#queeqeg

[szyszkasosnowa]

Ishmael and Quequeg in Moby Dick (2011)

[thebranchingfigtree]

"and some old couples often lie and chat over old times till nearly morning. Thus, then, in our hearts' honeymood, lay I and Queequeg—a cosy, loving pair."

[frogs-are-cool-but-so-is-medea]

i really should write my moby dick essay... but i keep looking up ishmael x queequeg content instead... sigh....

[rotttencandies]

sometimes the sunset burns my eyes and engulfs me whole

yet i can't bring myself to let go of it

[saphirdevil]

I ended up watching CANTO V, you were right THIS IS GOOD....

have you been playing the latest canto in limbus its goooood

NO I HAVENT................................................................. i dont have limbus on my mobile device anymore o(-( ..... it is ishmael chapter right... oTL

[unremarkablehouse]

Poor Queeqeg

This killed me because you can actually see Gillian trying to breathe through her mouth 🤣

[yaoicarus]

The emerald flashes at sunset [ dawn office sinclair x queeqeg heathcliff ]

aka me twisting what queeqeg said into my agenda

[numinousmysteries]

The Baying of the Six-Pound Hound

For the @twocakesficfest (several months too late) prompt:

immortal / invincible queeqeg who likes to show up and mess up a case or two (probably by eating the victim - e.g. Mulder: the victim walked away, cut to a tiny dog dragging a leg away)

A very special thank you to @leiascully for catching all my nauseating tense changes, ensuring I didn't accidentally summon any evil spirits, and making me work a tiny bit more to get them smooching.

[on Ao3]

1. 

He'd been in an uncharacteristically deep sleep when the yapping woke him up, which made it all the more annoying. It was rare for him to be so fully disconnected from the waking world. Typically, he'd float just below the surface of consciousness, the smallest noise enough to rouse him. But on this night, in a narrow, single-story motor lodge wedged up in the Colorado mountains, Fox Mulder had been completely, deeply, aslumber.

He'd been dreaming, too. Not his usual fretful nightmare but a rather sweet dream that featured his partner. It wasn't the first time he dreamt about her, although those dreams were typically of a more erotic nature and would leave him waking up feeling filthy with guilt—and more often than not, rock hard. He'd dream of bending her over the desk in their basement office, burying himself in her, and hearing her soft little moans as he gripped the curves of her hips. Or they'd be on the couch in his apartment and she'd be in his lap, riding him as he watched the smooth undulation of her breasts. These dreams would send him to the shower full of shame. He'd shut his eyes and take himself in his fist, gripping his cock with a firmness that bordered on pain to break the mounting tension with enough self-punishment that he could face Scully in the morning.

But this most recent dream left nothing to be ashamed of. They were walking hand-in-hand, fully-clothed, down a Georgetown street near her apartment. The sun warmed his face and Scully's small hand fit perfectly in his. They weren't in pursuit of a suspect or off to meet an informant, just strolling aimlessly like two people in love. In a way, this mundane dream felt more illicit than his most perverse fantasies because it seemed like more than anything he deserved. He could better imagine a tense moment, even an argument between them, dissolving into frenzied sex than allow himself to indulge the idea of a happy, out-in-the-open relationship with Scully. Which was why this dream was so lovely—and why it had been so frustrating when the yapping shocked him awake.

It sounded like Queequeg. But Scully didn't bring the dog with her on cases, not since– Shit , he remembered. Scully's annoying little furball of a dog, whom she inexplicably loved (which, he considered fleetingly, might bode well for her capacity to love other irritating beings), had died on the shore of Heuvelmans Lake, eaten by an alligator, or Big Blue, depending on who you asked.

The barking must have been coming from one of the neighboring rooms. But Scully was in the room to his left and the room to his right had appeared to be unoccupied when they arrived. 

By the time he showered, dressed, and made it outside to meet Scully at the rental car, she was already waiting for him with a cup of bitter coffee from the urn in the motel lobby. 

"That dog wake you up, too?" he asked.

She arched an eyebrow at him as she sipped from her styrofoam cup. "What dog?"

"Nevermind," he said, unlocking the car door.

They snaked around the mountain to the ranger station where they'd planned to meet the park ranger who’d supposedly spotted the Slide Rock Bolter. The Bolter, according to legend, was a giant landfish with a forked tail that could pick up a lumberjack and split him in two. It also had the jaw of a whale, the teeth of a shark, and the power to cause avalanche-like rock slides, hence the name. The ranger who contacted Mulder claimed that his partner, who’d gone missing the previous week, had been swallowed whole by the Bolter.

Their interview proved to be less than illuminating and they spent the rest of the afternoon hiking the mountain on their own searching for the creature. The high altitude left them both breathless so they were slower than usual as they ascended. Mulder was annoyed that they couldn't cover more ground before the sun started to set. Their descent was even slower as neither had brought the right shoes and they found themselves stumbling down the rocks and grasping onto each other for support.

Then, he saw it. A flash of auburn darting between a row of skeletal aspen trees. He gasped. 

"What is it?" she asked, turning back to face him. 

"I saw something," he said. 

"The Slide Rock Bolter?"

He frowned and shook his head. "Probably just a fox. Maybe a coyote.” Although, if he were being honest,  it kind of looked like a small dog.

Scully shrugged, turned away from him, and started heading back down the mountain. 

2.

He didn’t want to say anything, but Scully's apartment smelled bad. It normally smelled nice. Like the candles she lights or even freshly baked bread, even though he knows she doesn't bake bread. But now, it smelled like wet dog. He specifically wouldn't bring that up because she hadn't owned a dog in nearly a year now. For reasons that might have been, depending on who you asked, his fault.

