might as well give the whale a wristwatch;

I am half built.

Feeling self-slighted, blind

with X’s over eyes.

Not wholly [holy], and not whole—

I can’t seem to contain quality;

can’t seem to adjust to big change,

polish big ideas or establish big

emphatic elements of progress.

­

Been obsessed with the idea of fair

play, or lack thereof, since reading

that quote from Melville again:

Ahab speaking of his post-being—

smote, thus resolving a sort of

peregrination through fallen virtue.

And the initial offset—“vengeance

on a dumb brute…”, “seems blasphemy,”

etc.—the image & implications of

Calvinism.  Tunnel-esque vision

ensuing (we’ve replicated the process

since the dawn of time):

­

“all visible objects, man, are but as

pasteboard masks,” or ambiguity

in reason, and of course the

decision, the rebuttal; deciding if the

thrill of the hunt was based on agency

or principal.  A rollout of all eyes on

deck seeing the same vision portrayed

from a “visionary.”  He at least fought

for what he believed in; it’s just

convincing the rest of the crew to live

or die for the cause.  Look inside or

strewn on all visible walls (if you

dare).

­

I wonder what the whaler would’ve done

with a million dollars.  Found a bigger

harpoon?  Invested in private sector arms

dealers?  Found a plot of land and larger-

than-life fine china in which to devour

his pride with kewpie mayo, beluga caviar,

and saffron stigmas?  Would he have

washed far away?

­

I don’t wonder what I would do with a

million dollars.  There’s too many good

implications.  I refuse to believe in them.

I apparently refuse to see myself happy:

just a version of a version, of self-serving

barbarism (but never on purpose).

Maybe that’s the point.

Change feels like the white whale of

circumstance—never instrumental, but

always a ruling matter.