Ahab’s Curse

There is a chapter in Moby Dick in which the narrator tells us that although the color white is associated with noble things, such as innocence, honor and purity, there yet lurks in that hue an elusive sense which strikes panic in the soul. Which describes my current state of being. Let me explain:

Paula and I are trying to select the interior color of the wranch house. It will not be white; that is, it will not be pure white. We are human after all and it would be a bit presumptuous to select the color of the heavenly sphere, of the divine light, of the angelic sheen. But we want something creating an open and clean and airy feeling. Suitable for the human realm. We are not spotless people, but we do not want to appear sloppy. We are not in a state of spiritual perfection, but we do not want to come off as hell-bound heathens. So we have opted for a light-colored near-white shade. A color of goodness, wholesomeness and orderliness.

That’s where the problem starts. Take the Sherwin Williams color wheel, a satanic sigil if ever there was one! There are something like 10,000 colors and if you consider the lightest to number about 10% of those, that is one thousand colors of a high light reflective value, as they describe it. I pull out one spoke of the wheel: Pure White (it’s not), Alabaster, Westhighland White, Egret White, Pediment (?), Crushed Ice, On the Rocks. I won’t frighten you with the names on the other “white” spokes. The difference is in the shades or color family. There are those that trend blue, lean to green, emanate yellow, hint of orange, reel in the red or hint of colors like griege. No such thing, is there? Spell check correctly wants to write grieve!

Now whatever white shade we select, it must match perfectly with the concrete floor, the Minwax-washed white oak cabinets, the Taj Mahal countertops, the vaulted ceiling wood, the sunlight streaming through the window, and my particular mood on any particular day.

If this property is to be our legacy, we cannot mess up in this color selection. What would become of our legacy: Those were the people who couldn’t pick a nice shade like Natural Linen or Drift of Mist or Snowbound. What was their problem? Didn’t they have a color wheel?

So what do any of us expect of our legacy? What do we leave behind when we are gone, besides our bones or ashes? Perhaps our reputation, composed of diminishing memories in the brains of those who knew us and are still alive. What do we leave behind when our soul finally breaks free of this enigmatic and miraculous lump of clay? A house or a few shares of Chevron or Nvidia stock? A ranch house to escape to, when comes the revolution? Yet these items turn to dust more rapidly than our bones.

Mike Russell (of turtle fame, though they are tortoises) once suggested we get together and write down what we remember of our parents, and what even less we know of our grandparents, and what we know of ourselves, at least that which we may allow to be known. The rest, the shameful bits, are best left buried, hidden in our own psyches, eventually forgotten. And scribble as we may, our progeny will not know much of us, less and less as the ages wash away.

I wanted to toss a few stories into this blog, tales from my more youthful days, that my children and grandchildren and maybe a grand niece or nephew or two might be amused by. I can recall reunions with my sisters or friends in pubs in London when a great many stories were told, perhaps embellished by the effects of bitter or lager or stout, depending on the season, you see. They were stories which elicited a bit of compassion or concern or surprise, but were always accompanied by plenty of laughter in equal proportion to the pints consumed.

But for now, I have used up my time (and yours), so the stories will wait for another post. As long as I can figure out what color to paint the walls, and the ceiling, and the doors, and the trim: and whether we go matte, flat, eggshell, semi-gloss, satin or Moby Dick.