Dear Whoever You Might Be,
Did I keep you waiting too long? I apologize for any inconvenience these last few days has left you with if you were just
dying to read what I wanted to say next. And I
would "re-cap" for you, but this is a blog; just scroll down if you have already forgotten what I wrote.
As I said (which I am sure you just re-read for yourself), it is a wonder to me that
Call Me, Maybe
has made such a momentous debut in the music world. And as I thought and thought and sang it and thought some more, I got to thinking about the more classic and, hopefully, the more famous "Call Me" in artistic circles (these circles, I think, include music, literature, art, etc....I just figured I would clarify to relieve any looming confusion).
In 1851 a native New Yorker published his sixth novel. That native would be Herman Melville and that novel, of course, would be
Moby Dick. For anyone who has never even heard of this American novel I must say, please,
please crawl out from whatever rock you have been hiding under the last one hundred and fifty-some years.
Regarding this "whale" of a novel (remember my really bad jokes I talked about in my first post?), I have a confession to make to you, my dear readers. I started reading
Moby Dick one year ago on July 3rd. I took it with me to the Outer Banks for our week of family vacationing. I thought, what better "beach book" could there be? The ocean, whales, ships, waves, sailors, and some of the most beautiful writing about the sea that I have ever encountered. I mean seriously:
- "Consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure"
- "Yes, as everyone knows, meditation and water are wedded forever"
- "And heaved and heaved, still unrestingly heaved the black sea, as if its vast tides were a conscience; and the great mundane soul were in anguish and remorse for the long sin and suffering it had bred"
- "At such times, under an abated sun; afloat all day upon the smooth, slow heaving swells; seated in his boat; light as a birch canoe; and so sociably mixing with the soft waves themselves, that like hearthstone cats they purr against the gunwale; these are the times of dreamy quietude. when beholding the tranquil beauty and brillancy of the ocean's skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang"
I could go on and on, but I think sitting here and quoting Melville would be a bore to most. So here is the confession, I started this novel a year ago, figuring I would read it the whole week at the beach and that would be plenty of time for me to finish it; I mean, I have read longer books in half the time, so it was a definite probability.
But I didn't finish. I still haven't finished. It is a year later and I have about one hundred and fifty-five pages left. I am appalled and ashamed to admit this, but it is unfortunately true. And my reason, you ask, for
still not finishing? Well let me tell you,
Moby Dick is
the hardest book to get through. I do not say that lighty either, believe me. Imagine,
War and Peace was easier for me than Ahab and his crew sailing on the Peqoud.
Because it always takes me an unprecedented amount of time to get to my point, I'll try and navigate my way there presently. This novel is more often than not considered
The Greatest American Novel. Ever.
***SIDENOTE*** I accept whatever fate my next sentence is about to hand me because my fingers cannot help but move along the lettered keys that so accuratley phrase the feelings and thoughts that construct who I am
Reader, I
hate this book. Please don't abandon me for feeling this way. As much as I wish I agree with basically every literary critic, I cannot.
Now, don't get me wrong. It has its moments; just look at the eloquent, thoughtful and even emotional passages I included above. But much to my intense dismay, those passages are rare gems in an otherwise encyclopedic, biological, historical and monotonous six hundred and fifty-five page "classic". There, I said it. About ninety-five percent of this renound novel reads like an encyclopedia on whales, and whale-ships, and whale-hunting, and blubber, and oil, and the spears they use while hunting. Forgive my grammatical errors. This topic just gets me extremely flustered from disappointment. As I have mentioned before, I am a
very avid and well-rounded reader, so my opinion is not an uneducated one. I've never really been an aficionado for American Literature, but I do persist in giving the genre multiple chances to redeem itself.
You may be wondering why, then, do I continue to stuggle through it? Why don't I just give up and read Sparknotes? Why even care at all? Because, my inquisitive readers, I am stubborn. I am absolutely, unfailingly determined to finish this book. It
will happen. It must. It took Herman Melville a year and a half to write it; hopefully it will not take me as long to finish reading it.
