October 4: Magic Fingers, PTSD, Joy Harjo

Billy went into his bedroom, even though there were guests to be entertained downstairs.  He lay down on his bed, turned on the Magic Fingers.  The mattress trembled, drove a dog out from under the bed.  The dog was Spot.  Good old Spot was still alive in those days.  Spot lay down again in a corner

Billy is recovering from a moment of PTSD.  As I've said in recent posts, Slaughterhouse is a book about PTSD that masquerades as science fiction and social criticism.  Billy is unstuck in time, constantly reliving his wartime experiences.

I only have a few moments this evening for reflection, on PTSD or war or science fiction.  All of those subjects are up for grabs with this little passage.  However, in a little over an hour, I will be teaching my evening class.  First semester composition.  Three hours and some minutes long.  I still need to eat dinner, meet with a colleague about online teaching, and carry some books out to my car. 

This week has been flying by.  Tomorrow is Saint Marty's Day.  Tapioca and Diet Mountain Dew for everyone.  My holiday celebration is going to include a Joy Harjo poetry reading, followed by a Joy Harjo book signing.  At the moment, however, I'm so tired that I feel like I could fall asleep right now and not wake up until next October 5th. 

If I had a bed with Magic Fingers, I would flip the switch, lay down, and let my mattress tremble me to oblivion.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for caffeine and pizza.

April 21: Sleep Standing Up, Sister's Birthday, Banana Ganache

So Billy Pilgrim had to sleep standing up, or not sleep at all.  And food had stopped coming in through the ventilators, and the days and nights were colder all the time.

It was a long day of work.  I felt, at times, like I was asleep standing up.  The only thing that kept me going was Diet Mountain Dew and chocolate, and I didn't have to get that through a ventilator.  It was snowing this morning.  Just a dusting, enough to make everything look very Currier & Ives.  As Vonnegut says, the days and nights were colder.

The snow didn't stick around long.  The sun came out, and, by the time I left work, there was not a snowflake to be found.  There was a brisk wind, however, making the air feel like late autumn versus early spring.  It was a beautiful afternoon, but not a record-breaker temperature-wise. 

It is my sister's birthday. We celebrated with a chicken dinner and a banana ganache cake.  It was a quiet little party, but nice.  I have to say that my sister has always been really good to me and my family, helping us through some very difficult times.  Yes, she has problems of her own, but she has a very generous spirit.  Always has.

Example:  two weekends ago, my family and my sister went to the Kalahari Resort at the Wisconsin Dells for my daughter's dance competition.  We drove down in a nice car, stayed in a nice hotel room, ate some good food, and came home with some nice souvenirs.  All thanks to my sister.

So, tonight, I am thankful for my sister.  For her open heart.  For her love of my kids.

Saint Marty is a lucky, lucky brother.

March 2: Disease in My Eyes, EGD, Clear Liquids

"Doctor--" said the patient tentatively.

"Hm?" he said.

"You're so quiet."  

"Sorry."

"You were talking away there--and then you got so quiet."

"Um."

"You see something terrible?"

"Terrible?"

"Some disease in my eyes?"

"No, no," said Billy, wanting to doze again.  "Your eyes are fine.  You just need glasses for reading."  He told her to go across the corridor--to see the wide selection of frames there.

Billy has just returned from a jump in time, and he's sleepy.  The problem is that he's examining one of his patients, and that patient is mistaking Billy's silence for tragic news.  Detached retina.  Glaucoma.  Cataract.  The patient is panicking.

Tomorrow morning, I am having a medical procedure.  When I say that to friends, they immediately assume that I'm having a colonoscopy.  I'm not.  I'm having an esophagogastroduodenoscopy (EGD for short).  Basically, the doctor is using an endoscope to examine my esophagus, stomach, and small intestine.  I'm having this done because I've been experiencing what the doctor thinks is extreme gastric reflux.

I am really not concerned about this procedure.  I'm more concerned about not being able to eat or drink anything after 7 p.m. except clear fluids tonight.  So, for my last meal, I just had a stuffed crust chicken pizza, chased down by Diet Mountain Dew, with a cookie for dessert.  I know, I know.  It wasn't healthy, but it tasted pretty damn good.

I don't think that the doctor is going to discover anything seriously wrong tomorrow.  I'm not expecting a diagnosis of stomach or esophageal cancer.  I'm expecting him to tell me to cut back on caffeine and pop and spicy foods.  More fiber and vegetables and fruit will be the prescription.  

In about a half hour, I'm heading off to a basketball game with my daughter; she's playing in the pep band.  After that, I will return home and enjoy a nice snack of water washed down by water.