He tried to hide his disgust as he spread open a file of photographs on her kitchen table, but the odor was truly overpowering. It was as if Queequeg—or let's say any anonymous dog who had not been eaten by, depending on who was telling the story, Big Blue or an alligator—had been mucking around in sewer water after not bathing for several weeks.

"Sorry, Scully, but what's that smell?" he asked finally. He felt his stomach contents rising to his throat, and it wasn’t because of the gruesome crime scene photos on the table.

She paused and tilted her chin up to the ceiling. He watched as she sniffed the air in sharp, short inhales through her perfectly proportioned nose.

"I don't smell anything," she said. 

"Really?" he asked, stunned. "It smells like—and I don't mean to bring up any unpleasant memories—wet dog in here."

She sniffed again, then shrugged. "I really don't smell it," she said, shaking her head. "But I can open a window if you want."

"Nah, it's okay."

He tried to run through his explanation of the case as quickly as possible. Three victims found without tongues, but no evidence of any procedure or act that would've resulted in the loss of said tongues which, their friends and family members insisted, were surely present before their deaths.

"The killer could be a surgeon and have access to fine tools or even lasers for seamless cuttage," she said, examining the autopsy photos.

"Mmmhmm, mmhmm," he nodded, trying to open his mouth as little as possible to keep the scent out. "But there's no sign of cutting or scarring. Which there surely would be if the procedure was performed so recently? None of the victims were missing for more than 24 hours—and all had been seen, with tongue no less, within a day. No wound could heal that fast, right?"

"So, what's your theory?" she asked. "Cat got their tongue?"

She was pleased with her little joke and gave him a rare, precious Scully grin. He wanted to at least humor her with a laugh but the mention of a cat—so close to a dog that smelled like crap—made his stomach gurgle yet again and he had to swallow sharply to keep the acidic bile down.

"You okay, Mulder?"

"Yeah, it's just...that smell. It's nauseating."

She shook her head again, that long neck taunting him. "I'm a little concerned," she said. "Are you feeling alright? A sinus infection could cause phantosmia. Or a head injury. Although you weren't banged up much on our last case."

"I'm fine," he said. "Anyway, it's not a cat I'm thinking of, but a cannibalistic spirit documented by Algonquian-speaking Native American tribes in the Northern US and Canadian wilderness.” 

"A wendigo?" she asked, eyebrow arched and ready to fire.

“Very impressive, Scully,” he grinned. “Although you should know that merely saying the spirit’s name is considered taboo. Some believe doing so could summon it into being.” 

She rolled her eyes.

He swallowed hard, and continued. “The spirit possesses a man, who then becomes unable to resist the temptation to eat human flesh. Specifically, the delicacy of the tongue."

"So you think a possessed person ate the victims' tongues?"

"Perhaps," he says. "And the legend goes that because it's actually the spirit feasting on human flesh—not the killer himself—there are no wounds where the tongue is removed. It also explains how these victims lost more than half their blood volume with no signs of trauma."

"It could be severe gastrointestinal bleeding," she said, ignoring his theory. "Perhaps as the result of a communicable illness which would explain why three members of the same community died in the same manner."

"So you think they shat out all their blood?"

"It's not unheard of," she shrugged. “Have any of the victims traveled to a region where ebola is endemic?” 

It was all making him nauseous now. He thought he'd gotten used to it after being in the room for a few minutes but the smell, if anything, was getting worse.

He felt vomit rising into his mouth and cupped  his hand over his lips. "Sorry, Scully. I gotta--" he started before bolting to her bathroom and puking into the toilet. 

"Are you okay?" she asked when he re-entered the room, eyes bloodshot.

"I think I'm coming down with something," he said. "Listen, why don't you take a look at those photos and we'll discuss more in the office tomorrow. I better get going."

"Jeez, Mulder, if I didn't know any better I'd think you were pregnant, between the heightened sense of smell and the vomiting. But that sounds like one of your theories, not mine."

"Very funny, Scully," he said, grabbing his jacket off the back of the chair and heading to the door.

In the hallway, he gasped a sigh of relief. Whatever disgusting dog odor permeated Scully's apartment fortunately hadn't made its way out here. 

3.

At first, he thought the sharp prick at his heel was Scully's toenails. He was about to tease her about trimming them when he realized she was sitting beside him on her couch with her feet tucked underneath her. They were back at her apartment a week later debriefing their previous case. He hadn’t been able to prove the existence of a cannibalistic spirit and she hadn’t been able to come up with a plausible scientific explanation so they were left in their typical stalemate. Although the animal smell had dissipated, he couldn’t shake the sense that something was off. 

He was listening to her recount her autopsy findings when— fuck , there was that sharp biting sensation again. He involuntarily kicked out his foot as if fending off an invisible ankle-height assailant. 

"What's wrong?" Her eyes popped open. 

"Shit, sorry Scully," he said, trying to settle back down. "I could've sworn something was biting my ankle.”

"Biting?" she asked skeptically.

"Yeah," he trailed off, folding in half to examine the carpet underneath the sofa. "Almost like a little dog."

"Like Queequeg?" She smirked. 

"Actually, yeah, I think that's exactly what it was like. Like that fur ball was nibbling at my heels.” 

“I don’t have to tell you that’s impossible.” He detected a hint of sadness in her voice and his heart sank, not for the first time, for all that their work had taken from her.

He opened his mouth to tell her about the other recent events—the barking sound, the flash of auburn in the Colorado wilderness, the wet fur smell of her apartment—but he knew she’d just dismiss it all.

“What?” she asked, sensing he was on the verge of revealing something. As if they were on a case and he was holding back a vital piece of information. Something he had been guilty of doing in the past, he knew, but he usually had a valid reason. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Mulder….” She dipped her chin down as her eyes bore into his.

Powerless against her, he told her everything. "Maybe he's haunting you," he concluded.

"Oh, no, Mulder," she said definitively. "I don't think it's me he's haunting."

