August 1: Piles of Ice Cream, Cloud Watching, John Voelker

Santiago does some cloud watching . . . 

He looked at the sky and saw the white cumulus built like friendly piles of ice cream and high above were the thin feathers of the cirrus against the high September sky.

"Light brisa," he said. "Better weather for me than for you, fish."

I remember cloud watching when I was a kid.  Finding polar bears and Darth Vader and Linda Blair from The Exorcist.  (Yes, I was an odd child.)  Everyone sees what they want to see in clouds.  Santiago sees good weather for himself, bad weather for the fish.  My son would probably see some Pokemon thing.  Cloud watching is like a natural Rorschach test.  If you're happy, you see hummingbirds and angels.  If you're sad or anxious, you see Dracula and Donald Trump.

It was a long day of work.  I got to my office a little before 8 a.m. and got home around 9 p.m.  I'm going on vacation later this week, so I'm trying to get ahead with reports and programs and funding requests.  It's the tedious but necessary part of my job at the library.  I didn't have a whole lot of time for cloud watching, that's for sure.

The final thing I did this evening was host an event by an author.  I wasn't sure how many people were going to show up.  I told myself that, if I had an audience of ten, I would mark it down as a success.  Over 30 individuals showed up.  Basically, I sold out Madison Square Garden.  (Of course, the program was about John Voelker and his book Anatomy of a Murder, so it had a built-in audience.  Many people who attended were old family friends of Voelker and had stories of when Otto Preminger and Jimmy Stewart came to town to make the film adaptation.)

I didn't do any cloud watching on the way home tonight, either.  I was too tired to engage in dreaming like that.  In fact, I find myself devoid of any kind of creative energy.  I loved listening to tonight's author speak of John Voelker's writing habits, which were influenced greatly by fishing seasons.  If the fish were biting, Voelker was casting flies, not scribbling at his desk.  

I suppose that fishing was a form of cloud watching for Voelker, prodding his imagination.  As I write this post, I'm seeing John Voelker in the clouds of my mind.  And Jimmy Stewart.  George C. Scott.  Duke Ellington.  Lee Remick.  

That's Saint Marty's blessing tonight.

July 16: Goldfish Bowl, Augustus, a Confession

Something else is happening in the goldfish bowl.  There on the kitchen table, nourished by the simple plank of complex light, the plankton is blooming.  The water yellows and clouds; a transparent slime coats the leaves of the water plant, elodea; a blue-green film of single-celled algae clings to the glass.  And I have to clean the doggone bowl.  I'll spare you the details:  it's the plant I'm interested in.  While Ellery [Dillard's goldfish] swims in the stoppered sink, I rinse the algae down the drain of another sink, wash the gravel, and rub the elodea's many ferny leaves under running water until they feel clean.

Dillard buys a goldfish.  She puts it in a bowl on her kitchen table.  If anyone would know how to take proper care of a goldfish, it's Dillard, who makes a habit of examining the complexities of the universe, from dwarf planets to red blood cells.  Ellery is in good hands.

Let me tell you a little story about my attempt at raising goldfish.  I was quite young at the time (let's say eight years old).  One day, my older brother brought me to the local Woolworth's store and bought me a goldfish.  It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, if I remember correctly.  I carried the fishbowl into my bedroom and put it on my dresser.  I don't remember if I ever named the fish, but let's call him Augustus.

Augustus was a good fish.  When I sprinkled food on the top of his water, he rose and munched, drifted back down to watch the show outside of his bowl for a while, and then rose again for another bite.  Sort of like sitting in front the the television, eating pizza.  The first week of Augustus' life was great.

Then, the novelty of owning a fish wore off.  I was eight years old and had a busy life.  I still fed him, at night, just before bed.  But something started happening in his bowl.  The glass got a little slimy, and the water started giving off a slightly funky aroma.  My bedroom started to smell a little like dead worms.  One day, my mother told me, "You need to clean that fishbowl."

Well, never in my eight-year-old mind did I contemplate the possibility that owning a goldfish would require that kind of care.  I thought it would simply be a matter of sprinkling a few flakes of food into the bowl every day, and that was it.  Augustus would clean his own room, just like me.

So, I cleaned the fishbowl.  A week later, the dead worm smell returned.  My mother made me clean it again.  Another week, more dead worm smell.  I was done.  I came up with what I thought was a brilliant idea.  Now, please remember that I was eight-years-old and had no concept of the biology of living things.  After I cleaned Augustus' fishbowl and filled it with fresh water, I added some dish soap to keep it cleaner for a little longer.

I put Augustus back in his bowl, quite pleased with myself, and went off to fight Captain Hook or Darth Vader.  That night, as I was getting ready for bed, I looked over at Augustus.

There he was, doing the back float at the surface of the water.  At first, I thought he was simply practicing a fishy version of the backstroke.  But, after tapping his belly a few times with my finger and seeing him bob up and down like a piece of cork, I realized that my goldfish had gone to the Big Lake in the Sky.

I quickly gave Augustus a burial at sea in the toilet, dumped out and washed the fishbowl, and put all the incriminating evidence away, hoping nobody would notice.  My mother never said a word.  I think she was happily relieved that the great goldfish experiment was over.

I tell you this story as a confession.  I am a goldfish murderer.

It was Saint Marty, in the bedroom, with the Dawn detergent.,

May 4: "Star Wars," Pastor Friend, "Ives" Dip

May the Fourth be with you.

Yes, it's Star Wars day.  Being a lifelong fan, I am ashamed to say that I did nothing to commemorate the occasion.  In my defense, I was in a car all day long, keeping my children from killing each other while finishing the grading for my poetry workshop.  I did nothing for the Dark Side.  I did nothing for the Force.  All I did was eat chips, drink pop, and think, "I wonder if Darth Vader would beat Chewbacca in an arm wrestling contest?"

