August 31: "Writing in the Afterlife," Eternal Punishment, Fluffing Clouds

I grew up with a Catholic concept of the afterlife:  Heaven, Hell, Limbo, Purgatory.  If you've read Dante's The Divine Comedy, you know what I'm talking about.  Of course, other world religions and mythologies have versions of the afterlife, as well.  Most of them involve places of eternal punishment and eternal reward.  

Billy Collins has his own poetic version of what comes after breath and heartbeat . . . 

Writing in the Afterlife

by: Billy Collins

I imagined the atmosphere would be clear,
shot with pristine light,
not this sulfurous haze,
the air ionized as before a thunderstorm.

Many have pictured a river here,
but no one mentioned all the boats,
their benches crowded with naked passengers,
each bent over a writing tablet.

I knew I would not always be a child
with a model train and a model tunnel,
and I knew I would not live forever,
jumping all day through the hoop of myself.

I had heard about the journey to the other side
and the clink of the final coin
in the leather purse of the man holding the oar,
but how could anyone have guessed

that as soon as we arrived
we would be asked to describe this place
and to include as much detail as possible—
not just the water, he insists,

rather the oily, fathomless, rat-happy water,
not simply the shackles, but the rusty,
iron, ankle-shredding shackles—
and that our next assignment would be

to jot down, off the tops of our heads,
our thoughts and feelings about being dead,
not really an assignment,
the man rotating the oar keeps telling us—

think of it more as an exercise, he groans,
think of writing as a process,
a never-ending, infernal process,
and now the boats have become jammed together,

bow against stern, stern locked to bow,
and not a thing is moving, only our diligent pens.

I wouldn't mind if the afterlife was a lot like today.  Sleeping in.  Leisurely breakfast of leftover prime rib on toast.  A walk with my wife and dog.  Cleaning the house (I'm not against a little work in Heaven--polishing stars, fluffing clouds, etc.).  Playing the pipe organ for Mass (no harps or lyres for me, please).  An evening of dinner and a movie with some best friends.  It was kind of perfect.

But I know that perfection for me is not perfection for everyone.  For example, Billy Collins' vision of the afterlife seems far from perfect--ankle-shredding shackles, an eternal sulfurous river of boats, rat-happy water, and a logjam of naked, suffering souls.  The one part of Collins' life-after-death that I wouldn't mind:  the writing.  The poem makes it into a kind of purgatory, scribbling away for eternity.  To others, that may sound like Hell (or at least Purgatory).  To me, it sounds like paradise.

Often, when priests or pastors begin their sermons during worship services, I take out my journal and pen.  For the next 15 or so minutes, I scribble away on a blog post or new poem or essay.  I've always thought of writing as a form of prayer.  Some of the shit that comes out on the page seems divinely inspired.  In fact, I believe that the best poems I write are all gifts from my Higher Power, however you want to define it.  

So, after I die, if I'm trapped naked in a boat with my journal and writing utensil (hopefully a fountain pen), that will be a really, really great afterlife.

In the meantime, Saint Marty will just keep writing poetry here on Earth.  Call it practice.  Hopefully, the River Styx has a few nice waterfalls to describe.

August 30: "The Literary Life," Poetry, Prime Rib

I woke up this morning, as the blues singers like to boast, and the first thing I thought of was my daughter's good news.  (If you don't know what the news was, read yesterday's post.)  It buoyed me as I set about doing what I needed to do today.

I didn't work at the library, believe it or not, but I did edit a podcast for the library this morning.  I also had to troubleshoot some technical issues for the library this evening.  Aside from that, it was all about the finishing details on my book manuscript for my editor.  I sent him my author pictures (thanks to my friend, Ronnie, for those); wrote a short biography and description for the back cover; and received my final blurb.  This weekend, I'm going to make one more pass through the manuscript for typographical errors, and then I'm planning on letting it go.

All of that took most of the morning and afternoon.  And then my family and I went out for a steak dinner (my daughter's choice) to celebrate.  That was my literary life today.

Here's Billy Collins' typical day in his literary life . . .

The Literary Life

by: Billy Collins

I woke up this morning,
as the blues singers like to boast,
and the first thing to enter my mind,
as the dog was licking my face, was Coventry Patmore.

Who was Coventry Patmore?
I wondered, as I rose
and set out on my journey to the encyclopedia
passing some children and a bottle cap on the way.

Everything seemed more life-size than usual.
Light in the shape of windows
hung on the walls next to the paintings
of birds and horses, flowers and fish.

Coventry Patmore,
I’m coming to get you, I hissed,
as I entered the library like a man stepping
into a freight elevator of science and wisdom.

How many things have I looked up
in a lifetime of looking things up?
I wondered, as I set the book on the piano
and began turning its large, weightless pages.

How would the world look
if all its things were neatly arranged
in alphabetical order? I wondered,
as I found the P section and began zeroing in.

How long before I would forget Coventry Patmore’s
dates and the title of his long poem
on the sanctity of married love?
I asked myself as I closed the door to that room

and stood for a moment in the kitchen,
taking in the silvery toaster, the bowl of lemons,
and the white cat, looking as if
he had just finished his autobiography.

Life rarely affords people real reasons to celebrate.  I suppose you can celebrate washing your car or mowing your lawn.  But I don't see too many people dancing because they've had colonoscopies or their wisdom teeth removed.  Nobody throws a party after cleaning the bathroom or defrosting the fridge.  Maybe we should celebrate the small things in life more, but we don't.

But, when your kids see their dreams come true, it's time for prime rib and bacon-cheddar fries.  That's what we did tonight.  And my daughter still looked stunned, as if she doesn't realize how amazing she is.  

That was Saint Marty's literary day:  podcast, poetry, and prime rib with his family.  

August 29: "Litany," My Daughter, Medical School

I received a phone call this afternoon from my daughter.

She had just opened an email informing her that she has been accepted for early admission to Central Michigan University's medical school.  Last Friday, she had a two-hour Zoom interview with the faculty of the school.  At the end, they told her that they had several more groups of students scheduled for interviews and would make their final decisions in early October.  One week later, she's in.

My reaction?  I cried, of course.  Near the end of our conversation, my little girl said to me, "Daddy, it finally seems real.  I'm going to be a doctor."  

My little girl is going to be a doctor.

Billy Collins displays his devotion . . . 

