BLOG ENRTIES FOUND FOR ONE, GILBERT MESSENGER, CONCEPTION BAY, NEW FOUNDLAND
Newfoundland Newbie
Current mood: busy
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers
Dear Journal of Scientific Inquiry and Investigation—
Oh, forget it, that's not gonna work—
Dear Diary:
Well, we're here. Conception Bay, Newfoundland, a small island—how small, Diary? You can walk across it in a few hours—off the coast of Canada. (Where, contrary to popular belief, not everyone is nice, okay?)
Actually, I should say, I'm here, a few days before Addison and his fabulous wife Marina—and his two adorable kiddies, Malcolm and Harvey—arrive. Addison asked me to check-out the house they're renting, on the outskirts of town, right on the beach, to make sure it's…"well-insulated," he said, and I understand why, Diary, it's so bloody cold here. Like Antarctica, but not as temperate, okay?
I mean, get this: My cab driver, who schlepped me from the ferry (excuse me, ferry? What decade is this, Diary?) to the boarding house where I'm staying, boasted: "It snows every month of the year here in Newfoundland." Like that's a good thing. Oh, well, my wardrobe's all Northface and L.L. Bean, so—God-willing—I'll be okay.
Anyway, Addison's house. Think early American Gothic. (In other words: The less said, the better.) Unlike the boarding house where I'm staying (Chez Munsters, I call it), which is…late American Gothic. My landlord has eight bedrooms available for rent, but…they're all empty except mine. Not many long-term visitors come to Conception Bay, I guess. (That's right, cue the scary movie music…)
Moving on… Besides making sure Addison's house is livable—Martha Stewart, where are you?—I'm also supposed to get our lab up-and-running, and Diary, as you know, I'm good, but I'm not that good. No, no, it'll be fine. I mean, considering the fact that our lab is housed in an abandoned wing of Conception Bay's one—one!—hospital. (Note to self: Don't. Get. Sick.)
But I'm trying to focus on the positive, so that's what I'm gonna do: Equipment arrives tomorrow!!! Yay!!!
And already, you can tell that this island is Squid—Central, Diary. Seriously. People eat squid burgers for breakfast, lunch, and dinner (and no, that's not a typo), but luckily, as you know, I'm Vegan—as of yesterday). And the local newspaper? (The Conception Weekly—creepy name, right?) Uses squid-ink to print their papers. (Note to self: Transfer subscription to US Weekly immediately.) There are wind- and salt-blasted squid images painted on the side of practically every other building in town. Every little shop sells pieces of wood carved into squids. The fishermen sing songs about squidding (is that an actual verb, Diary?). There's an annual Squid Celebration (I kid you not). It's actually, kind of…weird. Cool, but weird.
But I guess that's the point, Diary. I guess—ultimately—that's why we're all here. To find that which no one else has ever found—captured—studied—up-close. A live, breathing Architeuthis. A live, breathing Giant Squid.
More soon, Diary. I want to see what the cable situation is here before I take an Ambien and go to sleep—
Night, night—
Gilbert
The Eagle has Landed
Current mood: moody
Category: Friends
Dear Diary—
Well…the Eagle has landed. And by "Eagle," I mean "renowned" marine biologist Addison Clarke and his pathologically cheerful clan: "artist and children's book illustrator" Marina Clarke (love her!) and their two catalogue-cute toddlers Harvey and Malcolm. (Note my "clever" use of quotation marks, Diary.)
The last few days, they've been settling in: Addison at the lab (which is kind of a buzz-kill, since I can't play my music anymore, which is fine, I'm not complaining, but I mean come on!) and Marina at the house. (Every time I drive by it—and I'm not trying to harp on this, Diary—but every time I drive by, it reminds me of that old Vincent Price movie The House on Haunted Hill, which…oh, forget it.)
Where was I…?
Oh, right, settling in. Slowly but surely. There's a lot of work to be done to get the lab up and running, especially since we've already found three specimens of squid (not giant, just…standard-size) on the beaches here (and I use that term "beach" loosely, Diary, 'cause we're not talking Cancun, if you catch my drift). But as soon as we get a call, we mobilize, drive out to the beach—wherever—find the carcass, and then immediately tag, dissect, and analyze…
(I know what you're thinking: "For this, I went to graduate school? For this, I went into debt to the tune of 30,000 dollars?")
But let's not dwell…
What else to report?
