I joined a tour at a Single Malt Distillery in Scotland and made the mistake of admitting that I was driving. The young woman looked at me queerly and repeated the question. “Are you the driver?” I admitted that I was and was informed that I could not partake in the tasting at the end of the tour. Instead, they would give me the to-go kit.
The tour was the same as all tours, something about boiling barley and putting that into kegs for a while, and the tasting began, just me and two couples, none of whom were apparently driving, which was confounding given that the distillery was in the middle of the nowhere.
The young woman, our tasting host, had gone to prepare my to-go kit, and I looked around at the others and realized how silly and naïve I was in that moment. More than that, I realized that I always oscillated from being silly and naïve, like now, to being the very opposite, whatever that was. It was an essential character trait of some kind.
The girl returned with the little bag. “I changed my mind,” I told her. She looked at me quizzically. “You’re not driving now?” “No, I’m not.” She paused, presenting her naïve and beautiful self as she had learned to do. “As long as I don’t know about it.”
I drank all of the tasters and they were delicious. “Goodbye, everyone.” I stood up before the others had finished. “I’ve got to catch the bus.” There was a collective laugh – I was oscillating now – and bought a bottle of special wine cask 15-year-old and took a couple of pictures of highland cows.
It was a lovely evening, some sun flashing out from the clouds at times. The road wound idyllically through the rolling hills, and I came around a corner, maybe a little fast, and saw two round balls in the middle of the road. I pulled to a neat stop and squatted down to examine the hedgehogs, the pair just sitting as they were. I tapped one with my shoe, making it scurry off.
The other wouldn’t move, but balled up where it was, and so I rolled it to the side of the road and continued on to my hotel.
Everybody was talking about the massive pod of Pilot Whales that had stranded themselves on Tresness Beach on Sanday Island in Scotland, but I couldn’t find them.
I had been told which beach and walked along for an hour and realized that I must have got the directions wrong and decided it must be on the other side of the peninsula and crossed the bay. I was lucky because it was low tide, and almost all of it was a sandy flat. Only at the very far side did I have to take my boots off and walk through the water, only calf deep and almost warm. There was a gap in the cow fence, and it didn’t look like a far walk up the grassy hill to see where the dead whales might be. It was easy going at first, just bumpy and grassy, but got steadily worse, until the undulations became severe and the grass as high as my chest.
And then it was all but impossible. I looked back to the bay and thought of going back, but soldiered on, as it got thicker and steeper until I felt almost trapped. I looked to the top and thought there was no way I was getting out of this. The way back seemed even worse. I thought of Joe Simpson’s epic survival tale, Touching the Void, dragging himself with a shattered leg down from the Chilean mountain through impossible terrain and only making it because he focused on what was right in front of him. Just this bit, these few feet, and got through that. And so, that’s what I did, one undulation at a time, glancing up occasionally, avoiding the gullies and thick patches of thorns, until I was at the ridge, and it was only an awkward slide down through the remaining grass and thorns to the beachside.
But there were no whales there. Nothing to either headland. The walking was easier, rocks and seaweed and sand, as I made my way back along the coast, hoping that the dead whale might be just around the corner, knowing they wouldn’t, when the Arctic Terns descended. As small and seemingly cute as these birds are, they are ferocious in defense of their rookeries, squawking and dive-bombing in choregraphed Luftwaffe-like attack. One was particularly aggressive, shrieking its squawks, coming inches from my head. “Back the fuck off!” I waved my hat manically and then my coat, but nothing could stop her – obviously her – until I had rounded the bend.
Exhausted and humiliated, I trudged back up the bay, my boots off again, through the shallow waters, until I was finally back at my car, wiping the wet sand from my feet. Other cars had arrived and a van driven by a young man with all sorts of video and sound equipment. I was in the right place after all. I went to the store for some juice and ibuprofens and headed off again, mounting the dunes, looking down to the end of the beach where there was something now, a truck or a tractor, and tiny dots around that, people, and then the splotches of black past that, what I had thought to be rocks which were the dead whales. I walked along the waterline, glancing up now and again, seeing it all come slowly into view.