Saint Marty is thankful for a day off work with really good legal drugs tomorrow.

February 11: Had a Snootful, Addicted People, Fairly Good Place

Billy blinked in 1958, traveled in time to 1961.  It was New Year's Eve, and Billy was disgracefully drunk at a party where everybody was in optometry or married to an optometrist.

Billy usually didn't drink much, because the war had ruined his stomach, but he certainly had a snootful now, and he was being unfaithful to his wife Valencia for the first and only time.  He had somehow persuaded a woman to come into the laundry room of the house, and then sit up on the gas dryer, which was running.

The woman was very drunk herself, and she helped Billy get her girdle off.  "What was it you wanted to talk about?" she said.

"It's all right," said Billy.  He honestly thought it was all right.  He couldn't remember the name of the woman.

"How come they call you Billy instead of William?"

"Business reasons," said Billy.  That was true.  His father-in-law, who owned the Ilium School of Optometry, who had set Billy up in practice, was a genius in his field.  He told Billy to encourage people to call him Billy--because it would stick in their memories.  I would also make him seem slightly magical, since there weren't any other grown Billys around.  It also compelled people to think of him as a friend right away.

People do stupid things when they are under the influence of alcohol or drugs.  Billy is living proof.  He's drunk, at a New Year's Eve party filled with his colleagues.  Most of those colleagues know his father-in-law, who runs a school of optometry.  And Billy's cheating on his wife, the daughter of said father-in-law.  Stupid.

I've had a lot of experience with addiction and addicted people.  Alcohol.  Prescription drugs.  Sex.  Sitting here, typing this, I have to say that this little passage from Slaughterhouse conjures up a lot of bad memories.  Personally, I've been lucky enough to avoid problems with alcohol and pills, although it runs in the family.

Because of my experiences, I have a greater understanding and empathy with family/friends who struggle with any kind of addiction.  I understand it on a deeper level because I have an addictive personality myself.  I become obsessed with things.  Food.  TV shows.  Authors.  Work.  In this social media age, it's easy to develop compulsions for pornography and unfaithfulness, too.  Billy Pilgrim might have had more than one indiscretion if he were alive today.  He may have had serial affairs, several wives, and ended up President of the United States. 

Don't worry.  Nothing bad has happened to me.  Vonnegut just forces me to do a little time traveling when I blog.  See the wider picture.  I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not.  I'm in a fairly stable place at the moment.  That could change tomorrow, obviously.  But I do have people in my life who continue to struggle with addictions.  I try to be supportive, but the addict personality is sometimes difficult to handle without wanting to punch the addict in the face.

I pray for the addicts in my life, every day.  There's not a whole lot else I can do for them.  They make mistakes, like Billy, and deal with the consequences of those mistakes. 

Saint Marty is grateful today for Diet Mountain Dew.  One of his little addictions.

October 5: Migrating Canada Geese, Happy Saint Marty's Day, HAL

Last year I saw three migrating Canada geese flying low over the frozen duck pond where I stood.  I heard a heart-stopping blast of speed before I saw them; I felt the flayed air slap at my face.  They thundered across the pond, and back, and back again:  I swear I have never seen such speed, such single-mindedness, such flailing of wings.  They froze the duck pond as they flew; they rang the air; they disappeared . . . 

Yes, Saint Marty's Day is upon us, after weeks of preparation--shopping, baking, decorating, cooking.  And, like all days of importance, it comes and goes quickly.  It is almost four o'clock in the afternoon, and the day seems to be flying away, like Dillard's geese.  A blast of speed.  Flailing of wings.  Ringing the air.  Then, it's over.  Gone for another year.

But, for now, it is still Saint Marty's Day.  I'm sitting in my office at school, listening to rain pounding the roof above me.  There's thunder, too.  A holiday rainstorm.  I've eaten a chocolate chip peanut butter pie and chocolate cake.  When I got to work this morning, the phone started ringing.  Friends calling to wish me "Happy Saint Marty's Day."  They sang to me, too.  Saint Marty's Day carols.

Tonight, I teach my introduction to film class.  We will be watching 2001:  A Space Odyssey, which is a terrific Saint Marty's Day flick, with the monkeys and HAL and the Star Child.  In fact, it is rumored that Stanley Kubrick edited out a scene where the astronauts Frank and Dave share some Saint Marty's Day tapioca and HAL becomes jealous.