I still don't have cable, I still haven't found any bars (let alone clubs), and I still haven't met any cute, single guys. I mean, there is this one guy who works in the hospital who's been cruising me in the cafeteria, by the vending machines, but truth be told, he kind of creeps me out, Diary. (In other words: I'm desperate, but I'm not that desperate yet.)
More later this week—
Tomorrow, Addison wants me to go out sailing with him and Marina and the rugrats, but I don't know… The Weather's predicting some storms…
Peace out!
A Terrible Accident
Current mood: shocked
Category: Life
Sad, sad news this week, Diary…
The worst, the absolute worst thing has happened. A terrible accident. Remember I told you I was going to go sailing with Addison and his family but that maybe I wasn't because I needed a day to myself and there were rumblings of poor weather? Well, I didn't go, but Addison, Marina, Dora (Marina's sister, who was visiting them, to help them get settled), and Harvey and Malcolm did, and…
I'm not sure what happened exactly. We're still piecing it together. It was sunny and clear and almost warm one moment, and then…not. I saw it from my room. The sky darkening to grey…to an almost green…to black. In, like, minutes. And then sheets of rains pelting against the glass. And I remember thinking: "I hope they're okay. If they're out there on the water. I hope they're okay."
But they weren't…they aren't. Their sailboat… Like I said, I don't know what happened exactly, but I guess the storm swamped it, and a particularly high wave swept Harvey and Malcolm off, into the ocean…
And remember, Diary, they're just kids. Harvey's ten and Malcolm is—was—eight.
Somehow—I guess—Addison dove into the water and managed—somehow, by a miracle—to find Harvey and pull him back onto the boat, into Dora's waiting hands. But Malcolm's…he's just gone. Addison didn't find him. And Harvey's…
Something happened to him, because he was underwater. His brain was cut off from oxygen for I don't know how many minutes and now…well, the doctors aren't sure how extensive the brain-damage is (there are tests to be done still), but people are saying that Harvey probably won't ever be able to talk again or even, really, understand us.
Addison's devastated, of course, and it doesn't look like Dora's going back home any time soon, but Marina… Marina seems more affected than anyone. I mean, I haven't seen her cry, but that might be because I haven't seen her do anything. Talk or rage or be with Harvey or Addison or…anything. She just sits on the beach, day and night, looking out at the water, like she's trying to be hypnotized by it, like she's trying to…communicate with it. Or something. I don't know…
I'm not sure what this all means for me and our—Addison's and mine—work here, but I can't believe that he'll want to stay in Newfoundland hunting squid after losing one of his sons in the ocean. (Which I can't even begin to imagine, what they must all be going through…)
I'll keep you posted, Diary—and for any of you out there, reading this… If you pray, say a prayer for The Clarke family, that they find some comfort, somehow...
Poor all of us
Current mood: contemplative
Category: Life
What do they say about tragedy, Diary? That it brings out either the best in people or the worst? Well, it's been a little over a week since Malcolm died and Harvey lost the ability to speak, and Addison and Marina…
Well, the jury's still out on the them, I guess. Understandably. But they're trying, I think.
At least I know that Addison is. Every day, coming in to work; every day, pushing through to six o'clock. And sometimes later, sometimes seven or eight at night, so that I actually have to send him home packing.
Truthfully, Diary, if not for me, I worry that he would just keep working, keep his nose buried in his books, his research, keep testing water samples, keep studying the specimens we've been collecting.
And there have been a lot, let me tell you. On that front, at least, this relocation to Newfoundland hasn't been a total and utter bust. We've found two Giant Squid carcasses (not in amazing shape, and nothing we haven't seen before, but decent specimens, mostly whole), several giant octopi, a handful of cuttlefish the likes of which I've never seen, and…well, the list goes on and on.
It's like Newfoundland's this pocket, this…ecosystem that time forgot. Where animals, nature, the topography of the land…hasn't changed. Hasn't evolved. Is stuck in prehistoric, primordial times. Which is great for research and biologists on the hunt, but not so great for single and fabulous guys on the prowl! Meow.
Anyway, thankfully Dora, Marina's sister, is here, which means I at least have someone my age to talk to; a…partner-in-crime, as they say.
And it means I don't have to worry about Addison and Marina, it means I can pretty much focus on Addison, because the truth of the matter is…as depressed and withdrawn and messed-up Addison is…I think Marina's a whole lot worse. Mostly, I think, because at least Addison has his work, you know. As long as there's Giant Squid out there, waiting to be found, waiting to be caught, Addison has something to focus on. But Marina…
I'm not sure what Marina has to focus on. Harvey, I guess, who's having to relearn everything.
