Wolves inside my keyboard

Six years ago this summer I sat at my parents’ kitchen table pouring over my resume. I was back in the country after almost four years in England, finally free of the constraints of a work visa that had been a complete sham in the first place. I was no longer tied to one employer or skill or industry or even the “training and work experience” program the UK government miraculously decided would allow me to stay. (And oh, great glorious UK, I was grateful. I was.)

But now I was free, English degree burning a hole in my . . . my . . . where’d we put that thing anyway? No matter. Any job in America was open to me for the taking, and even with the bubble burst, so much with regard to employment seemed to be happening online. This seemed very convenient as my parents’ home was not exactly situated where I wanted to be employed.

Apply online! Attach your resume! DO NOT CALL US. I did and didn’t do exactly as I was told.

I clicked Submit, Submit, Submit, etc etc etc. And I waited.

I got a temp job working four to midnight data inputting Bills of Lading for a trucking company. (I thought “Bill of Lading” was a grand short story title.) I applied for the bigger stuff during the day. I’d decided I wanted to work around books. Anything to work with books. I crafted the wittiest (but not too witty), smartest (but not too smart) cover letter I’d ever seen and I fired it off, cold, to bookish companies and corporations all over America. I sent it snail mail too, just to be safe. I signed my name with the unmistakable flourish of a future exec.

“Are you sure these things are even going anywhere?” My mom asked, peering into my computer screen as I clicked another Submit button on an application. I’d sent out fifty applications and not had any response.

“In my day we didn’t sit around waiting for some email when we needed work. You need to get out and shake some hands,” my father said through his newspaper.

By the end of the summer the trucking company had figured out I graduated from one of the state’s better universities and offered me a day job (I declined), I’d had one interview and offer in Chicago (I declined), and stung by their indifference, I’d forbidden my writerly brother Sam and myself to publish any of our future literary classics with most the major houses in America.

“No promises,” he said.

I was saved—truly I think these six years later I might still be at that kitchen table—by a walk in the woods with my dad’s old college buddy Jack. We were up at the cabin over Labor Day.

“I think my cousin works in books,” he said absently.

She did. Sight unseen she invited me out East, let me sleep on her sofa, and took me to work for a week. By the end I was through the first round of interviews with a rival firm. I did the second round on the phone at my parents’, circling the house as I formulated and articulated my answers, pausing to look at my earnest reflection in the grandfather clock. I got the offer. I got on a plane and moved East.

I was over the moon to work in books.

It’s almost six years later and I work at a different firm, but I still work in books. In fact this week, after hours, when these sorts of things take place, my belongings were moved into a new office, my name plate torn with that recognizable crackle off the old velcro and affixed outside a new door. A promotion. I was rushing past the HR office when I had this vision of the heavy cream resume paper and jet-black ink on the kitchen counter back in Michigan. I’d sent one of my letters here, to this building, so desperate to get in. I never heard anything. I pushed the button on the elevator, wondering for a few moments where that letter had gone.

Of course—you know this is coming—I know now it’s a little less . . . romantic than I envisioned it when I pinned it with so much desire and hope. On the worst days business can even ruin books.

How we hated our coffee mugs! our mouse pads, our desk clocks, our daily calendars, the contents of our desk drawers. Even the photos of our loved ones taped to our computer monitors for uplift and support turned into cloying reminders of time served. But when we got a new office, a bigger office, and we brought everything with us into the new office, how we loved everything all over again, and thought hard about where to place things, and looked with satisfaction at the end of the day at how well our old things looked in this new, improved, important space. . . .

It’s true, I am pained to admit. But it was only a couple days after my office move before things went back to normal this week: I spotted another paw print on the copier.

. . . There was no doubt in our minds just then that we had made all the right decisions, whereas most days we were men and women of two minds. Everywhere you looked, in the hallways and bathrooms, the coffee bar and cafeteria, the lobbies and the print stations, there we were with—

Wolves.

Oh—sorry, I mean, there we were with

our two minds.

(All quotes above from) Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris (p. 7)

When I got thinking about Josh Ritter’s song Wolves, I had to ponder my life at work and how, especially over the last year, the pull of things outside seems to have grown stronger. The wolf in that song (and as I discussed, in much of Jack London’s work) might symbolize a source of nature, of wildness, of a call in each of us to do what is in fact part of us. What makes us feel most alive, or as London has it, what make us forget we’re alive. For me—no revelation even in this cozy blogging community of 2.5M—writing is the thing.

