A Very Short Dispatch of Eels
The river used to be full of eels. I have seen boys standing as still as herons in shallow water—watching, waiting, and then torpedoing a hand into the river—a blurry streak that comes back out clutching an eel around its neck—or what would be the neck if an eel had a neck.
It used to be that I never talked about what I was working on at any give time. It was partly superstitious—I didn’t want to jinx it by talking about it before it was finished. And it was partly protective—I didn’t want to jinx it by talking about it before it was finished. But lately I find myself talking about what I’m working on with anyone who will listen. It’s almost a compulsion! I think I know what’s happening: by talking about it, by articulating what it is I’m trying to write, I am finding my way through it.
I’m currently writing an essay that is ostensibly about eels. I have long been fascinated by eels—they’re mysterious, enigmatic, secretive! They’re kind of repellent up close: stinky and covered in slime. (The slime has a purpose!) Maybe that’s also part of the appeal: I’m a sucker for an underdog. This fascination began with a memory I have of seeing a bucket of eels on a beach when I was a child. The essay is part memoir, part ecological (zoological?) study by an extreme layperson (me). But it has also turned into a reflection on loss and grief, and particularly suicide. It’s a lot. And it has been a heavy process of unpacking all of it—and trying to make sense of where it’s going. It references the poets Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, as well as the 8th century Japanese poet Ōtomo no Yakamochi; the American photographer Francesca Woodman is in there, as is the Japanese film director Shōhei Imamura whose beautiful film Unagi was an inspiration. Of course I mention Patrik Svensson’s great book The Book of Eels, which makes sense, but I also reference Albert Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus and A. Alvarez’s The Savage God, which maybe makes less sense? I also reference Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi” because why not? It feels cumbersome and meandering—but I think there’s some sense to it. That is, that I’m heading in a specific direction and for a specific reason. Ultimately, I find the challenge of it—the challenge of making sense of all these disparate ideas in my head—to be gratifying. I love a challenge! There is a part of me that feels not quite smart enough to pull it off—I’m not a scientist; I’m just a guy who is curious. So… we’ll see how it goes.
I wanted to share here the opening of this essay (up at the top) because I like how it sets up this big shambling thing and it’s the first thing I wrote when I got here last month. But really, I think that by sharing it like this, I might finally stop besieging everyone with eel talk—think of it as a sort of exorcism!
The essay is called “A Bucket of Eels”—which is also the name of a short story in my new book… which was inspired by this same image of the bucket that I saw as a child… and this story is in many ways the reason why I decided to write the essay. That made me dizzy to write.
Welcome to my Ted Talk.
xo
I can't wait to read your upcoming work (and have some catching up to do as well). I lived on the St John river for a few years as a teenager and heard a lot about eel fishing. Knowing that there were potentially eels in the river (along with obvious leeches) kept us out of it. I once did see a tanker truck unloading it's contents of what I guess were little eels into the river, but the only up close eel I ever saw was at the St John city farmers market. It was smoked; white flesh with skin like a well preserved bog man.