Litany

by: Billy Collins

          You are the bread and the knife,
          The crystal goblet and the wine...
          -Jacques Crickillon

You are the bread and the knife,
the crystal goblet and the wine.
You are the dew on the morning grass
and the burning wheel of the sun.
You are the white apron of the baker,
and the marsh birds suddenly in flight.

However, you are not the wind in the orchard,
the plums on the counter,
or the house of cards.
And you are certainly not the pine-scented air.
There is just no way that you are the pine-scented air.

It is possible that you are the fish under the bridge,
maybe even the pigeon on the general's head,
but you are not even close
to being the field of cornflowers at dusk.

And a quick look in the mirror will show
that you are neither the boots in the corner
nor the boat asleep in its boathouse.

It might interest you to know,
speaking of the plentiful imagery of the world,
that I am the sound of rain on the roof.

I also happen to be the shooting star,
the evening paper blowing down an alley
and the basket of chestnuts on the kitchen table.

I am also the moon in the trees
and the blind woman's tea cup.
But don't worry, I'm not the bread and the knife.
You are still the bread and the knife.
You will always be the bread and the knife,
not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine.

My daughter has been the bread and the knife, the crystal goblet and the wine in my life since that snowy morning in December when I first held her in my arms.  Billy Collins equivocates, spending most of the poem saying what his "you" is NOT. 

Tonight, I'm telling you what my daughter IS:  she's one of the most principled, honest, empathetic young people you will ever meet.  She cares about and loves everyone.  It's been one of the biggest privileges of my life to have a part, however large or small, in shaping her as a person.

Pride doesn't even touch what Saint Marty's feeling tonight.

August 28: "Nine Horses," Birthday Wish, QAnon Shaman

I promised you something silly tonight because my last few posts have been a little heavy.  So let me talk about what I want for my birthday this year after Billy Collins tells us about his birthday present . . .

Nine Horses

by: Billy Collins

For my birthday, 

my wife gave me nine horse heads, 

ghostly photographs on squares of black marble, 

nine squares set in one large square, 

a thing so heavy that the artist himself 

volunteered to hang it 

from a wood beam against a white stone wall. 

Pale heads of horses in profile 

as if a flashcube had caught them walking in the night. 

Pale horse heads 

that overlook my reading chair, 

the eyes so hollow they must be weeping, 

the mouths so agape they could be dead— 

the photographer standing over them 

on a floor of straw, his black car parked by the stable door. 

Nine white horses, 

or one horse the camera has multiplied by nine. 

It hardly matters, such sadness is gathered here

in their long white faces 

so far from the pasture and the cube of sugar— 

the face of St. Bartholomew, the face of St. Agnes, 

Odd team of horses, 

pulling nothing, 

look down on these daily proceedings. 

Look down upon this table and these glasses, 

the furled napkins,

the evening wedding of the knife and fork. 

Look down like a nine-headed god 

and give us a sign of your displeasure 

or your gentle forbearance 

so that we may rejoice in the error of our ways. 

Look down on this ring 

of candles flickering under your pale heads. 

Let your suffering eyes 

and your anonymous deaths 

be the bridle that keeps us from straying from each other 

be the cinch that fastens us to the belly of each day 

as it gallops away, hooves sparking into the night.

I have a neighbor down the street who has been flying Trump flags and displaying Trump signs since 2016.  He just recently added some Trump/Vance merchandise to his collection.  That's eight years, folks.  Eight years of seeing that name every morning and every night--through the pandemic, January 6th insurrection, entire Biden administration, and all the convictions the Felon in Chief has collected so far.  

My birthday wish is pretty simple:  I want my neighborhood Trump Super Store to shut down.  I'm tired of being reminded all the time of the misogyny, homophobia, xenophobia, and ignorance that exists in the world.  

I know that it doesn't matter what the outcome of this year's election is--I'm stuck with the QAnon Shaman living down the street.  It's an infection that just isn't going to go away.

But Saint Marty can dream, can't he?

August 27: "Tipping Point," Life Balance, Rain

I usually struggle this time of year.  The end of summer, on the verge of autumn.  Start of another schoolyear.

This August, in particular, the struggle has been fairly acute.  My daughter interviewing for medical school.  My aunt having a stroke and being diagnosed with metastatic cancer.  My son attending Middle College.  My whole life balance has shifted in very big ways.

Billy Collins writes about balance . . .

Tipping Point

by: Billy Collins

At home, the jazz station plays all day,

so sometimes it becomes indistinct, 

like the sound of rain, 

birds in the background, the surf of traffic. 

But today I heard a voice announce 

that Eric Dolphy, 36 when he died, 

has now been dead for 36 years. 

I wonder – 

did anyone sense something 

when another Eric Dolphy lifetime 

was added to the span of his life, 

when we all took another 

full Dolphy step forward in time, 

flipped over the Eric Dolphy yardstick once again? 

It would have been so subtle – 

like the sensation you might feel 

as you passed through the moment 

at the exact center of your life 

or as you crossed the equator at night in a boat. 

I never gave it another thought, 

but could that have been the little shift 

I sensed a while ago 

as I walked down in the rain to get the mail?

It rained today.  A lot.  It's still raining.  A huge change from the 90-degree sauna of a yesterday.  

I wish I could roll with all the changes brought on by September.  The pumpkin spice beverages and shampoos and baked goods, for instance  I'm not a fan of pumpkin anything, for the most part.  The shorter days.  I drove home tonight at around 9 p.m., and it was almost completely dark already.  Frost on the windows in the mornings.  Hasn't happened yet, but it will soon.

Faithful disciples of this blog know my feelings about change.  It ranks right up there with prostate exams and Donald Trump.  I prefer stability, even though many therapists have told me that stability can lead to stagnation.  It's just that most of my adult working life has centered on huge shifts every three or four months, brought on by my livelihood as a university instructor.

This year, however, feels like I'm on the cusp of huge shifts over which I have very little to no control.  That doesn't sit well with me.  While I know it may be false, I prefer at least an illusion of agency in my life.  However, kids grow up, move away, get married.  Summer gives way to fall gives way to winter.  Loved ones get sick.  Not much I can do about any of that stuff.

Don't worry.  I'm not sinking into the Swamp of Sadness.  (Bonus points for those of you who catch that allusion to The Neverending Story.)  I'm just at a tipping point, and I'm not ready to let go of summer's freedom yet.  I promise I will write something completely silly tomorrow.