Writing is how I keep the wolves at bay, or how I join them, however you see it. They need constant attention and care, or else I get to feeling not myself. Crabby. The more I work at writing, the bigger my ideas, and the harder to fold them away into the cracks and crevices left over after the rest of my life has claimed its nonnegotiable time.

Why was it so terrifying, almost like death, one morning of a hundred, to walk back to your own office and pass alone through its doorway? Why was the dread so suffocating? Most days, no problem. . . . But one out of a hundred mornings it was impossible to breathe.

Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris (p. 56)

It happens, and for me the frequency is not so kind as one in a hundred. But it’s so tempting to pit our creative pursuits against our professional lives. It’s so tempting to quit so you can have the time you need and make that long-suspected discovery that actually, you’re Charles Dickens.

When someone quit, we couldn’t believe it. . . . Where had they found the derring-do? (p. 57)

Anyway, I figured I’d write a bit about work. No ritzy debut novel, mind you—for that I do recommend Ferris’ book. I figured if the wolves are going to show up at work—and they have— they better be ready for me to go in there looking around the way I usually save for everywhere else.

.
.
“Welcome aboard!”

The first thing I should tell you is, Look out for the bully. He’s sneaky. The first email is all Welcome Back! But snooze for one day and the next morning find an angry red exclamation point in your Inbox. This is a repeat reminder! he chides. He’s the Out of Office Agent, and it’s nice he alerts people that you’re out while you’re away. But he doesn’t like overtime. Once you’re back he’s done. I picture him running around in there, clipboard in hand, pencil behind ear, angrily shouting out names. Is Johnson BACK or what? Send him the Reminder. So remember: Enable the Out of Office Agent before you go away, Disable him right when you get back, and you won’t have any trouble. There’s something quite dissatisfying about being reprimanded by your computer just as you’re taking your first sip of morning coffee, clinging to the rapidly fading vacation glow.

The other wily electronic personality to look out for is . . . let’s call him Larry. He runs the Dial-by-Name service. You speak the name, he connects you. That’s the theory, anyway, as far as I can tell. Larry and I have never, ever seen eye to eye.

.
Name please? he asks brightly.

“Judy Johnson.”

Thank you. Ringing . . . Ed Mancini. To cancel, press star.

***!
.

Cancelled. Name please?

“JEW-DEE Johnson.”

Thank you. Ringing . . . Penelope Sanchez. To cancel, press star.

***!

.

Cancelled. Name please?

“You’re an idiot.”

Thank you. Ringing . . . Greta Westinghouse. To cancel, press star.

***!

.

Cancelled. Name please?

&*%$# $%#@*!!

Thank you. Ringing . . . Chuck Boo. To cancel, press star.

***!

Cancelled. [With exasperation creeping into his tone, as though to say “I really don’t have time for this:”] To reach a help message or reach an operator, after the tone say either “Help!” or “Operator.”

I confess, I have exhibited very bad behavior while trying to deal with Larry. I am considering a conflict seminar.

It’s good to have a theme song to pump you up as you’re walking in. Stay away from Maggie’s Farm if it’s a bad day. For awhile there I liked Kanye West, if only because I liked weaving through the cube farm whispering

You should be honored by my lateness!

After a few weeks you’re going to be away from your desk, somewhere, and a phone will ring and you will instinctively feel like picking it up. It’s a—what do they call it—Pavlovian reflex. Don’t worry. It takes a few months, but eventually your ears grow completely accustomed to the exact volume level of the ring of your phone when you’re sitting at your desk. You’ll be having a conversation six months from now, a phone will ring 5.5 feet away and someone will say “Isn’t that your—” and you’ll confidently say “Nope,” just as the person on the other side of the wall picks up.

There will be sneezing. Decide right now whether you’re a “Bless you” person or not. It’s very awkward sitting there debating on the fly. For what it’s worth, I think you should be: it’s polite. But if you’re the only one carrying the torch, and you set a precedent, this can become annoying. Especially if someone nearby gets a persistent cold. Or has allergies. Perhaps there’s an etiquette: a certain person says it every time, or people sort of take unscripted turns. I would think most sneezers prefer not to hear a chorus each time, but I’m not sure. Take the cues of those around you.

Learn the three letter acronyms (“TLAs”—yes, we really call them that). I don’t know about yours, but there are a lot of these in my industry. It’s the generic ones that I find amusing however. I laughed the first time I saw this

“I am WAH this morning.”

WAH should be something better than Working at Home. I am WAH!!! we could all say. There’s EOM for End of Message (in case you were confused) and someone emailed me WTG! after my promotion was announced. All my eye could process was WTF(!?), though, so this was slightly unnerving. WTG is Way to Go.

