did not, suede this fish to forgo and almost certain attempt at suicide. With waving milky arms outstretched the anemones seemed to be gesturing the fish toward their tiny mouths. In the brief moment before contact Odessa, unable without the aid of Biff to release her firm grip on the scaly cheek, saw her life flash before her eyes. She saw her days as a polyp free floating through the sea. She recounted her life amongst barnacle society, and the friends and family she left behind. She revisited Biff being lurched over and over from water to air in her continued attempt at death, and she commemorated the moment, only days earlier when she and Biff began this adventure, and the moment she chose her name. When Biff made contact with the first anemone Odessa had made peace with life.
Biff’s body jerked and tensed with the stings. The anemone fingers grabbing her and injecting her with an unseen poison, and then… releasing her.
“You are not food.” The anemones stated calmly with their collective voice. “Why do you accost us?” Biff, determined, thrust herself once more toward floral death. Again the sting ran through her body and the anemones again spit her out. “Our food is small and still. You are large and fast. Until the sea has dispersed you, you shall not feed us. Kindly leave us be.” Biff failed to respond. Odessa, in a state of half-zen, waited patiently for her fate to be determined. They sat, hovering above the helm. Not speaking, not moving, barely breathing. Exhausted with the weight of it all.
“You are odd visitors to us” the voices said. “Such big opinions on such simple things. Life, death, fish, and men.” “Is it simple?” Biff asked. “Of course,” the anemones replied, “We sit, we eat, we live. When we are through we will die. We, like the passengers on the ship, will be forgotten.”
Monday, November 3, 2008
The discovery of acetone flowers
Something amazing happened to me today. I was searching through Darwin’s texts and I found a block print plate of a group of flowers. I wanted to include them in some sort of artwork for our project… After nearly mutilating the book with copy machines and scanners the very simple, and haunting result was this-
It isn’t a finished piece of artwork by any means, but in the strangest way it- like this book- is the shadow of something real. It is entirely unique, having passed from the literal flower to the mind of Darwin, to the hands of the print maker and under the scrutiny of the publisher, and then one hundred and fifty years after the small treatise was written on this flower I revived its shadow on a piece of parchment paper. I resurrected it as an after thought to a new text. Is not this story the same thing? Something real that has existed far longer than you or I have, embellished with curiosity and then infused with artistry? Isn’t that what we are seeking to accomplish by writing this story to begin with? Are we not attempting through a rather simple and childlike plotline working our hardest to resurrect the shadows of a long forgotten history and a dull biology? We in that regard, are like the image of the flower.
It isn’t a finished piece of artwork by any means, but in the strangest way it- like this book- is the shadow of something real. It is entirely unique, having passed from the literal flower to the mind of Darwin, to the hands of the print maker and under the scrutiny of the publisher, and then one hundred and fifty years after the small treatise was written on this flower I revived its shadow on a piece of parchment paper. I resurrected it as an after thought to a new text. Is not this story the same thing? Something real that has existed far longer than you or I have, embellished with curiosity and then infused with artistry? Isn’t that what we are seeking to accomplish by writing this story to begin with? Are we not attempting through a rather simple and childlike plotline working our hardest to resurrect the shadows of a long forgotten history and a dull biology? We in that regard, are like the image of the flower.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
A thought on writing this book*
Dear Mr. Echoes,
To write this book I had to become a sociologist of invertebrates. Spending long hours studying not merely the anatomy and physiology of the barnacle population, but of far grater importance, I studied their interactions with each other. It took some time to determine that it was in fact a barnacle who was charismatic enough to lead this story. Many others fought for Odessa’s position. One particularly charming character was a mayfly I met in my early twenties, he died quite quickly but was periodically and repeatedly replaces with his descendants, who had very little knowledge themselves of just how much time they were wasting convincing me to center my novel around them. Sweet line of mayflies, I believe tenacity was a genetic trait with them, otherwise they’d have never found the time to spend on me and still successfully mate.
But it was, in the end, a barnacle who captured my heartstrings. I believe that it was due in large part, however, to the contrast between a stationary barnacle and my beloved Auke Bay Flounder. Biff- now identified and seeking treatment for depression with a very successful therapist aboard the Princess Sofia shipwreck- was a true inspiration for working on this book. Daily she would appear gasping for death, and daily we would throw her back. Hoping that she would understand that it was not out of malice that we turned her away, but out of sheer artistic potential. Any animal with the level of commitment that Biff had was destined for great things. To be honest, if she were plump and healthy, and had we not been working at the time, it is likely that Biff's wish for death might have been fufilled. My cohorts and I are not above tenderly roasting and eating a fine flounder in a light lemon butter and white wine sauce. Biff, however, was slightly less than succulent. To eat her would have been to choke on her, not to mention to invoke the premature end to what has the potential to be an interesting story.