In the meantime, Saint Marty's going to turn off all the lights, sit in his dark living room, and wallow a little while, listening to the rain outside.

August 26: "Creatures," Marie Antionette, People Watching

Poets have strange ways of looking at the world.  I know I do.  When other people see a seagull eating a French fry, I see a reincarnated Marie Antionette gobbling a piece of cake.  If there is thunder rumbling in the distance, I hear God suffering from sleep apnea.  Where an oak stands with mustard-colored leaves in October, I recognize fists of light shadowboxing the clouds.

You see what I mean.  Poets just have a different way of understanding the universe.

Billy Collins writes about creature features . . . 

Creatures

by: Billy Collins

Hamlet noticed them in the shapes of clouds,
but I saw them in the furniture of childhood,
creatures trapped under surfaces of wood,

one submerged in a polished sideboard,
one frowning from a chair-back,
another howling from my mother’s silent bureau,
locked in the grain of maple, frozen in oak.

I would see these presences, too,
in a swirling pattern of wallpaper
or in the various greens of a porcelain lamp,
each looking so melancholy, so damned,
some peering out at me as if they knew
all the secrets of a secretive boy.

Many times I would be daydreaming
on the carpet and one would appear next to me,
the oversize nose, the hollow look.

So you will understand my reaction
this morning at the beach
when you opened your hand to show me
a stone you had picked up from the shoreline.

“Do you see the face?” you asked
as the cold surf circled our bare ankles.
“There’s the eye and the line of the mouth,
like it’s grimacing, like it’s in pain.”

“Well, maybe that’s because it has a fissure
running down the length of its forehead
not to mention a kind of twisted beak,” I said,

taking the thing from you and flinging it out
over the sparkle of blue waves
so it could live out its freakish existence
on the dark bottom of the sea

and stop bothering innocent beachgoers like us,
stop ruining everyone’s summer.

I spent most of today at Fall Fest at the university where I teach.  It was hot.  Near 90 degrees.  Thank goodness I was sitting underneath a tent.  Fall Fest is the annual back-to-school event where student organizations, local businesses, non-profits, and churches set up tables, trying to lure students into their fold with free candy, pizza, ice cream, bottled water, socks, tee shirts, and Koozies.  I attended representing the library.

I love people watching.  Assigning stories to the guy who walks by with so many piercings he could be melted down and made into bullets or coins.  Or the girl who's holding onto her friend's hand so hard their fingers are turning the color of birch bark.  Like Billy Collins spying creatures in wood grains, I sat at my table, imagining the couple with the tattooed faces are renegade cyborgs from the distant future.  The world is a constantly fascinating place, full of grinning stones and hollow-faced paneling and young people on the cusp of changing the world.  

And that's only the first day of teaching this semester for Saint Marty!

August 25: "Today," Mr. Tumnus, Slightly Surreal

It was a good day.

However, I did spend a good deal of time working on syllabi and lesson plans and virtual teaching material.  Not fun, but necessary.  Thank goodness, I'd done a lot of the groundwork last week.  It was simply a lot of cutting and pasting and emailing.  

By midafternoon, I felt slightly brain dead, so I decided to take my puppy for a long walk to clear my mind a little.  It was a hot day (mid 80s), and there wasn't a whole lot of shade.  We took the Iron Ore Heritage Trail from my hometown to the neighboring town.  That's a little over three miles.  It's a beautiful hiking/biking path through woods and near caving grounds.  

I've always found this trail slightly surreal.  As you travel down it, you encounter things like uprooted trees and squares of cement that look like abandoned chimneys.  There are benches along the way, in case your feet get a little tired.  But the strangest thing on the Heritage Trail are lampposts.  Not powerline poles topped with lights.  Honest-to-God lampposts that look like they could have been transplanted from Narnia.  I can actually imagine the faun Mr. Tumnus standing beneath one of them.  Or maybe Harvey the rabbit.

Billy Collins has a good day, too . . . 

Today

by: Billy Collins

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary's cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,

a day when the cool brick paths
and the garden bursting with peonies

seemed so etched in sunlight
that you felt like taking

a hammer to the glass paperweight
on the living room end table,

releasing the inhabitants
from their snow-covered cottage

so they could walk out,
holding hands and squinting

into this larger dome of blue and white,
well, today is just that kind of day.

It is a little past 9 p.m. as I type this now.  I know that autumn is fast approaching because night has already arrived.  My wife and son are getting ready for bed.  I can feel the shift of seasons in the house--from summer vacation to schoolyear.  I should be used to this change.  I've been doing it for almost 30 years, but I still find this letting go of sun and warmth very difficult.

Even along the trail this afternoon, I noticed leaves changing colors, green surrendering to gold and orange.  The long-legged shadows of August are stretching toward September.  Everyone is soaking up this last gasp of heat before the furnaces start kicking in.

As Saint Marty said, though, it was a good day.

August 24: "Obituaries," Coma, Clyde

I have a confession:  I never thought I would live as long as I have.

When I was 13 years old, I ended up in a coma in the hospital.  My blood sugar was close to 1000.  The nurses and doctors had trouble even starting an IV on me.  While my mother and father were in the waiting room, they heard one nurse say to another nurse, "We have a kid in ICU, and I don't think he's going to make it."  

I wish I could relate some amazing near-death story about a bright light and angels and having French fries with Jesus at McDonald's.  Can't do that.  Here is what I remember:  being really, really sick at home, falling asleep on the couch in the living room, then waking up about a day-and-a-half later in the hospital.  I was lucky.  Really lucky.

Since that time, I've had several more brushes with death over the years.  ER visits.  Ambulances at my house.  Paramedics working on me in my bedroom.  Seizures.  No tunnels of light or dead relatives telling me, "It's not your time."  But I am on a first name basis with Death.  If you're wondering, his name is Clyde.

Billy Collins checks to see if he is still alive . . .

Obituaries

by: Billy Collins

These are no pages for the young,
who are better off in one another's arms,

nor for those who just need to know
about the price of gold,
or a hurricane that is ripping up the Keys.

But eventually you may join
the crowd who turn here first to see
who has fallen in the night,
who has left a shape of air walking in their place.

Here is where the final cards are shown,
the age, the cause, the plaque of deeds,
and sometimes an odd scrap of news-
that she collected sugar bowls,
that he played solitaire without any clothes.

And all the survivors huddle at the end
under the roof of a paragraph
as if they had sidestepped the flame of death.