The tractor dominated, its flashing yellow light a warning, and the groups of people behind it, huddled together over a body it appeared. The dead whales lay in an ominous long scattered row, some as big as yachts, others as small as dogs, all of them dead, most with their mouths their tongues lolling out, blood around them in some place where the biologists had cut in their numbers – there were 77 in all – or begun the biopsies.
It looked like a Jonestown Massacre, if anything, these creatures having drunk the Kool Aid, swimming with their leader to die nonsensically on the beach.
Looking out into the waters now, knowing that these 77 had been out there and knowing now that there were none was a cause for ennui. Indeed, what is the point in the end? Even the whales understand that. Their penises were most striking, snaking long to a twisting point, looking more like extracted intestine than their business, another bit of flesh to be buried. I watched the biologist saw off one of their heads, and I knew it was time. I had done 22,000 steps and seen what I had come out to see. And it had been bad.
I think I’m awake but not, because I’m thinking things like I’m late for my aunt’s funeral and that I should learn to play piano. I need someone to roll down the window or a Christmas tree, something like that.
I’m bendable or half inflated, a combination of velvet and sticks. I can’t remember. I’m dropping stuff and spilling ice, hitting the call button on the broken PA, and then I’m writing out restaurant recs, and Marcus Aurelius comes to mind, a hose or at least parts of one.
I want to remind myself of the thing I need to remember. One of those new water bottles that everybody has. That’s what I need and how much that actually make sense. I’m processing what makes fashion. If it’s insanity, what then?
Bleakness and death permeate John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, even in the seemingly minor descriptions of going down that barren road. As the truck came near, the driver saw the turtle and swerved to hit it. His front wheel struck the edge of the edge of the shell, flipped the turtle like a tiddlywink, spun it like a coin, and rolled it off the highway. (15)
The rabbit hesitated, faltered and then turned and bolted towards the lesser lights of the Dodge. There was a soft jolt as he went under the wheels “We sure squashed him,” said Casy. (185)
A rattlesnake crawled across the road and Tom hit it and broke it and left it squirming. (230)
You eat regular, an’ get clean clothes, and there’s a place to take a bath. It’s pretty nice some ways. Though it makes it hard not havin’ none of that social media.
One guy was back for breakin’ parole because it made him lonesome out there in the open, havin’ to think what thing to post next. An’ in the mornin’, he didn’t know what time to get up. Jus’ lay there lookin’ at his phone.*
*Adapted from John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath
There is nothing in it, no wisdom, no treasure, even crumbs to extol. It is directionless, emptiness, there is nothing to gain. Nobody cares how well you scroll. It is despair, an absence and death. Nobody cares how well you scroll. There is only vanishing, like you were never here.
The problem with stupid is its relentlessness. It just goes on and on. And on.
Smart is its own worst enemy, thinking itself to exhaustion, especially how to explain to stupid, which never works.
Stupid hates smart for being smart. It will not stop for anything, even survival, to be heard. There’s hope you say? Based on what? Stupid has always won.
Why are Andrei Tarkovsky’s films even a thing? They’re a meandering mess with endlessly long shot after long shot, slow tracks in and slow tracks sideways, sophomoric monologues about coping with existence dribbling on. Pretentious artsy crap. But I’m obsessed.
I was over tired when I went to see the recently restored version of Nostalgia. As much as I was enraptured by the opening shot, I was already falling asleep. It seemed a volatile thing because that’s where Tarkovsky lives, on that line between consciousness.
On the verge of madness? Was that it? Or clarity? A distant voice called out. A following tracking shot across a drained pond. I was almost scared. Or maybe I was and couldn’t admit that. I was understanding something, or forgetting what I thought I knew.