Odessa and Biff were meant to leave. I was happy to create an adventure for them. The mayfly, after all, would never have survived chapter one.
Left Sincerely,
Sebastian
*this insert may or may not be fictional
To write this book I had to become a sociologist of invertebrates. Spending long hours studying not merely the anatomy and physiology of the barnacle population, but of far grater importance, I studied their interactions with each other. It took some time to determine that it was in fact a barnacle who was charismatic enough to lead this story. Many others fought for Odessa’s position. One particularly charming character was a mayfly I met in my early twenties, he died quite quickly but was periodically and repeatedly replaces with his descendants, who had very little knowledge themselves of just how much time they were wasting convincing me to center my novel around them. Sweet line of mayflies, I believe tenacity was a genetic trait with them, otherwise they’d have never found the time to spend on me and still successfully mate.
But it was, in the end, a barnacle who captured my heartstrings. I believe that it was due in large part, however, to the contrast between a stationary barnacle and my beloved Auke Bay Flounder. Biff- now identified and seeking treatment for depression with a very successful therapist aboard the Princess Sofia shipwreck- was a true inspiration for working on this book. Daily she would appear gasping for death, and daily we would throw her back. Hoping that she would understand that it was not out of malice that we turned her away, but out of sheer artistic potential. Any animal with the level of commitment that Biff had was destined for great things. To be honest, if she were plump and healthy, and had we not been working at the time, it is likely that Biff's wish for death might have been fufilled. My cohorts and I are not above tenderly roasting and eating a fine flounder in a light lemon butter and white wine sauce. Biff, however, was slightly less than succulent. To eat her would have been to choke on her, not to mention to invoke the premature end to what has the potential to be an interesting story.
Odessa and Biff were meant to leave. I was happy to create an adventure for them. The mayfly, after all, would never have survived chapter one.
Left Sincerely,
Sebastian
*this insert may or may not be fictional
Saturday, November 1, 2008
A major discovery in the imagery of barnacles
Well... many hours at the library have finally paid off... in a rather anti-climactic-I-should-have-thought-of-that-earlier sort of way.....
Darwin studied barnacles, and thus chronicled them in line drawings. These are a few of them-
I will now begin using these images to create plates for my own book. I can't imagine Darwin would have objected. My objective with this book is to blur line between story and knowledge. At any point along the adventure the facts stand true- the steamship Princess Sofia (an installment I'm still working on) did sink in 1918 off of Vanderbilt Reef in Southeast Alaska. Barnacles do gather in colonies, feet facing up, heads firmly planted down, for the duration of their mature lives. The facts are true- but the stories are fictional. I am attempting to cross back and forth between that boundary. We know so little about the lives of simple creatures. Quantum physics teaches us that the simple act of observing something, changes it. We unintentionally impact our subject matter. With this knowledge I feel more justified in adding personality to biology. And although my dramatization gives them distinctively human emotions, I like to believe that unbeknownst to the human radar aquamarine creatures are living a life far more diverse then we give them credit for.
So here is another installment of our fated barnacle's story. I'm a bit of a patchwork writer. So the pieces rarely come together in chronological order. It will have to suffice, therefore, to know that at the time this insert come along our barnacle, now know as Odessa, is floating along the wreckage of the Princess Sofia and she has just been delivered bad news from the mouth of an unruly sea lion.
A Great Tragedy
“Great tragedies befall those who cling too dearly, and only the sea is left at fault.” The words echoed in Odessa’s ears for many hours as she contemplated the loss of her family. She had grown up knowing the dangers of travel; she had come to accept the air of fatality lingering about her as she roamed. But it came as a great shock to learn of the carnage that befell her home.
Odessa had grown up at the 12-foot mark of an intertidal piling. A large pillar as it were, the diameter at 16 inches was large enough to isolate westward facing barnacles from their eastward, and thus inland, facing neighbors. And even though the two never knew each other first-hand there was a certain rivalry between them. The westward facing barnacles gloated on their view of the sea and the sun, while the inland facing barnacles reveled in how few deaths occurred due to evaporation or predation. And while it was true that the westward facing barnacles lost a few each day to the terrors of exposure, they reassured themselves with the fact that a life well lived was worth the risk of death, while a life hidden away was in fact not worth living.
