{"id":8188,"date":"2011-05-27T12:44:19","date_gmt":"2011-05-27T16:44:19","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=8188"},"modified":"2011-05-27T12:44:19","modified_gmt":"2011-05-27T16:44:19","slug":"oceanic-complications","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2011\/05\/oceanic-complications\/","title":{"rendered":"Oceanic Complications"},"content":{"rendered":"

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[Video: “Ten Things I Have Learned about the Sea,” by Lorenzo Fonda. One of <\/a><\/em>whiskey river<\/a>‘s posts<\/a> this week was based on the text in this video. For more information, see the Vimeo page<\/a>.]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

Clam<\/strong><\/p>\n

Each one is a small life, but sometimes long, if its
\nplace in the universe is not found out. Like us, they
\nhave a heart and a stomach; they know hunger, and
\nprobably a little satisfaction too. Do not mock them
\nfor their gentleness, they have a muscle that loves
\nbeing alive. They pull away from the light. They pull
\ndown<\/em>. They hold themselves together. They refuse to
\nopen.<\/p>\n

But sometimes they lose their place and are tumbled
\nshoreward in a storm. Then they pant, they fill
\nwith sand, they have no choice but must open the
\nsmallest crack. Then the fire of the world touches
\nthem. Perhaps, on such days, they too begin the
\nterrible effort of thinking, of wondering who<\/em>, and
\nwhat<\/em>, and why<\/em>. If they can bury themselves again in
\nthe sand they will. If not, they are sure to perish,
\nthough not quickly. They also have resources beyond
\nthe flesh; they also try very hard not to die.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

(Mary Oliver, from What Do We Know<\/em> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n
\n

On the Flats<\/strong><\/p>\n<\/th>\n<\/tr>\n<\/thead>\n

Every day
\nthe sea
\nproves to be
\ncollapsible— <\/p>\n

it goes away
\nrolling and sighing
\nheavily
\nout of the long harbor<\/p>\n

to the very horizon.
\nBarefoot,
\nwe walk out
\nacross that level dampness<\/p>\n

until we are very far from shore—
\nfar from our house,
\nor any house,
\nstepping upon the moist plain<\/p>\n

that is all that is left of the
\nweight, the flurry, the flung salt,
\nthe flash and the dancing
\nand the big voice of the sea.<\/td>\n

What’s real
\nis the real question,
\naddressed by us but never
\nby the happy, go-lucky gulls. <\/p>\n

Later,
\nwhen the sea has returned
\nas clean and blue as ever,
\nand we are back home,<\/p>\n

in our yards, on our porches,
\nhow curious to remember ourselves
\njust looking around
\nthat emptiness,<\/p>\n

and how we felt sad
\nwithout feeling lost—
\nor, even, strange—
\nor, even, bereaved—<\/p>\n

the way we stand, sometimes,
\nin death—
\nor think we do—
\nin our purest, wildest thoughts.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n

(Mary Oliver, from What Do We Know<\/em> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

The smell of the sea pulled him east. The Atlantic spread before him like a pool of diamonds, liquefied, tossing gently in gleaming tips and shards of changeable, fading bronze light. The sun climbed down toward dusk behind mountains of clouds swollen with moisture. The young man couldn’t wait to get in the water.<\/p>\n

…He turned over on his stomach and looked toward land: the beach was a distant, shimmering strip exhaling the day’s radiant heat; the shadows had deepened in front of the [Victorian] turrets; ladies’ parasols on the boardwalk bobbed like puffs of yellow cream against the darkening sky. He was the last man in the water. He heard the dog barking from somewhere, across the wind and waves, and was amused. He heard voices, as if from far away. He kicked vigorously, and began his crawl toward shore. He felt an exhilarating jolt of adrenaline lifting him onward and over the waves. Perhaps he mistook it for the thrill of being noticed, or a simple joy in his youth and strength — “He is a Mercury, a brown Mercury, his heels are winged, and in them is the swiftness of the sea,” Jack London, one of his favorite authors, had written.<\/p>\n

His form was perfect, arms arcing through the sea.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Michael Capuzzo, from Close to Shore: The Terrifying Shark Attacks of 1916<\/em> [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

You know the premise of Stephen Sondheim’s 1979 musical comedy Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street<\/em>, right? I mean, I’m not spoiling any delightful surprises (am I?) by telling you:<\/p>\n