If you really need someone to do something and you really need them to understand you really need them to do it, but you really don’t want them to think you’re really pushy, you can always go all assertively, clairvoyantly grateful and say Thanks in Advance. Or TIA if you’re in a hurry. Our emails suggest we are all in a desperate rush.

Our chatter suggests we are all tied to a chair at a huge banquet table trying to consume an endless meal.

“He has a lot on his plate.”

“I need to get that off my plate.”

“This should be on their plate, not ours.”

I personally don’t use the plate metaphor. I don’t like it, but it’s up to you.

It’s good to be kind to the people who work in the coffee bar or the cafeteria, the ones that empty the trash or clean the bathrooms or change the light bulbs. The ones who tear off our name plates and roll our stuff across the floor.

.
.

speakers.jpg

.
.

The position of cashier in our cafeteria has a very high turnover, I’ve noticed. There was the tiny Asian woman who must have loved math because she’d look at your total and before you’d even unzipped your wallet she’d have the change ready in her hand. If you gave her exact change, she’d simply drop the readied coins right back in the drawer, not caring at all how many superfluous mathematic computations she carried out in her head. I liked her. She was so slight that she went out on maternity before any of us knew she was pregnant.

The next guy—a young kid—was a night owl and every morning my heart broke to see him standing there, eyes at half mast, dead on his feet. The cafeteria shift is six thirty to two. He napped through all his breaks on the only soft surface available to him: the furniture near the elevator banks. We all walked past his slumped figure—sometimes his head tipped back and lips parted in absolute exhaustion—not sure whether to tiptoe or talk to his supervisor. I sorta thought, You go, kid. I told him I stayed up late too and pretty soon we’d be having this contest every morning.

“How late’d you stay up?”

“1:30. You?”

It wasn’t fair because his shift started so much earlier than mine. Anyway, he didn’t last. The next girl, Elizabeth, was chatty so we were friendly before long and one morning while she was finding me some milk she told me about a guy she’d met online. For a couple weeks they emailed and then one day she excitedly announced they were meeting in person after work. I came in the next morning—I was wary, I confess—and she smiled timidly, painfully.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, shaking her head.

I overheard her talking to her mom on her phone in the bathroom about a hotel desk clerk job. A couple weeks after that she was gone.

.
.
Romance & magic

Romance is Not Recommended in the workplace, we all know that. But I’ve had some innocent brushes with something just approximating . . . kindness, really, that did endear me to me the place. For two years I greeted the rotund young security guard downstairs, Tom, and then one day as I flashed my smile and my identification badge, he reached into his pocket.

“I wanted to tell you that today’s my last day and . . . er . . . ” He pulled out one of those miniature pocket spiral notebooks and flipped open the lid. “I just thought if you ever wanted to . . . um, you know, email me . . . Here.” He tore off a piece of paper. I thanked him, wished him well, got in the elevator, and held the paper up to my eyes. Name, email, phone number.

I sat down at my desk. Was every page in the pad a carbon copy of his contact information? Was he ripping them off, like numbers at a deli counter, handing them to all the girls as the day wore on, hoping someone might buy on this his last day, his last chance? I decided to believe a more flattering motive, and I pinned the paper up in my line of sight for awhile. My eyes fell on it when I was feeling down.

There was a very bright but utterly ill-suited-to-the-corporate-world Project Manager who was hell to work with but who I will forever remember. Fondly. He was a brilliant writer and took to slipping subtle compliments and hints at affection in his emails to me. Innocent ones, mind you. Kindness, really. He’d tiptoe up to the precipice of Inappropriate, write some gently lovely thing, and then close with “Excelsior!” He once told me after a meeting that I entered the room to a heavenly choir backing track. Despite the missed deadlines and constant contrariness and kvetching about the headaches to my friends, some days (still) I need that backing track. So I don’t hold a grudge. It was nice to be liked, even at work. He’s now engaged.

But lest I appear the object of affection on all sides, let me assure you I’ve struck out a time or two. Or once, actually, the one and only time I stepped up to bat at work. He was a guy who works in the building, not in my firm. I rode down in the elevator with him one summer night. We got talking and walked across the square. I liked his easy smile, I loathed my then-broken heart. I found myself looking for him whenever it was time to get on the elevator. I shared this crush with an enterprising friend, and she immediately had a Plan.

“Put your business card with your security badge. Give it to him next time you see him.”

Reader, I did. Brave, huh? Do not underestimate the determination, if short-lived, of a broken heart. (I’ve never done it again.) It didn’t end well . . . well, it did. And it didn’t. Voice shaking, I gave him my business card in a (mercifully) empty elevator, invited him for a drink, went to a meeting with an addled brain, and came back to this—

.
.