Odessa was a westward facing barnacle. I suppose she took the credo much more to heart than her neighboring community had hoped. It nearly destroyed her family the first time she merely mentioned the thought of undersea exploration. In fact, it was the day she mentioned her eventual intention to travel that one of her siblings was devoured by a hungry raven. The family blamed her, tacitly of course, for stirring up bad air.
It had been rumored for years that one day a storm would come that would trouble the westward facing barnacles… though few, even among the inland community, put much stock in its validity. For barnacles are commonly the only survivors of the fiercest hurricanes. And it was certainly not the assumption of the barnacles that the dock itself, their home, would ultimately grind them into a fine dust tinged purple for mixing with the shells of the resident mussels. You see, the piling that the barnacles resided on plunged directly into the sea below, but it did so through a carefully instructed 24 by 24 inch square hole cut through the wooden dock. The dock was free to rise and fall with the tides, as was the ramp connected to it, so that it might be accessible despite the daily lunar tug. A typical Alaskan railing, wooden, mossy, guarded the hole around the piling, damp, but extremely durable. Never before in the history of barnacles living on this piling- and to ask the barnacles their history is to beg a very long story- had there been contact between railing and piling. The communities were separate, civil, but separate. The railing, being permanently exposed to air, was free of barnacles. Occasionally a crab would ride on it, and often it acted as a resting spot for cold beer and other human victuals, the banister’s only permanent residents were immobile, laconic, sea lice. So the barnacles historically viewed the railing as a danger only in that it provided an excellent perch for food-maddened sea gulls to pick off the blue mussels and gobble them down. Barnacles were considered edible only in the direst of famines. Blue mussels, however, were an avian delicacy.
I digress. The October seas are dangerous in Southeast Alaska. Even the most nascent sailor has heard the tales of whipping winds and cruel maelstroms. This October proved to be an unusually tragic one for the small community. Under a 90 mile and hour gust, and at the height of an incoming wave the free floating dock was pushed off her normal course of rise and fall and made, for the first time, direct contact with the life encrusted piling. As the dock was pitched about in the torrential sea the heavy railing pulverized the westward facing side of the piling, scraping the metal clean of any creatures, young or old, and turning them into a silty powder to be blown about the pier. The communities living between the seven-foot mark and the eighteen-foot mark were in a single storm demolished.
** insert more here**
Do not let Odessa’s sentiment about the loss of her family distress you too much. It is important at this point in her time line to give you a bit of information on why it was she was prone to leaving. Yes, her adventurous behavior combined with an ingrained pride in taking risks all had to do with her desire to take to the sea, but for anyone who has taken an invertebrate zoology class you might remember a few shocking facts about the reproductive life of a barnacle. For the sake of propriety I will omit the details and only allude to the fact that if all humans were as endowed as barnacles we wouldn’t need muscle cars or Harley Davidsons.
In every species courtship is an issue- but Odessa was not prepared in her adolescence for the repeated probing her neighbors so unabashedly exhibited. Barnacles are stationary creatures. They keep their heads firmly planted on the ground leaving their waving feet to catch edible passersby, and keep their unmentionable region easily accessible for raucous nighttime behaviors.
Darwin studied barnacles, and thus chronicled them in line drawings. These are a few of them-
I will now begin using these images to create plates for my own book. I can't imagine Darwin would have objected. My objective with this book is to blur line between story and knowledge. At any point along the adventure the facts stand true- the steamship Princess Sofia (an installment I'm still working on) did sink in 1918 off of Vanderbilt Reef in Southeast Alaska. Barnacles do gather in colonies, feet facing up, heads firmly planted down, for the duration of their mature lives. The facts are true- but the stories are fictional. I am attempting to cross back and forth between that boundary. We know so little about the lives of simple creatures. Quantum physics teaches us that the simple act of observing something, changes it. We unintentionally impact our subject matter. With this knowledge I feel more justified in adding personality to biology. And although my dramatization gives them distinctively human emotions, I like to believe that unbeknownst to the human radar aquamarine creatures are living a life far more diverse then we give them credit for.
So here is another installment of our fated barnacle's story. I'm a bit of a patchwork writer. So the pieces rarely come together in chronological order. It will have to suffice, therefore, to know that at the time this insert come along our barnacle, now know as Odessa, is floating along the wreckage of the Princess Sofia and she has just been delivered bad news from the mouth of an unruly sea lion.
A Great Tragedy
“Great tragedies befall those who cling too dearly, and only the sea is left at fault.” The words echoed in Odessa’s ears for many hours as she contemplated the loss of her family. She had grown up knowing the dangers of travel; she had come to accept the air of fatality lingering about her as she roamed. But it came as a great shock to learn of the carnage that befell her home.
