November 4: "Table Talk," Zeno's Paradoxes, Bigfoot

It has been one of those Mondays where it feels like I've done a lot but accomplished very little.  Lots of busy work that didn't seem to amount to a whole lot.  For me, my mind seems to be in a holding pattern until after tomorrow--when the election is in the rearview mirror and the future (however bright or dark) is clearer to me.

I'm not going to discuss my politics in this post.  (Most of my disciples already know where I stand on important issues, like electing a convicted felon to the Oval Office.)  I would just like to have a polite conversation over my cheeseburger and French fries about nothing earth-shattering.

Billy Collins orders seafood for dinner . . . 

Table Talk

by: Billy Collins

Not long after we had sat down to dinner
at a long table in a restaurant in Chicago
and were deeply engrossed in the heavy menus,
one of us—a bearded man with a colorful tie—
asked if any one of us had ever considered
applying the paradoxes of Zeno to the martyrdom of St. Sebastian.

The differences between these two figures
were much more striking than the differences
between the Cornish hen and the trout amandine
I was wavering between, so I looked up and closed my menu.

If, the man with the tie continued,
an object moving through space
will never reach its destination because it is always
limited to cutting the distance to its goal in half,

then it turns out that St. Sebastian did not die
from the wounds inflicted by the arrows:
the cause of death was fright at the spectacle of their approach.
St. Sebastian, according to Zeno, would have died of a heart attack.

I think I’ll have the trout, I told the waiter,
for it was now my turn to order,
but all through the elegant dinner
I kept thinking of the arrows forever nearing

the pale, quivering flesh of St. Sebastian,
a fleet of them perpetually halving the tiny distances
to his body, tied to a post with rope,
even after the archers had packed it in and gone home.

And I thought of the bullet never reaching
the wife of William Burroughs, an apple trembling on her head,
the tossed acid never getting to the face of that girl,
and the Oldsmobile never knocking my dog into a ditch.

The theories of Zeno floated above the table
like thought balloons from the 5th century before Christ,
yet my fork continued to arrive at my mouth
delivering morsels of asparagus and crusted fish,

and after we ate and lifted our glasses,
we left the restaurant and said goodbye on the street
then walked our separate ways in the world where things do arrive,

where people get where they are going—
where the train pulls into the station in a cloud of vapor,
where geese land with a splash on the surface of a pond,
and the one you love crosses the room and arrives in your arms—

and, yes, where sharp arrows will pierce a torso,
splattering blood on the groin and the feet of the saint,

that popular subject of European religious painting.
One hagiographer compared him to a hedgehog bristling with quills.

Please go grab yourself a snack from the cupboard.  I recommend the Cosmic Brownies or the leftover pizza in the fridge.  Whatever tickles your culinary fancy is fine.

What shall we talk about tonight?

I have no interest in talking about Zeno's paradoxes or Saint Sebastian being used for target practice.  Of course, politics is off the table, as well.

That leaves movies, art, poetry, the Lions, the Packers, the Nobel Prize in Literature, and Bigfoot.  I don't know a whole lot about football, and I talk about poetry quite a bit already.  So I guess it's art or poetry or the Nobel or Bigfoot.  

In a couple days, I will be doing my book launch reading at the library.  It's still a little unreal that anybody, besides myself, is interested in my little collection of Bigfoot poems.  I've been working on it for so long that it almost seems like Zeno's paradox.  I kept writing poems over the years, getting closer and closer to the finish but never reaching the last page.  

And now, here I sit on the couch, my new book beside me, picking out my set list for Thursday night's reading.  Shit is getting real.  So many people have indulged me over the years about my hairy little project.  Some of those people are no longer with me--my parents, two sisters, a brother, and a dear friend.  Others are probably relieved that I'm no longer going to be torturing them with new Bigfoot poems.  

Do I believe in Bigfoot?  I've been asked that question many times.  Here is my usual answer:  I believe in the idea of Bigfoot because life without wonder would be pretty damn boring.  

Have I ever seen Bigfoot?  No, I haven't.  However, the big guy's been with me longer than my daughter, and she's turning 25 years old in December.  Bigfoot has been my muse and inspiration, and he's as real as honeycomb or dragonflies.  Late at night, I imagine him walking down my street, keeping watch for any skunk metaphors or racoon similes.  

Which came first, Bigfoot or Saint Marty?  You be the judge of that on Thursday evening.  

In the meantime, please pass the salt and pepper.