To: Girl in the Gloaming
From: Guy in the Elevator
Sent: 10/13/2005 02:54 PM
Subject: Your card

Hi,

Thanks again for your card, that was a surprise! This is likely going
to sound odd, but I did want to mention that I’ve been seeing someone
for a couple years now. My guess is I’m assuming way too much but
always better to make that known. There’s really no way to know that,
is there?

In any event, nice delivery, I’m flattered, and someone should write a book about that. And in the event that I AM assuming too much, my apologies in advance!

Best,
Mark

.
.

To: Guy in the Elevator
From: Girl in the Gloaming
Sent: 10/14/2005 12:14 PM
Subject: RE: Your card

Hi Mark,

It’s entirely appropriate for you to have said so — not odd at all! In fact, it might be considered odd to be handing out business cards to near perfect strangers, but I thought you seemed nice (and alas, all evidence says yes!) and well, I figured it was worth a shot. Please know I really don’t make a practice of it.

Thanks for your kindness and sensitivity in allowing me to not regret an attempt at being brave. (I’m afraid “nice delivery” is a stretch, but I appreciate you saying so!)

I do hope we can still say hello in the elevators!
.
.

To: Girl in the Gloaming
From: Guy in the Elevator
Sent: 10/14/2005 12:17 PM
Subject: RE: Your card

It’s all about taking that step into the unknown, I think it’s great. And not too bad for my ego either!

Mark

.
.

—That’s how it went. I swear, I haven’t altered a word.

My friends all praised his kindness, his encouragement. “He’s so nice,” they said softly, reading the printout. “Oh, he’s so nice!” we wailed as the reality of it all sunk in, and we relived and rehashed the tragedy of his non-single state over and over. He still says Hello, wherever he is, whatever he’s doing, nodding over someone’s shoulder while he’s in conversation in the cafeteria, raising his arm in greeting across the stone courtyard. I’ve seen him on the subway with the girl I presume is his girlfriend. They look happy. He still meets my eye and smiles warmly. I smile back weakly and look down, but I appreciate it.

And if not exactly rip-roaring romance, a little magic? Yes, we’ve got that too. I have a magic wallet, for one. It didn’t come from work; it came from the department store across the street. Thing is, I unwittingly stole it. I was looking at a handful of them, I decided to defer the decision, and I walked out of the store. It wasn’t until I got into the bathroom at work that I realized I had a contraband wallet amongst my belongings. I went back and paid for it; I couldn’t bear the guilt otherwise. And good thing too, because it’s charmed.

Case in point: I once left it on the roof of a Zipcar and drove—not exactly gingerly—three miles before I stopped, got out, and found it up there, on the brink of falling to the street. But better: I once left it (yes, yes, it’s a problem) in the bathroom at work. When I went back it wasn’t there, and I was really getting quite anxious when Alfred the mailmen turned the corner and handed me a lumpy interoffice envelope addressed, with a shaky hand, to my name.

Inside was my wallet. The money was gone, but everything else in tact. I just stared at it for twenty minutes and never told anyone. I was too embarrassed.

By the way, do not underestimate the interoffice envelope, that cousin to the old-fashioned Valentine: you can send it completely anonymously, no postmark even. Try sending your friends or enemies or perfect strangers anonymous notes of encouragement, small-amount gift cards to the local cafe or book shop. Try sending some gift of gratitude to the undoubtedly unsung mail person. It makes everyone feel good. It gets management scratching their heads, which is always a good thing.

It may not be magic, but here’s a tip for the sandwich bar downstairs: order a “half” sandwich from the super speedy Mexican man, and he’ll slice a thick piece of multigrain bread the long way, pile it high with tuna, put the second slice on top, and hand it over with a smile. I don’t know if this is how they do it in Mexico, or a mistaken translation of the word “half,” but don’t ask questions: it’s plenty for lunch, and half the price!

.
.
The Book Table

We have a Book Table, a graveyard for our own personal books read or never-read and discarded. Don’t be fooled by the dog-eared pages, the dust, the old copyrights. It’s worth a look. Donations coiled in the coffee mug go to The United Way. I found The Ninemile Wolves on the Book Table, and yes, I found Then We Came to the End there too.

Then We Came to the End has an epigraph that comes from an essay by Ralph Waldo Emerson. It’s called The American Scholar. I found it and read it in conjunction with the novel. It’s another post—another blog—four times through and I’m still reeling—but there was one passage that I will shamelessly take out of context now.