Odessa had grown up at the 12-foot mark of an intertidal piling. A large pillar as it were, the diameter at 16 inches was large enough to isolate westward facing barnacles from their eastward, and thus inland, facing neighbors. And even though the two never knew each other first-hand there was a certain rivalry between them. The westward facing barnacles gloated on their view of the sea and the sun, while the inland facing barnacles reveled in how few deaths occurred due to evaporation or predation. And while it was true that the westward facing barnacles lost a few each day to the terrors of exposure, they reassured themselves with the fact that a life well lived was worth the risk of death, while a life hidden away was in fact not worth living.
Odessa was a westward facing barnacle. I suppose she took the credo much more to heart than her neighboring community had hoped. It nearly destroyed her family the first time she merely mentioned the thought of undersea exploration. In fact, it was the day she mentioned her eventual intention to travel that one of her siblings was devoured by a hungry raven. The family blamed her, tacitly of course, for stirring up bad air.
It had been rumored for years that one day a storm would come that would trouble the westward facing barnacles… though few, even among the inland community, put much stock in its validity. For barnacles are commonly the only survivors of the fiercest hurricanes. And it was certainly not the assumption of the barnacles that the dock itself, their home, would ultimately grind them into a fine dust tinged purple for mixing with the shells of the resident mussels. You see, the piling that the barnacles resided on plunged directly into the sea below, but it did so through a carefully instructed 24 by 24 inch square hole cut through the wooden dock. The dock was free to rise and fall with the tides, as was the ramp connected to it, so that it might be accessible despite the daily lunar tug. A typical Alaskan railing, wooden, mossy, guarded the hole around the piling, damp, but extremely durable. Never before in the history of barnacles living on this piling- and to ask the barnacles their history is to beg a very long story- had there been contact between railing and piling. The communities were separate, civil, but separate. The railing, being permanently exposed to air, was free of barnacles. Occasionally a crab would ride on it, and often it acted as a resting spot for cold beer and other human victuals, the banister’s only permanent residents were immobile, laconic, sea lice. So the barnacles historically viewed the railing as a danger only in that it provided an excellent perch for food-maddened sea gulls to pick off the blue mussels and gobble them down. Barnacles were considered edible only in the direst of famines. Blue mussels, however, were an avian delicacy.
I digress. The October seas are dangerous in Southeast Alaska. Even the most nascent sailor has heard the tales of whipping winds and cruel maelstroms. This October proved to be an unusually tragic one for the small community. Under a 90 mile and hour gust, and at the height of an incoming wave the free floating dock was pushed off her normal course of rise and fall and made, for the first time, direct contact with the life encrusted piling. As the dock was pitched about in the torrential sea the heavy railing pulverized the westward facing side of the piling, scraping the metal clean of any creatures, young or old, and turning them into a silty powder to be blown about the pier. The communities living between the seven-foot mark and the eighteen-foot mark were in a single storm demolished.
** insert more here**
Do not let Odessa’s sentiment about the loss of her family distress you too much. It is important at this point in her time line to give you a bit of information on why it was she was prone to leaving. Yes, her adventurous behavior combined with an ingrained pride in taking risks all had to do with her desire to take to the sea, but for anyone who has taken an invertebrate zoology class you might remember a few shocking facts about the reproductive life of a barnacle. For the sake of propriety I will omit the details and only allude to the fact that if all humans were as endowed as barnacles we wouldn’t need muscle cars or Harley Davidsons.
In every species courtship is an issue- but Odessa was not prepared in her adolescence for the repeated probing her neighbors so unabashedly exhibited. Barnacles are stationary creatures. They keep their heads firmly planted on the ground leaving their waving feet to catch edible passersby, and keep their unmentionable region easily accessible for raucous nighttime behaviors.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Why I Want to Go to Graduate School: an essay written under the threat of a failed future
An antiquated form of torture picked by upper level education to see how well a student can sum up all of their creative dreams and aspirations in 500 words or less. A deterrent almost successful enough to prevent potential students from applying for advanced degrees. The university "Personal Statement" must be one of the most poorly written documents submitted to establishments of higher learning... here is a draft at mine.
Personal Statement
It takes the precise and rapid firing of nearly 7.4 trillion synapses for my human brain to create a sentence. It’s as if my brain were the master of multiple choice tests, and in a single instance could answer infinite numbers of yes or no questions of which the resulting information could be the most brilliant sentence ever written. If a single synapse misfires, and answers no instead of yes, or yes instead of no, my moment of staggering genius could be instantly transformed into an annoying hour of humming the Oscar Myer Theme Song. Our senses are so heavily inculcated with accessible information that creativity becomes an improbability.