4.

They decided to hold a seance the next day. Scully sneered at first but ultimately went along with it without needing too much convincing. She still had Queequeg’s leash and collar, so they set up a small shrine on her coffee table. She gathered a mismatched array of candles from the bathroom and living room and put them around Queequeg's memorabilia.

"How does this work?" she asked. 

He considered reminding her that she'd demonstrated the ability to transcend the boundary between the living and the dead in the past, but that would have required bringing up her father, which would have put a damper on this otherwise delightful evening. Scully felt warm next to him and they were essentially hanging out without the pretense of a case. Sure, they were having a seance for a dead dog, but how else would the two of them bond after hours?

"Let's just close our eyes, hold hands, and try to summon his spirit."

"Is this just an excuse to hold hands, Mulder?"

"Any excuse I can get," he said, as he reached out to take her hand in his. He hoped it came off as a joke, but he really did mean it. It felt so good to hold her hand when neither of them were near death. 

"Mary Todd Lincoln used to host the nation's most renowned spiritualists at the White House for seances to speak with her late son," Mulder said, trying to lend an air of legitimacy to their makeshift session. "Even honest Abe would sometimes make an appearance."

"Don't we need a medium?" Scully asked, keeping a firm hold on his hand. 

"I figure you could play the role, Madame Scully," he said, tipping his chin in her direction. She smiled. He liked making her smile. Her smile always had the effect of flicking a switch deep in his belly that felt like the delicate flutter of a butterfly's wings.

"I think Melissa and I had a Ouija board back in the day."

"Pfft," he snorted. "The Ouija board is a purely commercial invention. I don't think anything made in the same factory as Chutes and Ladders can be trusted to commune with the dead."

Scully smirked. "I assumed Ouijia boards would fit right in with the Fox Mulder cosmology."

"Then, Scully," he said, shaking his head, "I don't think you know me at all."

He grinned at her and she smiled back. 

"So, how do we start this thing?" she asked.

"First, we have to close the circle." He extended his free hand to hers and she squeezed tightly onto it.

They stood silently for a beat, facing each other, holding hands. He wasn't actually sure if there was a spiritualist reason for creating the closed circle, but it had to have roots in ancient concepts of energy channeling. He'd done silly little seances in college, typically led by witchy girls with dyed black hair and crystal jewelry, and they always stressed the importance of not breaking the circle. Once he had taken the time to dive into the occult and 19th century spiritualism—the heyday of the modern seance—he couldn't find anything on the importance of maintaining a circle. But then again, if holding one of Scully's hands was nice, holding both of them was even better.

He closed his eyes and, without saying anything, sensed that she'd closed hers, too. He relished the trust she placed in him, listening as her breathing slowed and deepened. He inhaled the heady mix of candles they'd gathered from around the apartment. Vanilla and eucalyptus mingled in the air with musk and gardenia and he suspected these weren't all supposed to be lit at once, but somehow it worked. 

"Do you want me to say something?" she asked, her soft voice drifting over to him in the dark.

"Um, if you want," he said.

She paused, then began. "Queequeg, we welcome your spirit into our circle. If you're near us, please make your presence known."

"Not bad, Scully," he said, giving her hands a squeeze.

"Melissa used to do this crap all the time."

"Hey, don't rain on my parade over here."

"Sorry," she said with a giggle that set his soul aflame.

"We miss you, Queequeg, you were a good dog," she went on. "You didn't always smell the best, especially when you were flatulent, which seemed to be more often than not—"

"What were you feeding that dog?" Mulder interrupted.

"Shut up," she said. "But no matter how poorly you smelled at times, I loved you very much and truly enjoyed the time we spent together. If you've come back because you're angry at Mulder for leading you to your demise at the hands of an alligator—"

"Or Big Blue," he piped up.

She tugged on his hands and ignored him. "If you're angry at Mulder, he'd like to take this chance to apologize and request your forgiveness so you can transition on to the next plane in peace."

"Scully, this isn't half bad," he said, genuinely impressed. 

"It's your turn now—go on, apologize."

"Are you serious?"

"Do you want him to stop haunting you or not?"

Mulder smiled and tried to convey his happiness through their grasped hands.

"Queequeg, this is Mulder speaking. I want to apologize for calling you names and dragging you out to Heuvelmans Lake where you met your untimely demise. I wish we could have spent more time together with Scully—” 

She cut him off with an adorable snort of a laugh.

"—listening to Scully talk. And have Scully check us for fleas and ticks."

Her giggle was a full-blown laugh now. He was desperate to open his eyes and see her face light up. but he’d bought into this seance, so he wasn’t about to break it now.

"I checked you for ticks once , Mulder," she said. "And that was because we'd just spent the night in the woods."

"Well, you're welcome to check again any time."

"I think we're getting off topic," she said, collecting herself. "Keep talking to Queequeg."

5.

There was no gust of wind, flickering light, or even jingling collar bells ringing through the room after he finished speaking, but they both sensed a change. It was as if a six-pound weight had been lifted. 

"I think his spirit is free," Scully whispered to him, solemnly. 

"Run free, Queequeg," he said. He gently opened his eyes and found that hers were open too, and she was looking at him warmly. Despite her reputation for being cold and closed off, he knew that Scully emanated warmth. Once she let someone into her life, she’d hold them in her warmth and protect them with her loyalty. He was only slightly peeved that she had opened herself up to Queequeg before him.

She loved with a fierceness and dedication outsized for her tiny frame. Then again, everything about Scully was larger than her small size would suggest. Her brilliance, her strength, and yes, her love, all seemed like they should overwhelm someone so tiny, but Scully managed to contain it all in just a few inches over five feet.

In that way, she was  like Queequeg. An outsized force stuffed into a small package, with a tuft of auburn hair, who would bite if necessary. He wouldn't dare compare her to Queequeg out loud, though.