Poor kid. Poor Marina. Poor all of us…
(Sorry, Diary, I know I'm supposed to be all light and peppy, and I will be, but right now…I don't have it in me…)
Signing off for the night—
G.M.
Holy Nip/Tuck, Batman!
Current mood: uncomfortable
Category: Life
Okay, so I've never read Alice in Wonderland, Diary—Lewis Carroll, what a perv—but I'm gonna go ahead and quote it anyway:
"Curiouser and curiouser."
Which might not make much grammatical sense, but it definitely summarizes what our time in Newfoundland has started to be like.
Let me give you an example, a—a story to explain what I mean.
Okay, so you know how our lab is part of Conception Bay's one (count 'em one) hospital? How we set-up shop in a previously abandoned wing of the hospital? (I think it used to be the Children's Ward, eons ago.) Anyway, it means that—for good or ill—we cross paths with hospital personnel on a fairly regular basis. And it means that we, you know, hear stuff sometimes.
Like about a week ago, this guy, an older gentleman, a "Newfie" through-and-through (which is what the locals call themselves), was walking across the park in the middle of town. Was just crossing the snow-covered park, I guess, minding his own business, not talking to anyone, not bothering anyone, seemingly normal…until he, all of a sudden, started clutching his chest, heaving, and…well…DROPPED DEAD!!
(I obviously wasn't there, Diary, but a guy who works in the hospital, in the Emergency Room—a creepy paramedic named Scott McIntyre; don't ask—swears that all this really happened.)
In any case, this Newfie clutches his chest, starts heaving, and drops dead. And is rushed to the hospital. And when they get him to the hospital, the doctors I guess…well, either try to revive him or, at least, try to figure out why he died. And, according to Scott (who is, granted, not the most reliable source), this dead guy showed signs of having drowned.
That he had died because he drowned.
On dry land, with no water anywhere in sight.
I know; Stephen King territory, right?
But here's where things get really weird, Diary. After surmising that the Newfie had drowned (the doctors scratching their heads all the while, I'm sure), the coroner or whomever started to perform an autopsy ("Holy Nip/Tuck, Batman!) to see how and why there might be water in the dead guy's lungs. And when he—the coroner—opened the guy up, prying back his ribs or whatever (gross, I know, but we're all professionals here), the Newfie's lungs were choked and full. But not with water, Diary, with—
—are you possibly sitting down for this?—
—but with crustaceons. With lobsters and crabs and salt-water crawfish and…you name it. That were, apparently, still alive when they cut the Newfie open. Were writhing and snapping and biting each other, eating the Newfie's insides, clawing at the coroner's fingers.
Sounds crazy and preposterous, I know—like an urban legend, like one of those Friend of a Friend stories—but I did some detective work after Scott told me about this (once a lover of the Hardy Boys books, always a lover of the Hardy Boys books), and although the hospital was trying to be all hush-hush about it, something unnatural definitely, definitely happened.
And that's just one of many weird things that have been happening and that I've started to keep track of in my…Journal of the Weird, I'm calling it.
More later—
G.M.
Pity party for me!!!
Current mood: sick
Category: Life
Dear Diary—
Pity Party for me!!
I'm sick. I have a cold. And not just a common cold, thank you very much, the mother of all colds. I've been sneezing and sniffling and coughing all week, and since Addison's so germ-phobic (as you know), he's quarantined me until I recover. So here I am, in my studio apartment, miserable and bereft, watching the one television channel my rabbit-ears can actually pick up—a local, "Newfie" station that apparently doesn't believe in syndication—and reading and sleeping. (Mostly sleeping, though lately I've been having these surreal dreams, but I'm not getting into those, Dr. Freud…)
So not much to report, except that I'm miserable. (But then again, you knew that, right?)
Oh, wait, Dora did come by to keep me company for awhile yesterday, and gave me the Marina Update, which is that she's apparently getting worse and worse.
Like, for instance, she's stopped painting.
I don't know if I've ever told you, but Marina is—was—used to be—an amazing painter. Water-colors. She used to create these amazing landscapes (desert scenes usually) and these gorgeous still-lifes (and never bowls of fruit, thank you very much), and portraits of people even (family and friends, your truly included), always rendered as if they were…lit from within, somehow. Like it was the life inside them (inside the people, the things, the scenes) that she was actually painting and not the actual things themselves, if that makes sense…
I don't know, I'm rambling, but it just breaks my heart sometimes. When I think about it. Dwell on it. Which I know I shouldn't, but it's what I've been doing.