Against the odds, I am a creative being. It eases my nerves a bit to realize that, statistically, my chances of being accepted into your M.F.A. program are far greater than my odds of ever completing a full-length play. Having completed the play I feel I can breathe a sigh of relief where this graduate school thing is concerned.
I am both writer and researcher. Instead of letting potential distractions appear daunting I seek them out. I am not hiding from the information of this world, but utilizing it as an immense quantity of inspiration. Think of me as a notebook in the pocket, walking across the desert, reading antique postcards kind of writer. To be fruitful I must interact with the world. Inside my highly organized brain knowledge is not clutter, but an awe inspiring- albeit daunting-amount of power. Information is one of my greatest resources, it provides me with a context for creativity. One of the most well recognized symbols of eastern philosophy is the Yin Yang- a circle defined by its contrast. That is how I approach writing. I am in the context of this world, and it is in the context of me.
Walking down a boardwalk on a small southeast Alaskan island I heard a faint popping sound. My imagination conjured the picture of an army of tiny gremlins popping bubble wrap, but when I looked closely at my surroundings I saw something much more real and equally as interesting. Thousands of tiny barnacles were being thrust upward with the falling tide, and in a life or death attempt to protect their moist bodies from the elements the barnacles were forcing any errant air through their calciferous exoskeletons. The process makes a small popping sound. In these details I discovered a story about an anxious barnacle and a suicidal flounder. It's the project I am most currently working on.
My goal as a writer is to gather up the information and use it to tell stories. To take the intricacies of history, science, anthropology, behavior; the intricacies of life, and weave them into the movements of characters, the nuances of a setting, the eccentricities of language. I want to take what this life has to offer me, and I want to create worlds.
Personal Statement
It takes the precise and rapid firing of nearly 7.4 trillion synapses for my human brain to create a sentence. It’s as if my brain were the master of multiple choice tests, and in a single instance could answer infinite numbers of yes or no questions of which the resulting information could be the most brilliant sentence ever written. If a single synapse misfires, and answers no instead of yes, or yes instead of no, my moment of staggering genius could be instantly transformed into an annoying hour of humming the Oscar Myer Theme Song. Our senses are so heavily inculcated with accessible information that creativity becomes an improbability.
Against the odds, I am a creative being. It eases my nerves a bit to realize that, statistically, my chances of being accepted into your M.F.A. program are far greater than my odds of ever completing a full-length play. Having completed the play I feel I can breathe a sigh of relief where this graduate school thing is concerned.
I am both writer and researcher. Instead of letting potential distractions appear daunting I seek them out. I am not hiding from the information of this world, but utilizing it as an immense quantity of inspiration. Think of me as a notebook in the pocket, walking across the desert, reading antique postcards kind of writer. To be fruitful I must interact with the world. Inside my highly organized brain knowledge is not clutter, but an awe inspiring- albeit daunting-amount of power. Information is one of my greatest resources, it provides me with a context for creativity. One of the most well recognized symbols of eastern philosophy is the Yin Yang- a circle defined by its contrast. That is how I approach writing. I am in the context of this world, and it is in the context of me.
Walking down a boardwalk on a small southeast Alaskan island I heard a faint popping sound. My imagination conjured the picture of an army of tiny gremlins popping bubble wrap, but when I looked closely at my surroundings I saw something much more real and equally as interesting. Thousands of tiny barnacles were being thrust upward with the falling tide, and in a life or death attempt to protect their moist bodies from the elements the barnacles were forcing any errant air through their calciferous exoskeletons. The process makes a small popping sound. In these details I discovered a story about an anxious barnacle and a suicidal flounder. It's the project I am most currently working on.
My goal as a writer is to gather up the information and use it to tell stories. To take the intricacies of history, science, anthropology, behavior; the intricacies of life, and weave them into the movements of characters, the nuances of a setting, the eccentricities of language. I want to take what this life has to offer me, and I want to create worlds.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Begining the Story
I've begun applying to graduate school... again. My submissions require a writing sample. For some schools I'll send in a copy of my play- but for the vast majority I'm applying to write fiction as well as plays... for that, I'll need a different type of submission.
What follows here is the start of my barnacle story. Hopefully at some point it will become a novella... or at least a very long short story. But for now I'll try and post something every day or so... comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated. It is a tender young thing, and will inevitably require a great deal of editing, but we must all start somewhere... so here it goes.