Instead, he said, "He was a good dog."

"I thought you couldn't stand him."

"I don't know if we ever saw eye to eye, per se, although that might've been more of a height issue." He gave her a crooked smile. "But I know you liked him, that he kept you company."

"That makes me sound pretty pathetic," she sighed. 

"I didn't mean that. Just that—" he paused to choose his words carefully—"it's nice to come home to someone. I know fish aren't really the same as dogs, but sometimes it's soothing to see them after a long day of the shit we deal with. It just helps me put things in perspective—I'm dealing with lies and gaslighting and conspiracies, and they're just obliviously swimming along and enjoying their lives. A dog must be similar, I imagine."

"Yeah," she nodded. "It was like that with Queequeg. Whenever I'd get frustrated with work or with you"— he gasped in mock outrage and she just smiled and continued—"he'd always be here and look so excited to go for a walk or get his dinner. The consistency was comforting. And he was good at cuddling. He'd get so warm, like a little ball of heat."

"You know, Scully," he started, "I'm available for cuddling if you're ever feeling cold."

“I’ll keep that under consideration.” She smiled. “For now, want to stick around for a glass of wine?”

“Sure,” he said, and she disappeared into the kitchen to fetch a bottle and glasses. 

"I'm sorry we didn't get a chance to speak with Queequeg's spirit," he said when she returned,  accepting a glass of red wine from her. 

Settled into the opposite corner of the couch, Scully sat with her legs scrunched up underneath herself with her own glass of wine. He couldn't deal with how precious she looked—nor with how far away she sat.

"Get over here, Scully," he said, patting the cushion next to him.

She smiled, untucked her legs, and moved to scoot over next to him. He transferred his wine glass to his left hand so he could drape his right arm over her shoulder. 

"Maybe Queequeg just has to realize that I'm not a threat to you," he said. Emboldened by her lack of response to his arm over hers, he started lazily tracing circles on her tricep. "Then he'll stop haunting me."

"You're not a threat to me," she said, seriously.

"Come on, Scully." He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I'm responsible for so much shit that's happened to you over the years. If I were a little Pomeranian in love with you, I'd do everything in my six-pound power to make this Mulder guy's life a living hell."

She raised an eyebrow. "You think Queequeg was in love with me?"

"How could he not be?" he spit out without even thinking. "I mean—" he tried to recover—"you took good care of him."

Scully just gave him a Cheshire cat grin. She wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily.

"You think that's all it takes to fall in love with me? If I take care of you?"

"Well, there are lots of reasons a guy—or a dog—could fall in love with you. You're loyal, kind, and caring. You're fucking brilliant. And you're not half-bad to look at either."

"’Not half-bad,’” she repeated, frowning. “I’m flattered, really.” 

“Give me a break. I’m trying to play it cool here,” he admitted. 

She blushed and took a sip of her wine. He did, too, as if trying to use the alcohol to mask his sudden confession. Although it was his first sip and he'd been drunk in love with her for longer than he cared to admit.

"Oh, fuck it," he said. He leaned forward to set the wine glass on the coffee table and pivoted to face her. Bravely, he delved into uncharted territory. "You're breathtakingly beautiful, Scully. I'm not about to speculate on what got Queequeg's gears going, but if he's anything like me, he wouldn't be able to resist you. Frankly, I'm jealous of how many nights he got to spend in your bed."

"I didn't allow him in the bed."

He smiled wide. “Of course you didn't," he said. "Because you know about things like pet dander and how sleeping with a dog in your bed can interrupt your REM cycle and that's another reason why you're so lovable.”

“You’re making me sound more anal-retentive than lovable.” She looked up at him with sad eyes before quickly glancing down again. 

“Oh, Scully, you know that’s now what I mean.” He leaned forward to nudge her shoulder with his. 

“What do you mean?” She asked, her eyes still downcast. 

“Just that—” He paused, struggling to find the words. “You’re so you , Scully. You’re so fully realized, so completely yourself, but not in a way that makes you predictable or boring. It just makes it all the more thrilling when I learn something new about you that somehow both surprises me and fits into the puzzle of what makes you you.”

“And that fact that I didn’t let a dog sleep in my bed somehow makes me more lovable?” 

“It does to me.” He brought the tip of his pointer finger to her chin, softly encouraging her to look back toward him. “What I’m trying, and apparently failing, to say is that I love everything about you. I love that you’re particular and exacting. I love that you force me to be honest and vigorous in our work, and I love that you’re part of my life outside of work, too. And while there’s nothing I value more than our friendship, I hope I’m not being too presumptive to say that I’m getting the feeling we’d both like to be more than friends.”

Terrified, he searched her eyes for confirmation, any sign that his feelings were reciprocated. But she simply stared back at him, her chin wrinkling as she considered his words.

“Although, I suppose, sharing your bed with a creature a lot larger than a Pomeranian might be much more disruptive to your sleep cycle,” he added. 

“I might not mind the interruption,” she said finally, her voice low and breathy, her eyes still locked on his.  

“Even from your defiant, alien-chasing, nutjob of a partner?” 

“Do you mean my incredibly tenacious, intelligent, and loyal partner for whom I might just harbor similar feelings?” 

"Do you think Queequeg would approve?" he asked.

"Let's find out," she said. Before he could question her, Scully's lips were pressed against his. She tasted like tannin-rich wine but also something deeper and more Scully-like: warm and tangy with other unidentifiable undertones that he could drink from his whole life and never get enough of.

He took her wine glass from her and placed it next to his on the coffee table. With both hands free, she felt her way up his arms to frame his face. His own hands wandered wildly, up her back, through her hair, on her soft and tender cheeks. She opened her mouth to him and he tasted her tongue with his. He felt his body responding to her kiss—and judging on how she was squirming and shifting her hips towards him, he knew she was responding as well.