I wish all of my disciples a Happy Saint Marty's Day.  Plenty of gifts and blessings.  At the end of the day, I plan to sit on my couch with a wine glass of Diet Mountain Dew and a bowl of tapioca pudding.  (Are you sensing a theme?  It's all about the tapioca.)  The lights of the tree will be glowing.  Outside, wind will be whipping through the branches of the maple tree.  Rain.

Saint Marty's Day is flying south for the winter.

Dave . . . can I have some tapioca?

September 8: Pepto Bismol, Billy Collins, "Walking Across the Atlantic"

So many times, I've read that fear is the opposite of faith.

If that is true, I'm pretty much doomed.  For instance, over the last few years, I've convinced myself that I'm dying of several ailments, from heart disease to lung cancer to esophageal cancer.  Working in the health care profession is not a good thing for me.

Right now, I'm suffering from some terrible heartburn.  Blame it on too much Diet Mountain Dew and a plate of lasagna for dinner.  It feels like something's trying to crawl up my throat.  It's a terrifying feeling.  Like an alien is about to burst from my chest.  The first few times I experienced this, I ended up getting stress tests and chest x-rays.

Now, my fears are not unfounded.  My brother suffered a stroke two years before he died.  My sister died of lymphoma of the brain.  But, of course, living in a constant state of I'm-about-to-die is not very fun.

I trust that I'm not dying tonight.  I'll just suck down some Pepto-Bismol and say a prayer that I'll start feeling better.  Sort of like Jesus telling Peter to walk across the Sea of Galilee.  I've got to take that step tonight.

Saint Marty is just taking that leap of faith tonight.  And some more Pepto.

Walking Across the Atlantic

by:  Billy Collins

I wait for the holiday crowd to clear the beach
before stepping onto the first wave.

Soon I am walking across the Atlantic
thinking about Spain,
checking for whales, waterspouts.
I feel the water holding up my shifting weight.
Tonight I will sleep on its rocking surface.

But for now I try to imagine what
this must look like to the fish below,
the bottoms of my feet appearing, disappearing.

April 28: Imbecility, Morning Post, Marching and Marching

In the chill of the next morning they are deadly still; when they rouse themselves, however, they resume what Fabre calls their "imbecility."  They slog along all day, head to tail. . . . 

Dillard is writing about a group of moth caterpillars, who form themselves into a circular procession around the rim of a vase.  The caterpillars keep marching in the circle, and they keep marching and marching.  And marching.  And marching.  That is what Fabre terms their "imbecility."  After a night of dormancy, they just pick up their circular parade again.

Good morning.  I have not been abducted by a drug cartel, suffered some brain episode, or abandoned this blog.  I was correcting papers and final exams for two days.  While I have not completed all of my end-of-semester work, I have a little time to breathe right now.  A few days to finish things up.  But I do sort of feel like one of those caterpillars--marching all day, going dormant for a little while, then waking up and doing it all over again.  Day after day.

I know that I haven't posted in the morning for quite some time, but I wanted to let my two Constant Readers know that I am still here.  In a few minutes, I will pack up my messenger bag (yes, I carry a man purse, as my daughter calls it) and head off to work at the medical office.  On my way, I will stop to buy a Diet Mountain Dew.  A big one.  I'm a little tired right now.

Yesterday evening, I taught my last evening class of the semester.  It was with a group of students who have been with me for a full year.  They took first semester composition with me in the fall, and then they signed up for second semester composition with me this winter.  They have been a great group of kids to work with.  Always funny, forgiving, and supportive.  I'm actually going to miss them quite a bit.

So, I am a little melancholy this a.m.  The end of a school year always depresses me a little bit.  But, everything ends.  Semesters.  Books.  Jobs.  That's the way things are.  Unless you're a caterpillar.

Saint Marty needs to start his daily march now.  He'll keep marching and marching and marching . . . .

I'm a monarch . . .

January 2: An Oracle, Miracles, Kim Addonizio, "New Year's Day," Confessions of Saint Marty

When I slide under a barbed-wire fence, cross a field, and run over a sycamore trunk felled across the water, I'm on a little island shaped like a tear in the middle of Tinker Creek.  On one side of the creek is a steep forested bank; the water is swift and deep on that side of the island.  On the other side is the level field I walked through next to the steers' pasture; the water between the field and the island is shallow and sluggish.  In summer's low water, flags and bulrushes grow along a series of shallow pools cooled by the lazy current.  Water striders patrol the surface film, crayfish hump along the silt bottom eating filth, frogs shout and glare, and shiners and small bream hide among roots from the sulky green heron's eye.  I come to this island every month of the year.  I walk around it, stopping and staring, or I straddle the sycamore log over the creek, curling my legs out of the water in winter, trying to read.  Today I sit on dry grass at the end of the island by the slower side of the creek.  I'm drawn to this spot.  I come to it as to an oracle; I return to it as a man years later will seek out the battlefield where he lost a leg or an arm.

