Page 87 - NyghtVision Magazine Volume 3 #2

AN ESSAY BY FALCON

�he �e�rt

is a �est�ess W�n�erer

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money
in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little

and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the
circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly
November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and

bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper
hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into

the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as
soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws
himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this.

Herman Melville, Moby Dick

�
e never asked.

I suppose he didn't need to. Some questions never have to be spoken. They just fill the
space around the conversation.

Suddenly, a dank echo seems to render every word hollow,
every spoken syllable falls lifelessly in the heaviness of the silence.

"I suppose she wasn't the prettiest woman I’ve dated. She was a good fit, but perhaps
not the best. But I don't know if anyone other than her could have hung in there with me
through everything I have been through. We're very different. She's very linear in her
thinking and there's nothing linear about me. My thinking is more like a wave."

"I understand," I said. While I'm not sure I think linearly all the time, I am also not sure
I would describe my thinking as wave-like. Not that it mattered. I understood the point
he was making.

He seemed captivated by a thought that never found words. I wasn't certain that he’d
heard what I’d said. Then, the conversation shifted. I am not sure why, or even how.
Such sudden and apparently random changes in the direction of a conversation don't
bother me. A conversation is like a human life—there is often no apparent reason, no
unifying logic underlying it all. It just is. So, when I engage in conversation, I let it go
wherever it feels the need to go.

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