Just as he was about to slip a hand up and underneath her feather-soft sweater to caress the even softer skin underneath, he heard a low, deep growl off in the distance.

He pulled away and faced Scully, puzzled.

“That couldn’t be—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I heard it, too. I think my neighbors down the hall got an English bulldog. It’s not a ghost.” 

“Good enough for me.”

“I should kiss you more often if it gets you to agree so easily.” She smiled at him, inching even closer on the couch.

“I think you should test that theory, Agent Scully.” 

She leaned in again. This time, there were no howls or growls interrupting them.

[twocakesficfest]

Two Cakes X-Files Fic Fest: Prompt 1

I randomly picked a prompt from the submissions (I used a number generator and attributed numbers to prompts in the order they were submitted) and our prompt is:

immortal / invincible queeqeg who likes to show up and mess up a case or two (probably by eating the victim - e.g. Mulder: the victim walked away, cut to a tiny dog dragging a leg away)

There are no sign-up, deadline, or word count constraints!

You can find the AO3 collection here when you are ready to submit!

Also, please consider dropping your name on this form if you're participating. It's optional, but it will be helpful to see how many people are taking part and gauge how many fics we've received before we pull the next prompt!

Have fun writing!

Find out more info on this fest here

[stillbornedprincess]

the long awaited Moby dick book review observation for the modern young lady.

do not open if you do not want spoilers

now. The novel is a very dated one, but with all renowned dated novels it’s timeless with at least one theme to touch everyone. Personally I enjoyed reading the novel so much but why it is I found it so beautiful would be untranslatable. Not that I won’t try, and with the first part of the title of this post, “a review”, this will not be a review. Nor will it be a summary: so for accuracy “observation” was coined. A unique aspect of the book, which also makes it notorious, is that is serves more or less like a mirror. What you’ll find in your heart, you’ll find in the text. A journalist would prove it to you in a neater way, but bear with me. There were plenty chapters that twinkled in its secret tongue to me but I’ll highlight two or three. I will start with chapter 85: the fountain. This chapter is about the enigmatic spout of sperm whales. In the olden days, people could only guess how those bodies worked. And even still today, suppose, we still do guess, guessing this time maybe not just with fickle mind but with machines as well. A photograph is a sacred thing. Anyways, here’s a quote narrated by the narrator ‘Ishmael’

how nobly it raises our conceit of the mighty, misty monster, to behold him solemnly sailing through a calm tropical sea; his vast, mild head overhung by a canopy of vapor, engendered by his incommunicable contemplations, and that vapor—as you will sometimes see it—glorified by a rainbow, as if Heaven itself had put its seal upon his thoughts. For, d'ye see, rainbows do not visit the clear air; they only irradiate vapor. And so, through all the thick mists of the dim doubts in my mind, divine intuitions now and then shoot, enkindling my fog with a heavenly ray. And for this I thank God; for all have doubts; many deny; but doubts or denials, few along with them, have intuitions. Doubts of all things earthly, and intuitions of some things heavenly; this combination makes neither believer nor infidel, but makes a man who regards them both with equal eye.

now, whenever talk of rainbows come up in art or literature, it’s bound to stick out to me. with colours, they make up my stillbornland, and with colours, they make up awe-ful greys. my arguments for the colour grey would be just as jagged as ‘Ishmael’’s arguments for the colour white in the chapter 42. But matters like this are never rational seeing the nature of colours. Maybe God the Painter was a postmodernist. Of course this is a joke, please take it as the joke it is.

and on the topic of jokes, the humour of Moby dick is wry as dried whale foreskin. Worn to take on scalding topics, not so different from try-working workers would put it on to shield from soot and fire. The narrator, who I’m not too sure whether or not he would be the protagonist; funny guy. We the reader are taken by the shoulder like the wedding guest and from then on the leaves of the book fly by like the wedding banquet happening indoors as we watch into the eyes of our ancient marinier with a brisk opening note of “Call me Ishmael.” And an immediate “Some years ago—never mind how long precisely, having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore. . ..”

the character of Ishmael is simple: he tells us about the time as a young man he dreamt up sweet nothings. It also happens that he is very lonely. He’s alone in the first few chapters, and alone again in the epilogue. Ishmael isn’t alone for the whole novel though. His weary heart finds rest in the manly arms of pagan queeqeg which kept him warm at the spouter inn. this gooey part of Ishmael and his friend isn’t really acknowledged again. but what I said about the text being a mirror, many reviewers as seen on Goodreads and jstor, and slate magazine, found it a little erotic. Erotic if you wilt. But personally, I understand why one would interpret that, and I suppose this novel, the watercolour fresco it is, in its washing shades, a layer inbetween touches on that human weakness. And on human weakness, another wash it is, can be traced from the tube that is moody captain ahab. The shade of “mood” as I’ll call it, its body will be taken from ahab. think how paints are mixed together to be darker or bluer or redder, that’s what I’m getting at, as I said about journalists. Ahab: the blue. Pipin: the white (a blinding, humbling white) (ironic cause Pipin is very very black. You could say even, Pipin represents the swallowing mythology of race within the ancient western order, made self aware.) And why it is I chose Pipin to be the lighter shade of mood, particularly white, is that he is pure. He holds no hate, only foreboding. If Pipin loves God it’s up to the reader, and, on that, Love of God is known by most theist philosophies by “forever search.” The Nepalese priests don’t know God, nor do the Sufis of Chad, they may know less about God then the laymen, but their hearts bleed on and on for Him.