What better way to place a thin black frame
around the things of the morning-
the hand-painted cup,
the hemispheres of a cut orange,
the slant of sunlight on the table?

And sometimes a most peculiar pair turns up,
strange roommates lying there
side by side upon the page-
Arthur Godfrey next to Man Ray,
Ken Kesey by the side of Dale Evans.

It is enough to bring to mind an ark of death,
not the couples of the animal kingdom,
but rather pairs of men and women
ascending the gangplank two by two,

surgeon and model,
balloonist and metalworker,
an archaeologist and an authority on pain.

Arm in arm, they get on board
then join the others leaning on the rails,
all saved at last from the awful flood of life-

so many of them every day
there would have to be many arks,
an armada to ferry the dead
over the heavy waters that roll beyond the world,

and many Noahs too,
bearded and fiercely browed, vigilant up there at every prow.

I don't haunt the obituary section of my local newspaper.  I have noticed, however, that a lot of people closer to my age are shuffling off this mortal coil, as my friend Bill Shakespeare once said.  Do I still think I will be having a close encounter with Clyde soon?  I don't know.  But I have made it a lot longer than I expected when I was a teenager.

Saint Marty does hope to live long enough to see the first woman President of the United States.  That at least gives him a few months.

August 23: "Love," Aunt Marian, Adoration

Tonight, I am writing about love.

In the past week, I've been getting messages from my sister about our aunt, my mother's youngest sister.  Last Friday, Aunt Marian had a stroke, although it seemed as though they caught it early enough.  No paralysis.  Speech only slightly slurred, but improving.  Swallowing with a little difficulty, but improving, as well.  Tonight, I found out that the doctors have discovered metastatic cancer throughout my aunt's body.  

I come from a very large family, with lots of aunts and uncles and cousins.  Love has always been abundant in my life.  Even though that love, for most of my adulthood, has been distanced by space (most of my relatives live around the Metro Detroit area), I still love them, and they love me.

My aunt and uncle made yearly pilgrimages to the Upper Peninsula to visit us in the past.  Aunt Marian married my dad's youngest brother.  That's right.  The baby of the family married the baby of the family.  And, when I was around them, it was obvious how much they respected and adored each other.

Billy Collins writes about adoration and love . . . 

Love

by: Billy Collins

The boy at the far end of the train car 

kept looking behind him 

as if he were afraid or expecting someone 

and then she appeared in the glass door 

of the forward car and he rose 

and opened the door and let her in 

and she entered the car carrying 

a large black case 

in the unmistakable shape of a cello. 

She looked like an angel with a high forehead 

and somber eyes and her hair 

was tied up behind her neck with a black bow. 

And because of all that, 

he seemed a little awkward i

n his happiness to see her, 

whereas she was simply there, 

perfectly existing as a creature 

with a soft face who played the cello. 

And the reason I am writing this 

on the back of a manila envelope 

now that they have left the train together 

is to tell you that when she turned 

to lift the large, delicate cello 

onto the overhead rack, 

I saw him looking up at her 

and what she was doing 

the way the eyes of saints are painted 

when they are looking up at God 

when he is doing something remarkable, 

something that identifies him as God.

I've always been drawn to the final image of this poem, the boy looking up at the girl like a saint having a vision of God.  I can see it--that boundless veneration for something/someone that seems perfect and unattainable.  The purity of that love, before cruelty or heartbreak shatters it.

I'm not saying my aunt is a saint or a god.  We're all human beings, dealing with out own failings and wants.  But my memory of Aunt Marian is one of love.  My wife and I got married on the same day (October 14) that my aunt and uncle got married.  They came to our wedding, danced at the reception together.  I've always felt incredibly connected to them because of that.

Aunt Marian doesn't want any extraordinary measures to sustain her life.  She's told her daughter that she wants to go home to die.  After all the arrangements have been made, that is exactly what is going to happen.  Palliative care and home, where she and my uncle (who passed a few years ago) lived, loved, and adored each other for so, so long.

I've learned so much by watching people like my aunt and uncle love each other and their family.  When I look at my wife or daughter or son, I hope people see the same kind of love in my eyes.  Sacred.  Holy.

Saint Marty loves his aunt.

Photo by Abbigail Berry

August 22: "Istanbul," Little Lake, "Hope Rx"

This evening, a poet friend and I met for an hour or so by a little lake in my hometown.  It was wonderfully warm--a late-summer day that was green and full of insects and geese and water.  We met to honor the memory of our friend, Helen, who passed two years ago.  It was one of Helen's favorite spots for getting together.  During the pandemic, we spent many a night there with our journals and pens.

Many people remember the pandemic as a time of sadness and isolation.  And, yes, the world was a shit show.  People were depressed and dying.  Science was politicized.  Jobs were lost.  Donald Trump, the President of the United States, was screaming/toilet Tweeting about fake news.  In a lot of ways, everything seemed infected.

Yet, I enjoyed the need to sequester at home.  To limit our exposure to outsiders.  It played right into my inner introvert.  When I got home at night from working at the hospital, I could go for long walks with my dog.  All the newest movies were released to streaming services, so no need for expensive trips to a movie theater.

Most of all, I appreciated how truly precious time with close friends became.  

Billy Collins is bathed . . . 

Istanbul

by: Billy Collins

It was a pleasure to enter by a side street
in the center of the city
a bathhouse said to be 300 years old,
old enough to have opened the pores of Florence Nightingale
and soaped the musical head of Franz Liszt.

And it was a pleasure to drink
cold wine by a low wood fire
before being directed to a small room in an upper gallery,
a room with a carpet and a narrow bed
where I folded my clothes into a pile
then came back down, naked
except for a gauzy striped cloth tucked around my waist.

It was an odd and eye-opening sensation
to be led by a man with close-cropped hair
and spaces between his teeth
into a steamy marble rotunda
and to lie there alone on the smooth marble
watching the droplets fall through the beams
of natural light in the high dome
and later to hear the song I sang –
‘She Thinks I Still Care’ – echo up into the ceiling.

I felt like the last of the sultans
when the man returned and began to scrub me –
to lather and douse me, scour and shampoo me,
and splash my drenched body
with fresh warm water scooped from a marble basin.

But it was not until he sudsed me
behind my ears and between my toes
that I felt myself filling with gratitude
the way a cloud fills with rain,
the way a glass pipe slowly fills with smoke.