In light of Josh Ritter and Wolves and that fine album The Animal Years and this blog and—God, everything, really, I think this is beautiful:

The theory of books is noble. The scholar of the first age received into him the world around; brooded thereon; gave it the new arrangement of his own mind, and uttered it again. It came into him, life; it went out from him, truth. It came to him, short-lived actions; it went out from him, immortal thoughts. It came to him, business; it went from him, poetry. It was dead fact; now, it is quick thought. It can stand, and it can go. It now endures, it now flies, it now inspires. Precisely in proportion to the depth of mind from which it issued—

Heads up!

Precisely in proportion to the depth of mind from which it issued, so high does it soar, so long does it sing.

From The American Scholar by Ralph Waldo Emerson (emphasis mine)

So long, so high. Indeed.

You know, I found Josh at work too. Just one April afternoon while I was listening to a personal hero, Iain Anderson of BBC Scotland. I was—I am—no music aficionado. Had I just stepped away, had I been out on vacation—I miss a lot of Iain’s shows. Had I been embroiled in some project, not truly listening, just too busy to look up the artist and find his website . . . maybe this would be a Ralph Waldo Emerson blog. Or Neil Diamond. Yipes.

Can it come to her business, and go out poetry? Joshua Ferris wanted to find out, I guess. What a poetic final paragraph, what a chilling last line. The truest thing I can think to say of the drive to write is that is transcends time and place and circumstance. I think about quitting my job—I have some book ideas that would take me away, but I think it’s important to look hard at that choice. To have no illusions. (I’m good at illusions.) I am mindful that only a handful of years ago this is exactly what I wanted. This. Here. I think it’s important to practice, and practice, so that’s what I’ve been doing. Even if life gets pretty hectic.

Still. Some days I dream of telling that Out of Office Agent that I finally found the derring-do. That the next time somebody says “Welcome aboard!” I better have one foot on a sailboat. I’d tell him I’m outta here—never to be welcomed back—and then disable him forever.

.
.

reentry.jpg

.
.

Again from his brumal sleep: Josh Ritter’s Wolves

It’s the dead of winter, and if not dead, sometimes it feels like the world’s asleep. We’ve had a lot of snow: gorgeous first-night wonderlands give way to majestic snowdrifts that gradually blacken and decay to reveal fossilized trash. We’re used to suiting up to go anywhere now, but we’re tired. Plans get broken, errands fall off the list, we want to be home. Or we just don’t want to be out. We’re—ok, I’m—restless.

There’s a huge, lone Christmas tree in the center of the tundra that is the square, in the shadow of a famous church. It’s strung with white lights, and when illuminated one can see that it’s listing. Tipping right over, as though trying to lay down for a nap. I will it to hang on as I hurry by.

[L]ate at night I like to imagine that they are killing: that another deer has gone down in a tangle of legs, tackled in deep snow; and that, once again, the wolves are feeding. That they have saved themselves, once again. That the deer or moose calf, or young dumb elk is still warm (steam rising from the belly as that part which contains the entrails is opened first), is now dead, or dying.

They eat everything, when they kill, even the snow that soaks up the blood. (NW, 3)

It’s a fine time to talk about winter-loving wolves, who are often photographed with a snowy backdrop. Their muzzles attract the flakes a little like cake crumbs, I’ve thought, which can make them look—for a fleeting moment—silly. But then there’s the pictures where teeth or nose have been dipped in a telling red, and I remember what they are. What they do. They love winter because their big paws allow them to run over the surface of deep snow. The long slender legs of their prey—deer, elk—poke through, slowing them down.

The wintry weather is likely just another challenge of a hard existence wolves seem thrillingly and incredibly willing to embrace. Imagine if instead of closing a menu and announcing your choice, every meal meant risking a broken skull, broken ribs, getting kicked or trampled. Sifting and sorting tirelessly through a herd, looking for the weak link, locking in, running oneself to exhaustion, darting in from behind, eyes wide, biting down—

They don’t have thumbs. All they’ve got is teeth, long legs, and—I have to say this—great hearts. (NW, 3)

That quote and the one above is Rick Bass, the Montana resident and writer, taken from his 1992 book called The Ninemile Wolves. He’s tells a good story; he’s a great fan. But I’m getting ahead.

There’s an intriguing song called Wolves on Josh Ritter’s fine record The Animal Years. It’s about a guy having some trouble with wolves, possibly Canis lupus irremotus, roughly translated as “The Wolf Who Is Always Showing Up.” The wolves in the song show up in a big way, zeroing in on a tender scene. Going in for the kill, leaving the speaker with only a vivid, persistent memory.