Pipin knows God. He saw His foot in the Pacific, and never knew anything else. He saw the thread spindle by and never saw anything else. And that is where I will close on the character of Pipin for now. Ahab, as I was saying, is the mayonnaise of the story. He is described a lot how he’s perceived by readers. Old greek hero: learned, lined face. A line in his description that stood out to me was when his appearance was compared to a broken doll for the thick white scar that runs down his face and neck. It is unknown whether it ran through his whole form. On broken dolls, Ahab is wounded both in the spirit and in the body. He misses a leg infamously licked off by his nemesis, and many scholars write on how this symbolises castration, but, in my opinion, isn’t so necessary because it’s connoted enough that his, um, phallus, Excuse my language, was damaged one horrid time. His prosthetic leg was “so violently displaced, that it had stake-wise smitten, and all but pierced his groin.” He was found somewhere layed unconscious alone in a freak accident.

The madness was planted not the hour when he lost his leg, but I’ll say it was placed after how his coworkers treated him as he was sore. Of course he was distressed, he was just after getting maimed by a leviathan. Then they leave him in the ship basement in a straitjacket for three months. A believable 20th century psychology experiment. And on that absurdity on both his freakout and the funny treatment others follows with, all ahab did was poke a little knife into moby’s thick skin; what’s six inches to a whale? the calf of a man it seems. And on this, I’ll say, especially on the last five chapters of the novel, it really tugged at my heart. How many people go mad over silly things and how many of them sit in their graves, over something so silly. The sober portrayal of madness in Moby Dick was new to me, and poor ahab, nothing was holding him back. I’m sure one of you here have tasted madness before and you’ll know how it wraps the particles in the air. You’ll be right till you’re wrong and by then it’s too late and everyone hates you and what’s left then but to kill the White Whale. Lucid or not, a self fulfilling ‘prophesy’. If you are mad, I am sorry. I was planning to add some quote about how ‘people that don’t go mad after adversity are unlucky’ or whatever but I think this one will be more appropriate for my case.

“I like to feel something in this slippery world that can hold, man.”

... What people do for truth. Sigh. If only the reformation didn’t happen.

A short wedge away from crazy Ahab now, a character I will pull in front will be Fedallah, the formally secret pagan accomplice of the captain. While I was washing my hair thinking about this text straight after I completed it, thinking about how phallic it is. There also happens to be no female characters obviously seeing the setting, now I could write about how all the maces and harpoons and daggers and such all the sperm and domination castration etc and I sure will, maybe, but a tidbit I dreamt up under bubbles of shampoo:

I feel ‘Fedallah’ is a very feminine character, how Ahab is an archetypal wounded masculin. He kind of works though him, teaching him the eastern ways of blood magic and all queer ideas on how to defeat the whale. On my observation of Fedallah being feminine, many people critique that this ‘Fedallah’ is orientalist. Someone wrote a whole paper on it, but I didn’t read it, Said’s book on Orientalism is enough, and yes I suppose one can see why someone else takes that view. A phantom parsee whom ‘Stubb’ and ‘Starbuck’ call the devil well before it’s open to see that they were right. He kind of slithers in and out, like a veiled witch in some western story about those Moroccan seductresses, feasting on the woes of a madman just getting eviler and eviler. Fedallah, as a character, I will make a joke now, maybe it was that unnamed wife of ahab’s in a strap on beard. It makes sense seeing how Old Testament the novel reads, Wicked Jezebel. Now. What do I write that hasn’t been written by others. another chapter I quite liked. Say, chapter 96 was memorable to me, really all the chapters in the early 90’s. Here’s an excerpt from this ninety six.

“Nevertheless the sun hides not Virginia's Dismal Swamp, nor Rome's accursed Campagna, nor wide Sahara, nor all the millions of miles of deserts and of griefs beneath the moon. The sun hides not the ocean, which is the dark side of this earth, and which is two thirds of this earth. So, therefore, that mortal man who hath more of joy than sorrow in him, that mortal man cannot be true—not true, or undeveloped. With books the same. The truest of all men was the Man of Sorrows, and the truest of all books is Solomon's, and Ecclesiastes is the fine hammered steel of woe. "All is vanity". ALL. This wilful world hath not got hold of unchristian Solomon's wisdom yet. But he who dodges hospitals and jails, and walks fast crossing grave-yards, and would rather talk of operas than hell; calls Cowper, Young, Pascal, Rousseau, poor devils all of sick men; and throughout a care-free lifetime swears by Rabelais as passing wise, and therefore jolly;—not that man is fitted to sit down on tomb-stones, and break the green damp mould with unfathomably wondrous Solomon. But even Solomon, he says, "the man that wandereth out of the way of understanding shall remain" (i. e. even while living) "in the congregation of the dead". Give not thyself up, then, to fire, lest it invert thee, deaden thee; as for the time it did me. There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.”

The sun doesn’t hide anything over ground, all encompassing to feed everyone vitamin D. The ending of this extract, narrated by Ishmael, suggests that some people get more vitamin D than others. This reads like a clever sermon and you’ll be sure to find other witty sermons, the one on Jonah ch.9.

I wanted to write about the character of ‘Starbuck’ now that I am thinking of preaching and morals. Starbuck is the yellow colour in the sandwich. He is the formal second-in-charge of the boat, and a pious Christian he is. His piety is seen in chapter 123 where he debates whether he kills his boss with his own musket in his sleep. He doesn’t kill Ahab, although he was noble to entertain it. I think the of Starbuck represents empathy. He worries for his friend’s soul, always telling him to come back to the Light but failing. A chapter where starbuck confronts Ahab once again, around the last 4 chapters, Ahab wept and admitted to his friend that maybe he didn’t want to chase on this suicide mission. Of course Ahab being Ahab he takes back his statement and goes back to being stoic but. Starbuck emphasised with the madman by reflecting what they both had in common; and we know most good holy people would brush a philistine off as a heathen with no humanity, and might even try to kill them not out of worry for their mortal soul, but from a sinister spot, hoping the wrongdoer burns in Hell. And on the topic of pagans, right and wrong, followers of old timey Nantucket christianity, presentations, we have a ‘Queequeg’ to stain the fresco with the shade of outsiders. I suppose Ishmael is an apparent outsider but only just to the reader. In the pretend word of Moby Dick he would had blended in just fine a tidy american boy. His name, like crazy Elijah and loony Ahab puts the nature of his background frankly. Not here or there, what morals he held, and geographical location, manhattan to God knows where. Ishmael bows down to his husbands idol goddess and seemed to want to do as he did until the idol goddess told him otherwise, and instead advised ‘queequeg’ to follow Ishmael.