I did meet my pastor friend for lunch.  It was so good to see him.  It's been over a year since we've been able to connect, and now he's moving even further downstate.  The best that I can hope for is a once-a-year visit now.  When we sat down in the restaurant, we didn't miss a beat.  The short time we had together just reminded me how much I miss having him close by.

I don't really have a pressing question to ask tonight for my Ives dip.  So, I'll ask a less-than-pressing question:

Should I write another Star Wars poem?

And the answer is: 

Ives always liked it over there, as it reminded him of happy times when he and his father used to visit Dominguez' house in Staten Island...

Well, Star Wars makes me happy.  So, I guess that's a "yes."

The Force is with Saint Marty.

These aren't the 'droids you're looking for...

May 10: Sharon Olds, "To Our Miscarried One, Age Thirty Now"

Any person who know me knows that I love Sharon Olds.  She is the Darth Vader who brought me to the Dark Side.  I wouldn't be writing poetry today if it weren't for her.

I have studied with Sharon Olds.  I have read drafts of my poems to Sharon Olds, and she has commented on them, offered me advice.  She is, hands down, amazing.

Today, Saint Marty would like to offer you a heartbreaking poem from Olds' Pulitzer Prize-winning collection Stag's Leap.

To Our Miscarried One, Age Thirty Now

Though I never saw you, only your clouds,
I was afraid of you, of how you differed
from what we had wanted you to be.  And it's as if
you waited, then, where such waiting is done,
for when I would look beside me--and here
you are, in the world of forms, where my wifehood
is now, and every action with him,
as if a thousand years from now
you and I are in some antechamber
where the difference between us is of little matter,
you with perhaps not much of a head yet,
dear garden one, you among the shovels
and spades and wafts of beekeeper's shroud
and sky-blue kidskin gloves.
That he left me is not much, compared
to your leaving the earth--you shifting places
on it, and shifting shapes--you threw off your
working clothes of arms and legs,
and moved house, from uterus
to toilet bowl and jointed stem
and sewer out to float the rivers and
bays in painless pieces.  And yet
the idea of you has come back to where
I could see you today as a small, impromptu
god of the partial.  When I leave for good,
would you hold me in your blue mitt
for the departure hence.  I never thought
to see you again, I never thought to seek you.

March 23: Saint Toribio de Mogrovejo

I thought of titling this blog "The Nasty Bitch Strikes Back" (start humming the Star Wars theme with me), but I decided to take the high road. You may remember, Faithful Reader, the last time Nasty Bitch (henceforth referred to as NB) made an appearance in a post. She said and did some not-so-Christian things to my wife, so I went to her house and said and did some very not-so-Christian things is response. The ensuing guilt and remorse I experienced from my outburst ruined the better part of a week for me (think Luke after Darth cut his hand off). I finally ended up apologizing to NB, and, armed with the knowledge that I had done the right thing, the thing both Jesus and Yoda would have wanted me to do, I moved on to my next opportunity to make an wookie of myself.

Well, yesterday, when I spoke to my wife on the phone, she told me NB had said some more not-very-Christian things to her and my daughter and pretty much slammed a door in my wife's face, literally. Of course, my first response was to go to the Dark Side. I had this out-of-body vision of myself screaming at NB again, but the vision that immediately followed was of me having to suck Bantha butt again and apologize. Neither vision gave me much pleasure.

My wife and daughter were at home, out of harm's way, so I decided to pray about the situation on the drive home. I prayed for NB. Her mental state has not improved since my last outburst. In fact, I would say she has gotten worse. She looks like she hasn't slept in about two weeks, and , on a good day, her mood is sullen. On a bad day, she's just, well, a nasty bitch. Since she hasn't had an appointment with her psychiatrist, I know she hasn't started taking any medication to improve her condition. That means that she's still experiencing auditory and aural hallucinations. The last time she was like this, the voices were telling her to kill herself.

As I drove, I prayed for NB. I asked that she be made well, that she gets the help she obviously needs. I prayed that she be happy, really happy--no seeing figures standing in the mirror behind her or sneaking into her bedroom at night, no hearing voices whispering her name or telling her to harm herself. I prayed that she would turn back into the person I used to like, the person I remember going on vacations with. I prayed that she just be a whole person again. Wholeness. I've prayed similar prayers for my wife when she was in the throws of mania or addiction.

By the time I pulled into my driveway, I felt peaceful. I wasn't ready to charge over to NB's house and challenge her to a light saber duel. I was calm and accepting. I saw NB for what she is right now--a sick individual in need of compassion and understanding. That doesn't mean I shouldn't protect myself and my family from cruelty and pain. That does mean that I recognize the source of that cruelty and pain as a symptom of NB's broken mind/heart/soul. And I can pray for her.

That's pretty much what Toribio de Mogrovejo did for a good portion of his life. A 16th century Spanish professor of law, he was appointed bishop of Lima, Peru. For a quarter century, he walked through jungles, forded rivers, wrestled gigantic alien Rancors (just making sure you're paying attention), and exposed himself to things like malaria, leprosy, and heatstroke. Instead of expecting broken people to come to him for help, he went out, met people where they were, and brought them the love and compassion of God. By the time he died in 1606, he had confirmed and baptized nearly one million people.

I probably didn't go as far as Toribio would have gone for NB yesterday. Toribio would have walked to her house, sat down with her, maybe held her hand. He would have asked her how she was doing, listened to her talk about her illness, her anger, her sadness. He would have led her to a better place.

I, on the other hand, patted myself on the back for not calling NB a nasty bitch to her face. I just prayed for her, handed her over to the likes of Saint Toribio, and hoped for the best. Sometimes that's what it's all about: A New Hope.

May the Force be with you.