Here’s how it goes:
.

.

I still remember that time when we were dancing
We were dancing to a song that I’d heard
Your face was simple and your hands were naked
I was singing without knowing the words
But I started listening to the wolves in the timber
Wolves in the timber at night
I heard their songs when I looked in the mirror
In the howls and the moons round my eyes
So long, so high

Then winter came and there was little left between us
Skin and bones of love won’t make a meal
I felt my eyes drifting over your shoulder
There were wolves at the edge of the field
But I still remember that time when we were dancing
We were dancing to a song that I’d heard
Your face was simple and your hands were naked
I was singing without knowing the words

So long, so high

Then one day I just woke up
And the wolves were all there
Wolves in the piano
Wolves underneath the stairs
Wolves inside the hinges
Circling round my door
At night inside the bedsprings
Clicking cross the floor
I don’t know how they found me
I’ll never know quite how
I still can’t believe they heard me
That I was howling out that loud

So long, so high

At times in the frozen nights I go roaming
In the bed you used to share with me
I wake in the fields with the cold and the lonesome
The moon’s the only face that I see
But I still remember that time when we were dancing
We were dancing to a song that I’d heard
Your face was simple and your hands were naked
I was singing without knowing the words

So long, so high

~Wolves by Josh Ritter
.

I love that blissful, impromptu-feeling opening image. A few muffled bars overcome the static and someone leaps up from the dinner table, darts across the kitchen, cranks up the volume on the stereo. Or a new CD—purchased for that one intriguing, unforgettable, unfamiliar track—is crowbarred open and a lover called in from another room to hear. Suddenly—before there’s time to pick up what we carry—there’s dancing, a few precious moments where face and hands are stripped clear . . . of resentment, burden, judgment, whatever. One enters a place where words can’t follow, and finds that actually, you don’t need them.

We know they’re coming, though. There’s that galloping drum beneath even the vocals of the first words. It beats an ancient song of pursuit; I see a furious spray of snow, the skidding tracks. He starts listening to another song, a howl so long, so high, and things go south with the girl. They’re starving by the second verse, the wolf pack massing at the border. Then he wakes up and the wolves are in the house—everywhere—and it’s curtains. It ends and he’s alone, lonely, telling us for the third time about that time when we were dancing.

I still remember, he keeps saying. I still remember, like a mantra. Does that memory haunt him or hold him fast—mercifully—to a thing that’s gone?

I first read this piece as metaphor for the end—the depredation—of a relationship. You do often see it coming—once glimpsed it can feel inexorable, like that drumbeat. The good times loom up with such temptation—you keep remembering, remembering, thinking you’ll get it back. Then comes the unavoidable end. You go down fighting, like the deer.

But there are other clues, the most telling that glance in the mirror, and the lines I still can’t believe they heard me / I was howling out that loud. In the last verse he wakes from a dream in a field, staring at the moon. Who—what—is he, exactly?

Are the wolves indeed coming to kill? Or are they coming to claim him?

.
.
Old longings nomadic leap

There’s a prominent American author who was a little obsessed with wolves. He printed them on his personal stationary and bookmarks, named his dog Brown Wolf and his house Wolf House. He referred to himself as Wolf and asked others to too, and he wrote, extensively, about wolves. I’ve read that he is the most widely read and translated American author in the world. I’m not sure how to corroborate this, but it could be. He published a beloved novel in 1903 that was commemorated in 2003 as America’s Greatest World Novel. Beloved—I have to say this—especially by my seventh-grade English teacher. I still remember the look in his eye when we read the story about the guy and the fire.

The man—the writer, the wolf lover—is Jack London. Do you know the story of Buck? The dog who, captured in California and enslaved as sled dog in the Yukon gold rush, answers The Call of the Wild.

That book begins with this brilliant poem called Atavism by John Myers O’Hara:

Old longings nomadic leap
Chafing at custom’s strain;
Again from its brumal sleep
Wakens the ferine strain.

Brumal is an archaic word meaning indicative of or occurring in winter, ferine a synonym for feral, ie having escaped domestication, wild.

It’s the story of Buck’s waking up to a stirring, primal call, the one of his ancestors. Like our speaker in Wolves, Buck falls in love, and it complicates things:

[Buck] was older than the days he had seen and the breaths he had drawn. He linked the past with the present, and the eternity behind him throbbed through him in a mighty rhythm to which he swayed as the tides and seasons swayed. He sat by John Thornton’s fire, a broad-breasted dog, white-fanged and long-furred; but behind him were the shades of all manner of dogs, half wolves and wild wolves, urgent and prompting, tasting the savor of the meat he ate, thirsting for the water he drank, scenting the wind with him, listening with him and telling him the sounds made by the wild life in the forest, dictating his moods, directing his actions, lying down to sleep with him when he lay down, and dreaming with him and beyond him and becoming themselves the stuff of his dreams.