In silence I thanked the man
who scrubbed the bottoms of my feet.
I thanked the history of the Turkish bath
and the long chain of bathmen standing unshaven,
arms folded, waiting for the next customer
to come through the swinging doors of frosted glass.

I thanked everyone whose job
it ever was to lay hands on the skin of strangers,
and I gave general thanks that I was lying
facedown in a warm puddle of soap
and not a warm puddle of blood
in some corner of this incomprehensible city.

As one bucket after another
of warm water was poured over my lowered head,
I stopped thinking of who and what to thank
and rode out on a boat of joy,
a blue boat of marble and soap,

rode out to the entrance of the harbour
where I raised a finger of good-bye
then felt the boat begin to rise and fall
as it met the roll of the incoming waves,
bearing my body, my clean, blessed body out to sea.

Human connection in life is very important.  I know that.  During the height of the pandemic, human connection was limited for everyone to close family and loved ones.  (I'm not talking about the idiots who gathered without masks in weird protests that resulted in sickness and deaths.)  There is something very holy being in the presence of people you care about and who care about you.

I think that's what Collins is getting at in this poem.  The act of being washed he describes is incredibly intimate.  For those minutes that he lies prone, lets himself be scrubbed by the man (a stranger) with close-cropped hair, the speaker is connected and vulnerable to another human being.  He emerges from the experience renewed, resurrected.  Clean.  Blessed.

That's what I felt tonight, writing with my poet friend.  We were renewing each other in our sadness and longing for our missing friend.  Scrubbing each other clean.  Blessing each other and the place Helen held so dear.

Saint Marty has been resurrected.

Something I wrote this evening . . . 

Hope Rx

by: Martin Achatz

Yesterday, my doctor scribbled

on her prescription pad the word

"HOPE" in all caps, underlined it,

included instructions "BID AC"--

twice a day after meals.

I made an appointment with her

because I'd fallen, twisted my ankle,

was worried after five days of pain

that I'd fractured some small bone

that was now healing in a weird, bent

way.  I told her I didn't want to limp

for the rest of my life or cause spine 

issues because of my lopsided gait.

She listened, nodded, lips pressed

together, then took my foot in her hands,

bent it one way, another way, kept

asking Does this hurt? with each

maneuver.  Then she handed me

the prescription, told me to call

after ten days if I was still in pain.

Last night, I took my first dose--

a green evening by a lake, writing

poems with a friend--and my ankle

didn't hurt.  This morning, I took

another dose--a vanilla mocha

from a local coffee shop, thinking

of my friend Helen's laugh

as I sipped it.  I can already feel

the tension in my foot loosening,

as if I'm wading in a summer stream

after a night of hard, cool rain.

August 21: "Paris," Helen, "The Path to Joy"

Today is the two-year anniversary of the passing of one of my best friends, Helen.  

It's hard to say all the things I've been feeling today, from sadness to happiness, joy to grief.  Helen was a force for goodness in the world.  I don't say that about a whole lot of people, but it truly does apply to her.  Through her Joy Center, a beautiful artist retreat she owned and ran, Helen fostered creativity, mindfulness, art, music, film, food--anything that incited laughter and friendship.

Helen was in my life for over 30 years.  We went to graduate school together.  She was an amazing writer and poet.  Many an afternoon at the university, we sat in her office or mine and wrote.  We traveled to Stratford, Ontario, one summer to attend the Shakespeare Festival.  Went to a conference together to do presentations on poetics for a discussion panel.  When I was named U.P. Poet Laureate, Helen was one of the first people to ask me to do a poetry reading.  She lifted me up through some very dark times in my life.  

The word that came to my mind this morning when I was thinking about Helen was "hope."  A lot of people think of hope as kind of an empty thing.  I hope to win the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry or the Nobel Prize in Literature.  I hope to live until I'm 115 years old.  I hope I win the lottery.  You see what I mean?  Hope can be used to foster a lot of unrealistic expectations.  

For Helen, though, hope was as real and palpable as wild raspberries or sea-salt caramels.  She believed the best in people.  When Donald Trump was elected in 2016, she and I shared several days of darkness.  Then, she sent me a text message saying that she was going to stop being so . . . doomsday.  Instead, Helen chose to hold onto the idea that everything little thing was going to be alright.  (Cue Bob Marley.)  Yes, she even tried to believe there was goodness in that dumpster fire of a President.  Helen was the living embodiment of hope.

Billy Collins finds hope in Paris . . . 

Paris

by: Billy Collins

In the apartment someone gave me, 

the bathroom looked out on a little garden 

at the bottom of and air shaft 

with a few barely sprouting trees, 

ivy clinging to the white cinder blocks, 

a blue metal table and a rusted chair 

where, it would seem, no one had ever sat. 

Every morning, a noisy bird 

would flutter down between the buildings, 

perch on a thin branch and yell at me 

in French bird-talk 

while I soaked in the tub 

under the light from the pale translucent ceiling. 

And while he carried on, I would lie there 

in the warm soapy water 

wondering what shirt I would put on that day, 

what zinc-covered bar I would stand at 

with my Herald-Tribune and a cup of strong coffee. 

After a lot of squawking, he would fly 

back into the sky leaving only the sound 

of a metal store-front being raised 

or a scooter zipping by outside, 

which was my signal 

to stand up in the cloudy water 

and reach for a towel, 

time to start concentrating on which way 

I would turn after I had locked the front door, 

what shop signs I would see, 

what bridges I would lean on 

to watch the broad river undulating 

like a long-playing record under the needle of my eye. 

Time to stand dripping wet and wonder 

about the hordes of people 

I would pass in the street, mostly people 

whose existence I did not believe in, 

but a few whom I would glance at 

and see my whole life 

the way you see the ocean from the shore. 

One morning after another, 

I would fan myself dry with a towel 

and wonder about what paintings 

I would stand before that day, 

looking forward to the usual — 

the sumptuous reclining nudes, 

the knife next to a wedge of cheese, 

a landscape with pale blue mountains, 

the heads and shoulders of gods 

struggling with one another, 

a foot crushing a snake — 

but always hopeful for something new 

like yesterday’s white turkeys in a field 

or a single stalk of asparagus on a plate 

in a small gilded frame, 

always ready, now that I am dressed, 

to cheer the boats of the beautiful, 

the boats of the strange, 

as they float down the river of this momentous day.