*NOTE- paragraphs that appear in italics may or may not appear in the completed draft. Opinions on italicized paragraphs are solicited. Places marked with ******* are areas that I am considering inserting more text, again opinions are solicited.
Starting the Story:
This is a story about a barnacle. But like most good stories, it starts with something else. In this case our story starts with a fish. A flounder. A flounder who had lost the will to live.
Had she known how popular she was with the humans above she might not have felt so chronically morose. She was the single entertainment for a crew of six, who idly killed time between boat tours fishing off of the dock. But to the flounder, who’s only goal in life was to end it, the continuous game of catch and release was simply too much to bear, and yet not enough to kill.
The barnacle, our barnacle, lived on this dock, amongst the many thousands of other barnacles who had been fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to have been spawned in the cool Alaskan waters of Auke Bay. This barnacle witnessed the attempted suicide numerous times, at first not acknowledging the event as strange. For none of the other barnacles found it strange, and without precedent for understanding death as morbid it took quite some time for this particular barnacle to form an opinion on the cheerless fish.
********
“What’s you’re name?”
“I’m a flounder.”
“Yes, I know you’re a flounder, but what’s your name? What are you called?”
“Nothing, no one cares enough about a flounder to give it a name.”
This puzzled the barnacle. For as long as it had been watching to mobile world pass by, it had imagined each of it’s creature having a name. The humans had names. The strange three-legged dog that accompanied them had a name. The barnacle had been sure that any animal that moved had a name. It had comforted itself with this fact. The barnacle you see, desperately wanted a name, and had satiated it’s aching desire with the knowledge that once it managed mobility, a name would be soon to follow. It makes sense then, that in order to keep this worldview alive the barnacle approached this lack of name not as a universal problem, but as the singular, and solvable, problem of one very unhappy fish.
“Well, what do you want to be called?”
“Nothing. I want to die.”
“C’mon anything. I’ll call you anything you like.”
“Dinner.”
“Anything else.”
“Lunch.”
“I’m not calling you lunch.”
“Breakfast.”
“Stop it.”
“You said anything I wanted. I want to be called Breakfast.”
“I’ll call you Fast.”
“Call me Biff.”
The barnacle didn’t have a reason to dislike the name. But something in the smugness with which the flounder picked it seemed suspicious. So despite her eagerness to name the fish the barnacle prodded on.
“That’s a boy name.”
“Can’t a flounder have a boy’s name?”
“Are you a boy?”
“I’m a flounder. “
“But are you a male flounder, or a female flounder?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Do you want to be a mother or a father?”
“Neither. I want to be Breakfast but that isn’t good enough for you.”
With that the barnacle conceded. There was a long awkward pause as the Barnacle looked at Biff. Biff full of scars, rust marks on her chin, wanting so desperately to be bludgeoned and eaten. No one loved this pathetic example of fish. No one cherished its slimy scales. Biff was indeed a poor specimen of flounder, her eye barely having migrated, her scales hanging loose on her bare bones body. Abandoned as a small fry at the ocean’s edge Biff had no family or friends to inspire her to greatness- or to inspire her to anything. Maybe Biff would be better off as Breakfast. Although given her current physical state it didn’t appear that any animal lacking a tetanus shot would be willing to eat her. With that morbid thought in the barnacle’s head another hook with a shiny pink lure dropped into the water beside them. “Are you going to eat that?” The barnacle asked Biff. “That one only throws you back.” Was her reply.
The lure began to jingle and dance in the water. Someone up there was jigging. The barnacle watched. Biff watched. The two entranced, as sea creatures are apt to be, in the strange dance. “Biff?” The barnacle whispered. No answer. “Biff…?” It whispered again. But it was too late. Biff, in a sudden change of heart went dashing after the pink hoochie and swallowed it, hook line and sinker, closed her eyes and began the violent ascent. The barnacle sighed, waited, counted to ten, and Plop! Biff came sinking back down in the water awash in a tragic sense of déjà vu.
Humans cry. Fish cannot. Their bodies are in a constant symbiosis with the ocean. Their meticulous systems constantly assessing the permeation of the environment in which it lives. A body this connected with salt water has no knowledge of tears. But as close as a fish ever came to crying was Biff after her sixth failed suicide attempt that morning. No soul could be more tortured than one that cannot even properly die.
Barnacles are not known to be emotional creatures. They lack both heart and brain- and mouth and eyes, but we’ll overlook that for the purposes of this story- for interwoven somewhere into its physiology this barnacle was different. And as Biff’s body awash with teary water began to sink the barnacle felt the most intense twinge in its center. It had been overwhelmed with something no barnacle before had ever been faced with- compassion.