So peremptorily did these shades beckon him, that each day mankind and the claims of mankind slipped farther from him. Deep in the forest a call was sounding, and as often as he heard this call, mysteriously thrilling and luring, he felt compelled to turn his back upon the fire and the beaten earth around it, and to plunge into the forest, and on and on, he knew not where or why; nor did he wonder where or why, the call sounding imperiously, deep in the forest. But as often as he gained the soft unbroken earth and the green shade, the love for John Thornton drew him back to the fire again. (CW, 65-66)

Buck dreams a lot of his ancestors hunting with our human ones. I like that Wolves uses sleep and dream too: the wolves show up on a day when the speaker just woke up, and at the end he wakes up—dreams of waking up?—beneath the moon in a field. As wolf or man? Not clear. That’s the thing: I think this song is about what happens when the purest forces act on us, how we do or don’t reconcile the calls that humans hear. On one level I do think the wolves come to claim him, that it’s not just fear he’s feeling when he’s looking over her shoulder—It’s thrill. I think the song’s about how we’re part wild—some more than others, perhaps—like the wolves. Like Buck.

The refrain So long, so high, So long, so high, it occurred to me, might capture a wry farewell (So long) to that blissful time (so high) that he keeps remembering. For I think that listening to our call sometimes leads to sacrifice of even the the happiest, most life-giving things. It’s the conundrum we live with; it’s why we break our own and each other’s hearts over and over. It could be why he’s alone in the end, having made a conscious or unconscious choice. He’s so lonesome, but I wonder: is he also the slightest bit relieved?

Too far, I hear you saying. You’re right, there’s no textual evidence for that. Still. If not relief, I wonder if he’s looking up at that moon, some part of him knowing it was never going to end up another way. As dear as that memory—that girl—is.

I still remember, he keeps saying, and I wonder whether it’s to tell us, or to keep reminding himself. That he’s capable, that it’s out there, that it could happen again.

I won’t tell you how it ends for Buck, other than to say it does so with a song. (And you were right, Mr. Versluis: It’s lovely. I’m sorry your great enthusiasm went to waste in a junior high classroom. We just couldn’t get it.)

We do a lot of diving beneath allegories to peek around metaphors only to try (and try) to pry the lid off symbols around here, so I might as well say I like pondering what sounds the call. I mean, it’s the wolves here, but it could be anything. In Wolves it’s a song (that I’d heard) that prompts the joyous, cozy opening scene, and also a song (in the timber) that ultimately lures him away. Seems fitting for a musician. Such is the double-edged nature of a calling—of passion—I think.

.
.
“I mean, it’s just—they like to move.” ~Biologist Mike Jimenez

It’s an interesting time to be learning about wolves. I read Rick Bass’ The Ninemile Wolves, published way back in 1992, when an important chapter of an ever-lengthening story was being written. The book follows the fate of a pack in the Ninemile Valley, located in northwestern Montana. They were the first known pack in Montana to try and settle outside protected national park territory. The hope back then was that they’d make it to Yellowstone.

Why weren’t they in Yellowstone already? Because we killed them all. Well, first we killed all the bison, which were an important source of prey for them, then as Bass has it, we “tam[ed] the dry rangelands of the West into dusty factories of meat.” (NW, 35) The wolves turned their attention to the livestock, we turned our attention on them—

The wolves preyed on the [livestock], without question, but ranchers and the government overreacted just a tad. Until very recently, the score stood at Cows, 99,200,000; Wolves, 0. (NW, 5)

—and from the 1930’s to the 1990’s there were no wolves left in not only Yellowstone, but the entire American West. I mean, we really got into it, with government-issued bounties and everything. Hunters brought in their ears as evidence of a kill. Whether you love or hate them, you’d have to admit it was horrible. In 1974 wolves were put on the Endangered Species List. And in 1995—three years after Bass’ book came out—fourteen Canadian wolves were reintroduced to Yellowstone, amidst controversy. You can follow that extraordinary story in the National Geographic film Wolves: A Legend Returns to Yellowstone.

The fate of wolves, and our ongoing relationship with them is a hot topic, as we say in my family. I said it’s an interesting time because the twisting tale is about to get another chapter: the federal government seems to be on the brink of removing wolves from the Endangered List. It could happen this month. If it does, states will take control, free to set individual hunting seasons. Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming seem keen to do so. If the wolf population drops below a certain threshold, they’ll go back on the List and be protected. Two weeks ago seven conservationist groups filed a lawsuit over the setting of the population threshold.