Helen faced life like Collins does in this poem.  She got up, got dressed, and headed out into the world to cheer the boats of the beautiful and strange.  Every day was momentous for her, and she taught me how to chase momentousness every time I was in her company.

Occasionally now, I hear a beautiful bird singing or see a beautiful wildflower, and I know Helen is with me.  If there are guardian angels in the universe, she is one of them, looking out for us all, making everything so much brighter.

Saint Marty lifts up his friend, Helen, today.  She was a true force of joyful chaos and love.

A poem I wrote for Helen's celebration of life . . . 

The Path to Joy

by: Martin Achatz

for Helen

“The path to joy, like with sadness, did not lead away from suffering and adversity, but through it.”
          --the Dalai Lama

I have tried, Helen, tried
in these days since you called
me to say “I’m ready” and “I’ll be
with you always,” yes, I have
tried to find that path you walked
every day, the one that took you
by Penis Pond in frozen January
where two middle school girls
on snowshoes stamped out
the shape of an erect penis
in fresh snow on lake ice
for a month straight, and that
brought you joy, day after day.
Then there was the Heritage Trail
path where you found
handfuls of ripe raspberries,
crammed them in your mouth,
let their juice spill down
your chin, stain your lips
the color of cardinal wings, and that
brought you joy, day after day.
Or that path to a cove in Maine
where oyster shells flashed, seaweed
and salt filled your lungs
with the breath of whales, and that
brought you joy, day after day.
How about that path up Croagh Patrick
in County Mayo, where you found
a sacred stone emblazoned with
the image of Bigfoot, and that
brought you joy, day after day.
So many paths, through mountains
in Spain, along beaches in Greece.
India. Scotland. Idaho. Superior. Atlantic.
Pacific. Aegean. Rushmore and Eiffel.
Joy and joy and joy and joy and joy.
Longitudes of it. Latitudes of it.
Your compass always pointed Due
Joy. So this is where you have led
me tonight, Helen—to a poem
where I have used the word joy
ten times already—because tears
are full of oceans, and grief tastes
like kumquats, a nova of sour
on the tongue, then sweetness
returning, the way you always
did, clicking your heels together
three times, saying over and over,
There’s no place like joy.
There’s no place like joy.
There’s no place like joy.

 

August 20: "Royal Aristocrat," Electric Typewriters, Typographical van Goghs

I am old enough to have sat in a classroom of electric typewriters in middle school, my friends and I transcribing words from a textbook--lessons of placing our fingers just so on keyboards and learning the muscle memory of letters.  Where the "a" and "z" were.  How to underline and backspace.  The best days, however, happened around holidays when the teacher (an owlish, high-strung man who ended up having a nervous breakdown halfway through the schoolyear) distributed worksheets with instructions like "ten spaces, type AA, 15 spaces, type aKKKKaaa . . ." until an image would appear.  A pumpkin.  Christmas tree.  Abraham Lincoln's face.

It was my first real lesson in using language to create wonder.  I suppose it was one of my first lessons in poetry, too.  Letters and emptiness into words into lines into pictures.  I loved the concreteness of the final product, us becoming little typographical van Goghs in the basement of C. L Phelps, in a room just down the hall from the gym and cafeteria.  At home, I would sit at my mom's old Underwood, trying to conjure the face of Martin Luther King Jr. or Captain Kangaroo with lowercase and capital A's and G's and punctuation marks.

Billy Collins makes some midnight typewriter noise . . . 

Royal Aristocrat

by: Billy Collins

My old typewriter used to make so much noise

I had to put a cushion of newspaper

beneath it late at night

so as not to wake the whole house.

Even if I closed the study door

and typed a few words at a time--

the best way to work anyway--

the clatter of keys was still so loud

that the gray and yellow bird

would wince in its cage.

Some nights I could even see the moon

frowning down at me through the winter trees.

That was twenty years ago,

yet as I write this with my soft lead pencil

I can still hear that distinctive sound,

like small arms fire across a border,

one burst after another

as my wife turned in her sleep.

I was a single monkey

trying to type the opening lines of my Hamlet,

often doing nothing more

than ironing pieces of paper in the platen

then wrinkling them into balls

to flick into the wicker basket.

Still, at least I was making noise,

adding to the great secretarial din,

that chorus of clacking and bells,

thousands of desks receding into the past.

And that was more than can be said

for the mute rooms of furniture,

the speechless cruets of oil and vinegar,

and the tall silent hedges surrounding the house.

Such deep silence on those nights--

just the sound of my typing

and a few stars singing a song their mother

sang when they were mere babies in the sky.

Those middle school typewriter lessons did pay off.  Nowadays, I do type things at night on my laptop when everyone else has gone to bed.  However, the sound from a computer keyboard is obviously much quieter.  Working on a typewriter sounds, as Collins says, like "small arms fire across a border."  Working on a computer sounds like light rain on a window or drumming fingers on a table.  It's a different visceral experience.

When I started college, PCs were just coming into vogue.  Printers were of the dot matrix variety, loud and attached to reams paper that snaked into the rear of the device.  Word processors were a revelation.  No more backspacing and Xing things out.  No more Bic Wite-Out.  Reorganizing and editing became a matter of a couple of keystrokes.  

That was over 30 years ago now.  I've learned that I can't write poems on a keyboard.  I need a pen in my hand, a notebook in front of me.  Poetry is about being in the moment.  There's something physically present about pushing a pen across a page.  It's almost like painting.  How a poem looks on paper is just as important as what a poem says.  So, for me, I need to see that poem bleed out of the nib of my fountain pen into my journal before I can move to the next step of typing it up.

Collins' poem also holds silence in reverence.  The "mute rooms of furniture" and "speechless cruets of oil and vinegar."  Poets need both sound and silence to work.  At least the poet typing this blog post does.  It's a matter of making the right noise to fill that silence.  That's the job of poets and poetry.  For Collins, it's the stop/start of typing "a few words at a time."  Finding the right word or phrase can be a struggle sometimes.  Other times, it can be like taking dictation from the stars--"singing a song their mother / sang when they were mere babies in the sky."

Saint Marty is now done making noise on his keyboard tonight.  There's some kind of bird outside his window (or maybe it's a star), singing in the darkness.

August 19: "Absence," Chunky Monkey, "Strawberry Picking"

It has been a strangely emotional couple days for me.