And once again, I digressed from my point. It is an absolute wonder to me that
Call Me Maybe is this summer's Number One Single in America. And I bet in about ten years, it will be included in VH1's countdown of this decade's "One Hit Wonders." It will be remembered with nostalgia and appreciation by teenie-boppers when I am old and decrepit. And if I just made a false prediction, then even better.
Approximately one hundred and fifty years ago, "Call me Ishamel" changed literature forever. Those three simple words created a completely new viewpoint on how a novel should begin. You say those three words in consecutive order, and any half-minded person could tell you where it generates from. That simple sentence is now deemed one of the most innovative opennings of all time. Go figure that "Call me, maybe" has created as much buzz and media attention this summer. Carly Rae Jepsen, I congratulate you for using the words that automatically call to mind "The Great American Novel"....or at least that is where it brought my mind...maybe I am just wierd, though.
They do have a few things in common and I promise, I will expedite the explanations of their parallels. Both narrate the adventures of monomaniacs. If you don't know what that means, I am sure Dictionary.com would be delighted to host you for a moment. Both have settings of "hot night, wind was blowin'". Both reference being a little "crazy" and "trading in souls." It is a little bit of a stretch, I know, but these are my thoughts.
You don't know how sorry I am if you are besieged by disappointment regarding what I just wrote. I promised you the wait would be worth it, and I so ardently hope it was. I know this post has been a little mind-numbing and long but I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for pushing through it. If I can fight my way through
Moby Dick, than you can certaintly can fight your way through my rambling thoughts.
Sincerely,
Me
P.S. I hope I did not crush the desire in any of you to read the tale of Ahab and Ishmael and the hunted White Whale. If anything, you should read it for the same reason I am- the pride of knowing you can accomplish such a daunting task.
P.P.S There is ONE last thing I would like to say. The sentence which succeed's "Call me Ishmael" fills me with the utmost jealousy. The narrator (who by this point is obviously revealed to be Ishmael) says, "Some years ago-never mind how long preciself-having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would saild about a little and see the watery part of the world." Reader, you have no idea how much I long to just take off and see the world whenever I am bored or simply have nothing better to do with my time. How enchanting would that be?
For my birthday weekend, I traveled into the fabulous city of New York. The land of "Friends" and "Sex and the City." The Concrete Jungle that Alicia Keys and Jay-Z sing of. The place where Audrey had her breakfast at Tiffany's. I could go on and on and on, but there is just *too* much that New York is credited for. My dear friend came up from Raleigh, and together, we roamed the streets of one of the largest and most powerful cities in the world. And let me just tell you all, it was perfection. 
So here's the thing--- I live just an hours train ride away from Penn Station, NY. That's it. Just an hour. During our visit, we didn't stay in some hotel, but rather, the apartment of my friend's cousin. We neither wore tennis shoes nor carried around extravagant folded maps of the city. We even took the plunge and rode the Subway everywhere like "normal" people. And yet... we were still tourists. We didn't belong. Neither of us live there, work there, or travel into the city on a regular basis. Sure, we had both been there before and seen the sights, but it's not like we were pros. I found myself wishing otherwise. 
But there are moments when one cannot help BUT be a tourist. For example--- I took a lot of skyline pictures. I took a picture of the building corner of the TV show "Friends" in Greenwich Village. And best of all, I had my friend take a picture of me drinking a birthday brunch mimosa at Café Lalo. Now, I haven't made a good "You've Got Mail" reference lately, but this was the epitome of them all. Café Lalo is where Meg Ryan anxiously awaits her anonymous email-lover Tom Hanks. She sits and waits for him with Pride and Prejudice and a red rose. He brings along his friend to check out his hot date first. And alas, they meet (though she doesn't even know!) and Café Lalo was seated in the halls of cinematic restaurants for forever. Or at least to me. It was the one place I was sure I wanted to go to the whole weekend and it was so wonderful that I just had to take pictures. And even though I wanted the other diners there to think I was just one of them on the Upper West Side enjoying brunch, I set my shame aside for some #selfies. I was a goofy 22 year old tourist who loves "You've Got Mail" probably more than most.