“I think Biff suits you. It’s a strong name. Which is awfully good for us because it will take a good strong disposition like yours to get us through this ocean.”
“Pardon?” Biff replied, stopping her moribund decent, albeit briefly. “Well,” shouted down the eloquent barnacle “I’ve been searching all day for the perfect companion into this ocean, and you are easily more qualified than any of the other fish who’ve passed by. You’ve been training, I see, in the fine sport of travel. And have been wildly successful, for a bottom feeding fish, in withstanding the great pressures of these waters. Yes, I insist that you accompany me on my journey; no other fish has your qualifications, or your strong name, or such tenacity in the face of death. Are you ready then? The tide is falling and we haven’t much time.”
Biff, perplexed at first, attempted to resist this offer, but flounder are not bright fish and given an order, or a shiny lure, have a tendency to follow. Biff might have been the perfect ride for this barnacle, for at least she was fearless of the dangers of the open ocean. Many other flounder might have found resistance in fear. Yet, as the barnacle had illuminated, Biff did not struggle with cowardice. She agreed to go.
It is at this point that I want to explain something to you about the animals we have been so recently introduced to. They live in a watery world unlike that of sharks or angler fish. Most sea creatures are accustomed to keeping the company of water breathers, but the community surrounding the Allen Marine barge in Auke Bay, Alaska was somewhat different. This barge was a hub for air-breathing activities. Each day the boats were loaded, left the dock in search of whales and wildlife, returned and were unloaded. The noise of the engines, of the clatter, of the constant pounding of ropes was deafening. But to the creatures of this small corner of the bay it was commonplace. While to most of the ten thousand barnacles adorning the edges of the barge the sounds blended together like a sound machine, acting as soothing white noise protecting them from the natural world and her lullaby. But to our barnacle the sound was something different, and it listened, intently to the comings and goings of the odd mobile creatures above. By doing so it gained an oddly thorough informal education. The world above had inadvertently been tutoring this ambitious invertebrate. Filling her mind not only with the facts that any tour guide might spew toward an overgrowing tourist industry, but also filled with stories and mythologies of a land littered with inconstants.
What follows here is the start of my barnacle story. Hopefully at some point it will become a novella... or at least a very long short story. But for now I'll try and post something every day or so... comments and constructive criticisms are appreciated. It is a tender young thing, and will inevitably require a great deal of editing, but we must all start somewhere... so here it goes.
*NOTE- paragraphs that appear in italics may or may not appear in the completed draft. Opinions on italicized paragraphs are solicited. Places marked with ******* are areas that I am considering inserting more text, again opinions are solicited.
Starting the Story:
This is a story about a barnacle. But like most good stories, it starts with something else. In this case our story starts with a fish. A flounder. A flounder who had lost the will to live.
Had she known how popular she was with the humans above she might not have felt so chronically morose. She was the single entertainment for a crew of six, who idly killed time between boat tours fishing off of the dock. But to the flounder, who’s only goal in life was to end it, the continuous game of catch and release was simply too much to bear, and yet not enough to kill.
The barnacle, our barnacle, lived on this dock, amongst the many thousands of other barnacles who had been fortunate, or unfortunate, enough to have been spawned in the cool Alaskan waters of Auke Bay. This barnacle witnessed the attempted suicide numerous times, at first not acknowledging the event as strange. For none of the other barnacles found it strange, and without precedent for understanding death as morbid it took quite some time for this particular barnacle to form an opinion on the cheerless fish.
********
“What’s you’re name?”
“I’m a flounder.”
“Yes, I know you’re a flounder, but what’s your name? What are you called?”
“Nothing, no one cares enough about a flounder to give it a name.”
This puzzled the barnacle. For as long as it had been watching to mobile world pass by, it had imagined each of it’s creature having a name. The humans had names. The strange three-legged dog that accompanied them had a name. The barnacle had been sure that any animal that moved had a name. It had comforted itself with this fact. The barnacle you see, desperately wanted a name, and had satiated it’s aching desire with the knowledge that once it managed mobility, a name would be soon to follow. It makes sense then, that in order to keep this worldview alive the barnacle approached this lack of name not as a universal problem, but as the singular, and solvable, problem of one very unhappy fish.
“Well, what do you want to be called?”
“Nothing. I want to die.”
“C’mon anything. I’ll call you anything you like.”
“Dinner.”
“Anything else.”
“Lunch.”
“I’m not calling you lunch.”
“Breakfast.”
“Stop it.”
“You said anything I wanted. I want to be called Breakfast.”
“I’ll call you Fast.”
“Call me Biff.”