I woke on Sunday feeling a little . . . sad.  I guess that's the best word I can come up with.  I'm not saying that I'm sitting on the couch crying with a quart of Chunky Monkey and a spoon.  No, nothing quite so dramatic.  Just a general malaise.  A weight sitting on my shoulders.

Today, I did what I usually do when I feel a blue mood descending on me.  I kept myself busy.  I worked on my October events for the library.  Put together my syllabi for the fall semester at the university, which begins next Monday.  Helped move some things around the library (we're in the middle of a little reorganization).  In the evening, I hosted a great concert by one of my favorite local bands (two of its members are the sons of one of my best friends).

All of that kept my mind and heart busy.  Now, sitting at home, everyone else asleep, I know the blue mood is sitting on the couch beside me as I type these words.  It's like a presence and absence at the same time.

Billy Collins on being present and absent . . . 

Absence

by: Billy Collins

This morning as low clouds
skidded over the spires of the city

I found next to a bench
in the park an ivory chess piece –

the white knight as it turned out –
and in the pigeon-ruffling wind

I wondered where all the others were,
lined up somewhere

on their red and black squares,
many of them feeling uneasy

about the saltshaker
that was taking his place,

and all of them secretly longing
for the moment

when the white horse
would reappear out of nowhere

and advance toward the board
with his distinctive motion,

stepping forward, then sideways
before advancing again –

the same move I was making him do
over and over in the sunny field of my palm.

I realized about midway through today that it was the anniversary of my sister's death.  Nine years ago.  I also realized that in another day it will also be the anniversary of my friend Helen's death.  Two years ago.  It's strange how the body and heart realize things like this before the brain catches up.  Basically, I'm carrying around two chess pieces in my hand, the black and white queens.  They're both here and not here.

Don't worry.  I'm fine.  I got to spend a few hours with my friend, Jody, at the concert.  Some other good friends were there, as well.  The music was loud and joyful.  People were laughing and clapping and bobbing their heads, moving their hips.  

I think, when you are keenly aware of absence in your life, it makes you appreciate presence even more.  That was me tonight, giving thanks for all the people who were with me--important pieces on the chess board of my life.  My wife.  My son.  My friend Jody.  My friend Ronnie and his son.  And so many more.  

Life is short, folks.  If I'm lucky, I'm not going to find myself in checkmate for a very long time.  But it's important for me to remember those who I've lost.  Those chess pieces that are missing, who can't simply be replaced by salt shakers.

Marty is a lucky, lucky saint.

A poem for my sister . . . 

Strawberry Picking

by: Martin Achatz

for Sally

You took me strawberry picking
once, drove out to a farm
where we paid to squat in green
beds laced with tongues of red.
I could feel my ears and neck
tighten under the punishing
sun as we filled Morning Glory
ice cream buckets with our
harvest, each berry looking to me
like some vital body part,
an organ or muscle necessary
for life. You sat on your haunches,
fingers staining red, as if you
were some battlefield surgeon
patching up the fallen with only
your hands. Every now and then,
you would lift a berry to your lips,
eat it in a hummingbird moment,
smiling the smile of the freshly
healed at Lourdes, where miracles
are common as empty wheelchairs
or dandelions in a July field.

The days since you’ve been gone,
I see strawberries everywhere,
in a welt of blood on my lip
after shaving, a stop sign,
a friend’s dyed hair,
my son’s sunburned shoulders,
oxygen in the gills of a perch.
Last night, I stood outside, under
ribbons of borealis, watched
them glide between the stars
like garter snakes in a midnight
Eden. The Bible says that, in the cool
of the day, Adam and Eve heard
God taking a stroll through
the garden. There were probably
peacocks nesting in the pines,
a stream talking with moss and stone,
the scurry of mole and spider
in the ferns.

That’s what I believe you heard
in your last moments of breath.
You heard peafowl screams,
brook trout leaps. Grasshopper wing
and corn silk. And you heard
his divine toes in the grass, walking
along. When he came to you,
he couldn’t resist. He reached down,
plucked you from the stem. You were
ripe. Sweet. Ready. He put you
in his Morning Glory bucket, continued
on into the dew and sunlight

August 18: "Aimless Love," Ordinary Things, Falling in Love

Today was a quiet day of quiet loves.

Not much going on.  I played a church service this morning,  I played one of my favorite hymns--"I Am the Bread of Life."  It was rainy and misty most of the morning and afternoon.  A good day to stay inside and watch TV or read a book.  I did both.  Netflix and Garrison Keillor, mixed with a little Wendell Berry.  I even squeezed in a little nap.  Then, when my wife got off work, we did some grocery shopping.

Like I said, nothing huge and important happened  Just small, ordinary things.  Easy to overlook.

Billy Collins falls in love over and over . . . 

Aimless Love

by: Billy Collins

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

I know that I'm guilty of going through my days wearing blinders.  Not really noticing the tiny blessings that come my way.  It's easy to do nowadays, especially with the current political situation in the United States.  Instead of saying grace for the cold pizza I had for lunch or the people who showed up for the poetry workshop I led tonight, I get myself wound up over what moronic thing Donald Trump uttered today.

So, for this post, I'm trying to hold dear all my loves (large and small) from this weekend:  my daughter holding a baby lamb at the U. P. State Fair; an all-night rainstorm; playing pipe organ for church; friends writing poetry with me; a long walk with my puppy; my son helping carry in bags of groceries from the car; the poems of Wendell Berry; some really good sandwich cookies from Walmart; a soft pillow and warm blanket; the sound of my wife's sleeping breaths in the dark.

I could go on.  And on.  And on.  Each day provides new opportunities to fall in love, if I keep my eyes open and take note.

Saint Marty is going to fall in love with the movie On Golden Pond now.

August 17: "More Than a Woman," Music, Heartbreak and Yodeling

Most of my weekends are filled with music.  On slow weekends, I play the keyboard/pipe organ at two churches.  Busy weekends--it's three, sometimes four churches.  I've been doing this since I was about 17 years old.  I can't remember a time when music wasn't a big part of my existence.

This afternoon, I spent a couple hours practicing songs for this weekend's worship services--one Catholic and one Lutheran.  A lot of people wonder why I practice music that I've played so much.  I will admit that most hymns are pretty familiar to me, be they Catholic, Lutheran, Methodist, Presbyterian, Episcopalian, or Baptist.  The tune for "Amazing Grace" is the same no matter what denomination is singing it.  However, it's always the music I know best that unfailingly gives me problems.  So, I practice everything.