Now, I could go on about how this character was ment to resonate to culturally Christian American western people, but that’s obvious and boring with “better a sober cannibal than a drunken Christian.”, But instead I will lend the map my meek mind interpreted while pondering ‘Queequeg’. I think maybe, if I were in charge of a modern adaption of the book, I would shift Queequeg into a “pointless migrant” from some place that isn’t war-torn or necessarily unpleasant but for some reason bleeds out immigrants like blood. Say, Albania. Excuse my rude language, it’s supposed to be wry. I say this not to make a geopolicical statement, it’s just, well, a modern Moby dick, surely a Polynesian devil worshipper would fain to be relevant. A hardworking young man from Timbuktu ready to die for his employers as long as he gets to mope around hostels, away from the oppression of his family. Something to think about, we don’t often hear the plights of these undesirables on euronews. In this modern Moby Dick the details of Queequeg’s past life would change but the structure would stay the same methinks. In the novel, he’s of noble stock. First in line to a barbarian throne to a cannibal kingdom. Dismayed with what he sees on his island he abandons its customs and goes abroad to see what life is like in the fabled new world. Poor fellow was in for a shock, turns out the Christians are so much worse than the pagans in daily life. While the cannibals may chop up and eat a person once every so often, Americans drink until they slobber and spit on others for being the wrong shade of brown. The story goes, the mere observation of it all makes ‘Queequeg’ feel so tainted to even return to what he escaped, so he put on the brimmed hat and linen and squawked how’de’ye’doo .. … that story was touching. as a younger girl the muslamic ways of my family made me sick. even now when I ponder on them too long the similar nausea manifests… but. I look out the window to see what the folk around me get up to. As much as culture and its rules may sting, imagine living without it? right now there’s a European girl finding this conclusion but vice versa. Fickle thing this all is. Now, that’s a theme touched on the text, how we really are all just copies of one another, shaped by circumstance. And on that, I’d imagine a modern Ishmael to look a bit like this:

art hoe kind of person.. r/redscarepod when it was still about art. And on art, this book, really, it’s nothing like how i describe it. It’s really beautiful. Maybe I’m a bad reader, I don’t know literature, but this one was different. Nothing washed over me like it before. And I know the novel isnt finished with me yet. Lord willing I’d be sure to pick it up again in a year. The text is thick with references and even though I might have caught the biblical ones, and the ones I did not understand were filled in via powermobydick.com. Maybe twelve months later I’ll be the wiser. On beautiful things, here’s a pick of three pretty book covers.

1. A unique rainbow. Oh! How come I wrote nothing about the whale! Wow. Here’s a excerpt that stood out to me about the creature.

“the White Whale tossed himself salmon-like to Heaven. So suddenly seen in the blue plain of the sea, and relieved against the still bluer margin of the sky, the spray that he raised, for the moment, intolerably glittered and glared like a glacier; and stood there gradually fading and fading away from its first sparkling intensity, to the dim mistiness of an advancing shower in a vale.”

a confession, picturing The Whale in my head while reading; it was not much like how it was described. Maybe its eye sockets were broader, but full of void. Misty, opaque poltergeist of pale pastels and whites. Kind of kawaii, but not so much a fish-mammal but an angel.

2.

Adore the paper cutout impression the colouring produces. not much distinction between the ‘sky’ and the ‘sea’. Moby Dick could be flying.

3.

Who’s the face supposed to represent? And the whale, that certainly cannot be Moby, because it’s hurt. I think the face is supposed to be Ishmael, the disheveled beard makes me wonder that it’s supposed to be him after a day or two floating in Queequeg’s coffin, after the Pequod sank. Look at those colours, those scraggly bruises look sore. Poor whale, I think it’s crying.

oh, sob, it moved me so much I wanted to make art about it, a collage was my first idea, but it occurred to me I don’t know how I’d execute that. Usually collages are reserved for art on different feelings. I was thinking maybe a video collage, a retelling of the novel though internet memes and pop culture moments. But what memes other than Dj Khalid clips would be added? So scrap that. A journalist would know.

useless note: this made me think of the character ‘Stubb.’ :

hardy harr harr, what were your thoughts on Stubb? Many reviewers found stubb a poopyhead, which he was, but an intresting poopyhead nonetheless. Unforgivable what he did to Pipin though.

This is the end of my observation. Thank you if you read all of this. Thanks. God bless.

“Heaven have mercy on us all—Presbyterians and Pagans alike— for we are all somehow dreadfully cracked about the head, and sadly need mending.”

[szyszkasosnowa]

MOBY DICK 2011 LIVEBLOGGING

Da boys play cards with Pip awwww!

[dandunn]

I really dont get why they made queeqeg stand on top of the whale why they were flensing it when it seems a whole lot less dangerous to sit in a fucking boat and do it, what were they DOING to him??