I mean… Marina was an artist, you know? She had talent. I mean, yeah, she taught Art and worked as an illustrator—I mean, Addison's a marine biologist, not a brain-surgeon, and they do—did—have two kids to support—but that was just on the side. Really, she was a painter, with a painter's soul. And slowly, even before we relocated to Frozen Hell on Earth—
Sorry, even before we relocated to Newfoundland—
I could see that part of her life slowly drying up. Going still. Dying. I don't know why, if it had to do with Addison, or with her being a mom, or whatever, but the person I first met, when I was just one of Addison's biology students, freshman year…Marina's not her anymore.
And that just sucks, Diary.
AAAARRRGGHHH! I hate being sick. I hate being here. I hate what's happening to all of us!!!
Signing off before I say something I'll really regret—
G.M.
Houston, we've got a problem...
Current mood: stressed
Category: Jobs, Work, Careers
Dear Diary—
Okay, not to hit the panic button, but FIRE IN THE HOLE!
We're in total crisis-mode here, walking around on egg-shells, 'cause Werner's been on a veritable rampage lately.
You know Werner, right?
No, probably not, actually, but—okay, short-version—he's Addison's boss, and I don't write about him much because he's usually not around much, and when he is, he barely looks at me, like I'm some minion or something. (Like Addison does, but way worse.)
Anyway, Werner's been breathing down our necks the last couple of weeks, "demanding results," as they say. And we're not talking about increasing our ad revenue here, like they do on "The Office," we're talking about if we don't find an Architeuthis—a Giant Squid—and find one fast, we're shut-down by the end of the month and don't let the door hit us on the way out, if you know what I mean.
Werner and Addison have been arguing a lot, I know, and though it's usually behind closed doors, the gist—(oh, I love that word!)—the gist of it is: We've run out of money, apparently.
About five years, ago, Werner—who started out as a real estate developer and made a killing in the 1980s buying up movie theatres around the country to turn them into CVS drugstores or something—got it into his head that he and a group of friends/fellow investors would finance (in his words) "A Giant Squid Hunt." That instead of just donating money to some generic charity (you know, a disease or a school or a hospital), he wanted his legacy to be "something else."
And his son—Werner's son, I mean—is a deep-sea fanatic, apparently, so when Werner and his comrades-in-arms announced their intentions, Addison was among five marine biologists asked to apply to lead this project/search/expedition/whatever you want to call it. And Addison got it, got the funding, which is great, but it's kind of been touch-and-go from Day One, you know? And now it's a lot worse than that, I guess.
Which means Werner is turning us—just Addison, actually—into the lead-player of a dog-and-pony show. In three weeks, he's bringing a bunch of potential funders to Conception Bay (hel-lo, talk about a waste of money!), and we—just Addison, actually, again—are supposed to, you know, woo them. Give them a tour of the island, our facilities, explain what we're doing, why it's important, and…uhm…show them something.
"What something?" (I heard Addison ask Werner through the door.)
"A Giant Squid or some reasonable facsimile of one." (I heard Werner snap back.)
Hence, me hitting the panic button.
I mean, God knows finding one's not impossible—if it were, we wouldn't be here—but finding a Giant Squid in the next couple of weeks—on top of all the personal stuff Addison's dealing with—that's just not gonna happen, Diary.
Which means…
We may be doomed, I guess.
Cross your fingers and say a prayer—
Save the cheerleader, save the world—
G.M.
Bah, humbug!
Current mood: melancholy
Category: Life
Dear Diary—
I can't believe I'm about to type these words, but: I miss my family. My loving older brother, my cheery, younger sister, my supportive mom and dad. Singing carols around the piano, discussing our New Year's resolutions over some yummy honey-baked ham, stuffing each other's stockings with "treats" from "Santa"…
Okay, not really, but I miss my friends. I miss the life I used to have.
Okay, it wasn't much of a life, but I did go out to—you know, I did attend—fun events. Concerts, lectures, museum openings, touring Broadway shows...
Okay, not really, but I did go to the movies semi-regularly, I did eat-out semi-regularly, I did date semi-regularly...
Okay, not exactly, but I frequently almost went out on dates and I frequently had sexual tension with people.
(Huge sigh.)
My apologies, but I always get this way around the holidays; I remember what it was like when Addison and I worked in Boston, at the Natural History Museum (the greatest Christmas parties ever). And our jobs were only part of our lives, they weren't our entire lives. (And it's not even that we're workaholics now—at least not me—it's just that there's nothing else to do!)