Usually, one of these weekend songs gets stuck in my head for three or four days.  I hear it all day, every day.  This weekend, it's a song titled "Lead Me, Lord."  I played it at tonight's Mass as the priest was marching up the aisle.  It's pretty rousing--almost a call to action.  It's got a good beat, and you can dance to it, as they used to say on American Bandstand.

Billy Collins deals with an ear worm in today's poem . . .

"More Than a Woman"

by: Billy Collins

Ever since I woke up today, 

a song has been playing uncontrollably 

in my head--a tape looping 

over the spools of the brain, 

a rosary in the hands of a frenetic nun, 

mad fan belt of a tune. 

It must have escaped from the radio

last night on the drive home 

and tunneled while I slept 

from my ears to the center of my cortex. 

It is a song so cloying and vapid 

I won’t even bother mentioning the title, 

but on it plays as if I were a turntable 

covered with dancing children 

and their spooky pantomimes, 

as if everything I had ever learned 

was slowly being replaced 

by its slinky chords and the puff-balls of its lyrics. 

It played while I watered the plants 

and continued when I brought in the mail 

and fanned out the letters on a table. 

It repeated itself when I took a walk 

and watched from a bridge 

brown leaves floating in the channels of a current. 

Late in the afternoon it seemed to fade, 

but I heard it again at the restaurant 

when I peered in at the lobsters 

lying on the bottom of an illuminated 

tank which was filled to the brim 

with their copious tears. 

And now at this dark window 

in the middle of the night 

I am beginning to think 

I could be listening to music of the spheres, 

the sound no one ever hears 

because it has been playing forever, 

only the spheres are colored pool balls, 

and the music is oozing from a jukebox 

whose lights I can just make out through the clouds.

I do believe that we are surrounded by music all day.  Medieval writers and thinkers referred to it as the music of the spheres.  Basically, they thought that the movement of the planets and celestial bodies created heavenly harmonies that played constantly.  However, since this noise was always present, human beings simply didn't notice it or became immune to it.

Now, we know that space is a vacuum, and, therefore, soundwaves simply can't exist in it.  However, the world is full of sounds.  I'm sitting on my couch typing this post, and there is a fan humming away in front of me.  When I finally go to bed tonight, I will lie in bed, listening to the noises my house makes in the dark--creaks and settlings and scratchings.  In the morning, there will be crows and mourning doves singing outside my window.  In colder months, my furnace will rumble to life every once in a while.

This is the music of the spheres, I think.  Everyday sounds that we just ignore.  Some people ask me where I get ideas for my poems,  (I'm sure musicians get the same question about their songs.)  Here is my answer:  I listen to what's all around me, and I write it down.  Sometimes, it's a hymn about searching for love or joy.  Other times, it's an old Hank Williams tune filled with heartbreak and yodeling.  If you pay close enough attention, you can hear it, too.

Saint Marty can hear a cold piece of pizza calling him from the fridge right now.  It sort of sounds like Dean Martin singing "That's Amore."

August 16: "Velocity," U. P. State Fair, Speed of Life

We took our kids to the U. P. State Fair today.  That's right--corn dogs, elephant ears, lemonade, Italian sausage, and corn on the cob.  Oh, and there were rides and barns full of critters, too, but food always seems to define trips I take for some reason.

It has been some time since we've all gone together to the fair.  My daughter has gone with other people.  I think my wife and son and daughter have gone together, as well.  It used to be an annual tradition when my sister, Sally, was alive.  I can't tell you how much money I've lost playing those stupid games on the midway.  

One of the first things we did when we got to the fairgrounds was hit the rides.  My wife and I have reached the age where simply looking at the Ferris wheel brings on a bout of vertigo.  So, we merely watched as our daughter and son were strapped into the Hang Glider.  About a minute after the ride started, our son opened his mouth and let fly a red shower of vomit.  It wasn't pretty.  He came off the ride red-faced and covered in puke.

In today's poem, Billy Collins meditates on the speed of life . . . 

Velocity

by: Billy Collins

In the club car that morning I had my notebook
open on my lap and my pen uncapped,
looking every inch the writer
right down to the little writer’s frown on my face,

but there was nothing to write
about except life and death
and the low warning sound of the train whistle.

I did not want to write about the scenery
that was flashing past, cows spread over a pasture,
hay rolled up meticulously—
things you see once and will never see again.

But I kept my pen moving by drawing
over and over again
the face of a motorcyclist in profile—

for no reason I can think of—
a biker with sunglasses and a weak chin,
leaning forward, helmetless,
his long thin hair trailing behind him in the wind.

I also drew many lines to indicate speed,
to show the air becoming visible
as it broke over the biker’s face

the way it was breaking over the face
of the locomotive that was pulling me
toward Omaha and whatever lay beyond Omaha
for me and all the other stops to make

before the time would arrive to stop for good.
We must always look at things
from the point of view of eternity,

the college theologians used to insist,
from which, I imagine, we would all
appear to have speed lines trailing behind us
as we rush along the road of the world,

as we rush down the long tunnel of time—
the biker, of course, drunk on the wind,
but also the man reading by a fire,

speed lines coming off his shoulders and his book,
and the woman standing on a beach
studying the curve of horizon,
even the child asleep on a summer night,

speed lines flying from the posters of her bed,
from the white tips of the pillowcases,
and from the edges of her perfectly motionless body.

It is so true that life seems like a carnival ride that keeps getting faster and fasters as we get older and older.  When I was my son's age, summers lasted forever, and a day at the fair was a two-week journey down the Amazon with stops for cheesy fries and cotton candy.

For me, today seemed like riding a bullet train.  Like Collins, if I were to sketch my family today, we would all have speed lines flying from us.  I don't think young people are aware of the velocity of time.  They're too much creatures of the present, savoring each moment like a fresh cheese curd.  Being the father of one grown child and one almost-grown child, I realize how precious the time I had with my kids today was, and I savored it.  Even the vomit.

A little while after I got home from the fair, I got a text from my sister that our aunt (my mom's sister) had a stroke this morning.  She's doing alright.  She's able to move both arms and legs, and her speech is only a little bit slurred.  She's been improving slowly during the course of the day.  

Another example of velocity.  It seems like only yesterday that my aunt and uncle came up to attend our wedding.  But that was almost 30 years ago.

Saint Marty just wants things to slow down long enough for him to have another Italian sausage smothered in cheese.