I don’t feel informed enough to enter the fray, but it’s quite tempting to share Bass’ enthusiasm after reading his book. My favorite part is when the pups are orphaned, and Mike Jimenez, U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service biologist, is working like a madman trying to save them without their knowing, howling to them in backyards, dragging in road-killed deer (wearing gloves to mask his scent), hunting deer when there is no road-kill, protecting the meat from bears, propping dead deer up against trees in a running position to try and teach the pups how to hunt.

I won’t tell you the fate of the Ninemile—Bass will, in the 2003 Preface—or that first pack from the Yellowstone reintroduction, other than to say wolves seem to favor surprise endings, which I rather love.

They’re also fiercely territorial, hierarchical, family-oriented:

[W]olves are not about individuals, or green eyes, or howls, or big feet, or the kill. The story of wolves is about packs, about societies. (NW, 127-128)

And perhaps most important, they roam:

[T]raveling, and movement, seems to feed the wolf’s soul, as well: it’s nothing for them to cover twenty miles overnight on a hunt. (NW, 13)

Only one pair—the alpha male and female—in the pack mates each year. If a wolf is particularly aggressive or ambitious or feeling like an outcast—or hearing a call, I like to imagine— it will disperse. They roam, sometimes huge distances, looking for each other. For a mate. Bass spots lone wolves from his Montana window and is moved by their lonesome demeanor. If the disperser finds a mate, the pair roams some more to find an unoccupied territory. If they find one and mate, they’ll likely do like other wolves, and take an extra extra long ramble before the birth in the spring. According to the National Geographic film, all wolves—aunts, uncles, siblings—love and take part in the raising of puppies.

I wonder what it is to be so hard-wired for the pack, the society, and yet heed the call to disperse. I think about the speaker in Wolves. I think—I worry—about me, sitting at a desk day after day, looking into this screen. It’s not just the males that disperse; females do too.

I think about singing without knowing the words, how those inexplicable times really do imprint on our memory, how we call on them over and over, even after we’ve left them behind.

Forever trying to remember the time we forgot:

There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive. This ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living, comes to the artist, caught up and out of himself in a sheet of flame; it comes to the soldier, war-mad on a stricken field and refusing quarter; and it came to Buck, leading the pack, sounding the old wolf cry . . . He was sounding the deeps of his nature, and of the parts of his nature that were deeper than he . . . (CW, 39)

.
.
joshritterwolves1.jpg
.
..
..
..
..
Sources.
The Call of the Wild
by Jack London

The Ninemile Wolves by Rick Bass

Wolves: A Legend Returns to Yellowstone (DVD)

“Where I’m Calling From” by Ray Carver (Short story)

..
The Debate
The Grey Wolf according to the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service. Best quote:

Biologists have identified a few of the reasons that wolves howl. First, they like to howl. . . .

Fear dominates wolf delisting debate (Plenty, Jan. 31, 2008)

Rocky Mountain wolf killing rule goes to court (Environment News Service, Jan. 28, 2008)

General George and me

I went to California for a meeting in early January and I got sick. And then I stayed sick. All that banging on about finding one’s voice in my last post and I got this virus going around that attacks the voice box. So I lost my voice for awhile there, and while that went on along came a “secondary infection” to perch on the viral one I already had. So January was a bit of a bust.

I did watch a movie about Irish rock music. I learned more about the showbands from my last post on Josh Ritter’s song Monster Ballads. Some revising was in order, some rethinking and quite a bit of rewriting. It’s done and I feel better. See the sections on the showbands, chorus, and last verse if you’re interested.

You’re likely not interested.

Recently I casually mentioned my Katy-the-train Monster Ballads theory to a friend and fellow fan.

“Really?” She paused, and then shrugged. “I guess I thought Katy was just a girl.”

“Maybe she is,” I sighed, and we laughed.

Maybe she is.

What can I say—I enjoyed the journey. I wanted it to feel right—right for me, not capital-R Right. The song kept changing before my eyes, changing with me through time. There’s just enough to entice and elude you, the perfect balance. You hear what you want or need to hear. I realize that. I love that. And I bet you I’ll change my mind all over again someday.

But for now I’m working on something new. No steamboats, no Mississippi River, no Twain. No Katy. I thought I’d put a deadline up in lights, say February 12?

‘Til then.

.
.
day2.jpg
.
.
day3.jpg
.
.
day4.jpg