I miss the seasons. You know, spring—summer. I mean, I like snow in December as much as the next guy, but not after eleven months of steady blizzard.
AAARRRRGGHH!
Can you tell I'm at the end of my rope?
What else can I write about?
Christmas shopping!! What I got everyone. (Actually, what I ordered for everyone, since really there's not much of a commercial scene here in Conception Bay, if you know what I mean.)
Anyway, I got Marina this amazing set of watercolor tubes. (Not so much because she's painting these days, but because I refuse to accept the fact that she won't ever paint again.) I got Dora the Grey's Anatomy DVD box sets, Seasons One and Two, which I watched and then resealed. (In this corner, Dr. McDreamy, in this corner Dr. McSteamy, may the games begin…) I got Harvey some Nerf stuff—so he can do some damage around the house—and some Legos—so he can build things, which I think is positive. As for Addison… Addison's getting a set of postage stamps I found on eBay. Vintage stamps that have—you guessed it—various species of Squid on them. Engravings of them. Slightly predictable, I admit, but I had them framed, at least, so that's okay—
I'm having dinner with Addison and Co. on Christmas Eve, then we're watching the old Christmas Carol movie with Alastair Sim as Old Scrooge…
Ah, Scrooge. I now know where you're coming from, my friend…
Bah, humbug!
G.M.
P.S. And God bless us, everyone!!
Desperately Seeking Squid
Current mood: sad
Category: Life
Dear Diary—
This is probably the saddest-slash-most controversial-slash-shortest ('cause I don't want to dwell) entry you'll read from me, but here goes nothing: I'm quitting my job and moving back to the States.
(And here I pause for the End of the World, which—thankfully or alas—does not come.)
Now before everyone gets all "up in my Kool-Aid," as they say, let the record show that what I'm doing here in Conception Bay isn't what most people (including and especially my parents) would consider a quote-unquote "real" job. My work with Addison over the years, as great and fulfilling as it's been, is a…glorified internship, really. I mean, I haven't gotten paid in weeks (though yes, the University of Newfoundland covers my housing and living expenses and even gives me a small, nominal stipend). I don't have medical or dental insurance, no 401k plan, no job security, no business cards or title, and…to what end?
What am I doing this for, exactly?
If and when Addison ever finds an Architeuthis—and, PS, I'm starting to seriously doubt that's ever gonna happen, at least not here; maybe in Japan, where reports of Giant Squid sightings and encounters are becoming more and more frequent—what will it do for me? For my career?
Don't get me wrong, Addison's a great guy, and completely honorable and trustworthy, but it's not like he's gonna share credit with me. When he publishes? No way. (I know this because if our roles were reversed, I certainly wouldn't.)
Oh, he'll mention me, and maybe I'll even get to write a chapter (though I doubt that, possibly a footnote) of his bestseller "Giant Squid & Me: Diary of a Real-life Captain Nemo," but it's his show and I'm just supporting player, you know what I mean? His researcher-slash-assistant-slash-the comic relief, which is fine, but little comfort at this moment in time, in history, in sub-freezing Newfoundland!!!
Plus… On top of which…
I've just gotten an e-mail from the University of Wellington, in New Zealand, from their Biology Department. Two of the worlds leading teuthologists—that's squid experts, FYI—a guy named Breedlove and a guy named Roper. Apparently, they've just gotten this humongous, monster grant to hunt and study our big, red, many-tentacled friend, to be parceled out over the next five years (which, for someone like me, is an eternity), and they'd love for me to join their team as a…hold your breath, Diary…partner.
Not as an assistant, not as a researcher, as a partner. Which means I'll get credit. Which means…my career is made, Diary. (On top of which, I'll be living someplace that's actually kind of, sort of hip—not to mention warm—and I'll be able to take classes at Wellington and finally—finally!—finish my degree!
The only downside, of course, is that I'll be leaving Addison…and Marina and Harvey, I guess…high-and-dry.
Which is awful and makes me sick to my stomach, but…I have to start thinking of my future, Diary.
I mean, I can't stay here in Conception Bay, spinning my wheels forever, can I?
I mean, that would be like literal and metaphorical death, wouldn't it?
And I'm too young and cute to die, right? Right? RIGHT?
Don't answer that, that's a rhetorical question, but here's hoping Addison won't slaughter me when I tell him the news…
Until then, I remain Desperately Seeking Squid—
G.M
THIS IS THE LAST BLOG ENTRY FOUND FOR GILBERT MESSENGER