The barnacle didn’t have a reason to dislike the name. But something in the smugness with which the flounder picked it seemed suspicious. So despite her eagerness to name the fish the barnacle prodded on.
“That’s a boy name.”
“Can’t a flounder have a boy’s name?”
“Are you a boy?”
“I’m a flounder. “
“But are you a male flounder, or a female flounder?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Do you want to be a mother or a father?”
“Neither. I want to be Breakfast but that isn’t good enough for you.”
With that the barnacle conceded. There was a long awkward pause as the Barnacle looked at Biff. Biff full of scars, rust marks on her chin, wanting so desperately to be bludgeoned and eaten. No one loved this pathetic example of fish. No one cherished its slimy scales. Biff was indeed a poor specimen of flounder, her eye barely having migrated, her scales hanging loose on her bare bones body. Abandoned as a small fry at the ocean’s edge Biff had no family or friends to inspire her to greatness- or to inspire her to anything. Maybe Biff would be better off as Breakfast. Although given her current physical state it didn’t appear that any animal lacking a tetanus shot would be willing to eat her. With that morbid thought in the barnacle’s head another hook with a shiny pink lure dropped into the water beside them. “Are you going to eat that?” The barnacle asked Biff. “That one only throws you back.” Was her reply.
The lure began to jingle and dance in the water. Someone up there was jigging. The barnacle watched. Biff watched. The two entranced, as sea creatures are apt to be, in the strange dance. “Biff?” The barnacle whispered. No answer. “Biff…?” It whispered again. But it was too late. Biff, in a sudden change of heart went dashing after the pink hoochie and swallowed it, hook line and sinker, closed her eyes and began the violent ascent. The barnacle sighed, waited, counted to ten, and Plop! Biff came sinking back down in the water awash in a tragic sense of déjà vu.
Humans cry. Fish cannot. Their bodies are in a constant symbiosis with the ocean. Their meticulous systems constantly assessing the permeation of the environment in which it lives. A body this connected with salt water has no knowledge of tears. But as close as a fish ever came to crying was Biff after her sixth failed suicide attempt that morning. No soul could be more tortured than one that cannot even properly die.
Barnacles are not known to be emotional creatures. They lack both heart and brain- and mouth and eyes, but we’ll overlook that for the purposes of this story- for interwoven somewhere into its physiology this barnacle was different. And as Biff’s body awash with teary water began to sink the barnacle felt the most intense twinge in its center. It had been overwhelmed with something no barnacle before had ever been faced with- compassion.
“I think Biff suits you. It’s a strong name. Which is awfully good for us because it will take a good strong disposition like yours to get us through this ocean.”
“Pardon?” Biff replied, stopping her moribund decent, albeit briefly. “Well,” shouted down the eloquent barnacle “I’ve been searching all day for the perfect companion into this ocean, and you are easily more qualified than any of the other fish who’ve passed by. You’ve been training, I see, in the fine sport of travel. And have been wildly successful, for a bottom feeding fish, in withstanding the great pressures of these waters. Yes, I insist that you accompany me on my journey; no other fish has your qualifications, or your strong name, or such tenacity in the face of death. Are you ready then? The tide is falling and we haven’t much time.”
Biff, perplexed at first, attempted to resist this offer, but flounder are not bright fish and given an order, or a shiny lure, have a tendency to follow. Biff might have been the perfect ride for this barnacle, for at least she was fearless of the dangers of the open ocean. Many other flounder might have found resistance in fear. Yet, as the barnacle had illuminated, Biff did not struggle with cowardice. She agreed to go.
It is at this point that I want to explain something to you about the animals we have been so recently introduced to. They live in a watery world unlike that of sharks or angler fish. Most sea creatures are accustomed to keeping the company of water breathers, but the community surrounding the Allen Marine barge in Auke Bay, Alaska was somewhat different. This barge was a hub for air-breathing activities. Each day the boats were loaded, left the dock in search of whales and wildlife, returned and were unloaded. The noise of the engines, of the clatter, of the constant pounding of ropes was deafening. But to the creatures of this small corner of the bay it was commonplace. While to most of the ten thousand barnacles adorning the edges of the barge the sounds blended together like a sound machine, acting as soothing white noise protecting them from the natural world and her lullaby. But to our barnacle the sound was something different, and it listened, intently to the comings and goings of the odd mobile creatures above. By doing so it gained an oddly thorough informal education. The world above had inadvertently been tutoring this ambitious invertebrate. Filling her mind not only with the facts that any tour guide might spew toward an overgrowing tourist industry, but also filled with stories and mythologies of a land littered with inconstants.
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