[bauliya]

moby dick was the og "and there was only one bed"

[july-19th-club]

ishmael is a guy who refers to all fasting whether it is christian, muslim, or made-up-by-herman-melville-for-what-herman-melville-thinks-is-the-culture-of-the-south-pacific religions, as 'ramadans'. he is also a guy who moves to a new town with his roommate and they are recommended a particular chowder restaurant and inn, and when the server says, "clam or cod?" he goes "you're going to serve us cold clams for dinner???" and seems one hundred percent serious and not like he's just having a goof. son you were told it was chowder. that's why you came here. and he is also a guy who spends chapter three loudly saying to everybody who will halfway listen that he is absolutely not the type of guy to sleep in bed with a stranger even for convenience's sake and he especially hates it when guys smoke in bed. and then both of those things happen and by chapter five he is saying "there's just something so nice about being curled up in my cozy wee bed with a six foot man throwing his thighs across me . love when he lights his pipe and we lie there smoking and talking til the wee hours this must be exactly like what it s to be a Wife"

[calamitys-child]

Honestly love Ishmael spending several pages working himself into an utter panic over the concept of sharing a bed with Queeqeg then three sentences later he's like I'm his wife now :) he's beautiful and I don't know what on earth I was worried about :)

[darkesttimelinestuff]

Queequeg’s Final Repose

“Thanks for coming. I know it’s early,” Scully says, chin tucked into her chest, her boots shifting uncomfortably in the mud.

“Morning.” Mulder nods sharply, walking down the grassy embankment to her side.

“It seemed appropriate to do something to honor him.”

The sun, slung low on the horizon, casts shadows over the city, nearly hiding the grief etched on her face. And something else. Resentment, maybe. Scully hugs herself against the early-spring chill; the wind is biting near the water.

“How do we do this? I’ve never paid my respects to a dog before.”

“Didn’t you have pets growing up, Mulder?”

“We had a dog, yeah, but he ran away shortly after Samantha…” He trails off. “I always suspected my mom gave him away, actually.”

Scully’s brow furrows as she takes this in: a boy grieving for his lost baby sister has his dog, likely his only emotional support, ripped away from him.

“What makes you think that?”

“Baxter never ran away.” Mulder squints into the distance at the memory. “We’d let him run up and down the beach, play at the park with other dogs. He always came back to me. But one day I went to school and when I came home Baxter was gone. I never saw him again.”

“Oh, Mulder,” Scully sighs, a sympathetic hand on his shoulder.

“Did you have a dog growing up?”

“With four willifull kids, we had pets in the house constantly.” Scully smiles. “Missy brought home orphaned cats and hurt puppies. It drove my dad nuts, but I think Charlie’s snake was the angriest I’ve ever seen him over a pet. Not many made it through the bigger moves, unfortunately. Mom would find a kind neighbor to take them in.”

“Even the snake?”

“I don’t remember.”

“So, how did you say goodbye to your furry friends, Scully? Did you have a pet cemetery in your backyard?”

Scully huffs a sharp cold breath of laughter. “Not quite. But we respectfully laid to rest our lost pets.”

Mulder has a sudden flash of decaying rabbit; a rope of snake hanging from young Dana’s hands: stories divulged by Maggie, while Scully, ever protective of her privacy, lay in a hospital bed unable to defend herself.

He blinks the images away and gestures to a small bag dangling on Scully’s wrist.

“Oh,” Scully says. “These are a couple of Queequeg’s things.”

“His favorite toys?” Mulder asks and Scully nods, a lump forming in her throat. “Can I see?”

She hands Mulder the chewed leash, a ball, a small plush bone. “That last one is from Mr. Bruckman,” she manages hoarsely and bites her lip. “He left me some food and that toy. Queequeg loved it.”

“He was a good dog,” Mulder says, his sympathetic gaze so unnerving that she averts her eyes.

“You hated him,” she retorts, hoping it didn’t come out as mean as it sounded to her.

“I didn’t hate him,” Mulder replies softly, leaning against the guardrail. “I’m just of the school of thought that dogs shouldn’t resemble rodents. But he made you happy. He was important to you and that’s what counts. Plus, you had matching hair.” He can’t help but joke and wonders if he bears as much responsibility for Queeqeg’s death as Big Blue. Or an alligator.

“Thanks, Mulder. But don’t ever compare me to a dog again,” she warns, bumping his shoulder with her own.

“Never, Scully.”

“So when a pet passed in my family,” she begins, then pauses to take a shaky breath, “we’d bury it in our backyard with a favourite toy. Then Mom would make a big, unhealthy meal to help us forget. But I don’t have a backyard.”

Mulder nods understandingly. ”Do you want me to hold these for you?”

“Yeah. Just give me a minute,” Scully replies. She takes out the bone and hands him the bag.

“Take your time.”

Tears are welling in her eyes, but there is also deep gratitude there too and, Mulder thinks, maybe she doesn't blame him, after all. He rubs her back gently.

With another shaky breath, Scully bends to scoop up a handful of dirt. “Death is only a launching into the region of the strange Untried; it is but the first salutation to the possibilities of the immense Remote, the Wild, the Watery, the Unshored,” Scully recites and let’s the dusted earth trickle between loose fingers, the grains swept away with the breeze. Then she tosses the toy into the water.

There is comfort in the warmth and silence of the moment and Scully, heavy and sullen, leans into Mulder. He doesn’t offer vague apologies or empty promises; he allows her to grieve. Though only in her life briefly, Queequeg had occupied a large portion of her heart. Death is a career choice for Scully, but nothing prepared Dana for the sudden loss of the one friend she came home to every night.

For several minutes nothing exists but their heavy breaths and the rushing river. Finally, Scully straightens, squaring her shoulders.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Yes, fine.”

“Buy you a big, greasy breakfast?” Mulder offers, pocketing the leash and toy.

“Sounds perfect.” Scully smiles appreciatively as they turn from the river and up toward the busy district, where coffee shops and diners are quickly filling with early birds.

“You know, Scully, I never pictured you littering like that.”

@today-in-fic