Annie Dillard is an observer.  She sees with a scientist's gaze and a poet's wonder.  Tinker Creek is filled with tiny miracles of nature.  Water striders and crayfish and shiners.  Sun striking water.  Clouds boiling on windless days.  It's a place that makes Dillard stop and reflect.  A New Year's Day made manifest in stone and soil and light and creation.  Every moment about strangeness and newness and oldness.

Yes, I am still in the meditative state of New Year's Eve/Day.  Thinking about the past and wondering about the future.  I am trying to approach 2016 with excitement and hope.  There are blessings headed my way.  I just need to be more aware of them.  I need to be like Annie Dillard in a way.  No, I don't mean I need to live a cabin in the woods and go for hikes three times a day.  I just need to keep my eyes open.  See the miracles.

I'm not much for New Year's resolutions.  Resolutions are promises easily broken, lost after a week or two of reality.  So, I am not calling my miracle-seeking a resolution.  It's a change in attitude or state of mind.  A shift from darkness to light.  I feel much more comfortable with that description.  It seems more doable.  Sort of like saying that I'm going to cut back on drinking Diet Mountain Dew without setting any clear or measurable goal.

And I need to remember that, even in the dark times of life, there are still stars in the heavens, moonlight in the trees.  Loss, I guess, can be a way of making room for blessings.  Pain can be a reminder of how precious life and health and happiness are.  That's what Tinker Creek is all about, I think.

Saint Marty has a New Year's poem for you on this second day of January, 2016.  Find a miracle in your life today.

New Year's Day

by:  Kim Addonizio

The rain this morning falls   

on the last of the snow

and will wash it away. I can smell   

the grass again, and the torn leaves

being eased down into the mud.   

The few loves I’ve been allowed

to keep are still sleeping

on the West Coast. Here in Virginia

I walk across the fields with only   

a few young cows for company.

Big-boned and shy,

they are like girls I remember

from junior high, who never   

spoke, who kept their heads

lowered and their arms crossed against   

their new breasts. Those girls

are nearly forty now. Like me,   

they must sometimes stand

at a window late at night, looking out   

on a silent backyard, at one

rusting lawn chair and the sheer walls   

of other people’s houses.

They must lie down some afternoons   

and cry hard for whoever used

to make them happiest,   

and wonder how their lives

have carried them

this far without ever once

explaining anything. I don’t know   

why I’m walking out here

with my coat darkening

and my boots sinking in, coming up

with a mild sucking sound   

I like to hear. I don’t care

where those girls are now.   

Whatever they’ve made of it

they can have. Today I want   

to resolve nothing.

I only want to walk

a little longer in the cold

blessing of the rain,   

and lift my face to it.

Confessions of Saint Marty

June 4: Buried, CP and Roof, Joshua Mehigan, "At Home"

They buried his son on Christmas Eve morning, 1967, out in Long Island, his marker a simple Celtic cross.  The burial was covered by the press, despite efforts to maintain privacy.  A lot of important people came, few whom Ives knew.  Zoom-lensed cameras captured the scene, and in an unfortunate gaffe, they published a picture of Celeste, Robert's former girlfriend, who had fallen apart and kept her distance from the family until the funeral, being held in Ives' arms, and identified her as his daughter.

Ives suffers the very worst loss any parent can imagine.  No mother or father ever wants to bury a child.  It's not the way things are supposed to happen.  Children are supposed to carry on the family name, preserve memories.  Children are not supposed to become memories.

I chose this paragraph because it reminds me that, no matter how bad I think my life is, I really don't have it so bad.  I need that reminder today.

This morning, I went to my doctor.  Working in a cardiology office, I frequently write and type the abbreviation "CP."  It means "chest pain."  Chest pain can be caused by a lot of things.  Congestive heart failure.  Acid reflux.  Heart attack.  Lung cancer.  COPD.  I see them all, every day.  Well, for the past six or seven days. I have been experiencing CP.  Initially, I though it was acid reflux because I have suffered from that in the past.  So, I cut back on my Diet Mountain Dew intake and tried to avoid spicy foods.  It didn't help.

So, I made an appointment to see a medical professional this morning.  Actually, I didn't have much of a choice.  As soon as I described my symptoms to the nurse on the phone, she said, "Ah, you need to come in right away."  Within forty-five minutes, I was sitting in an exam room.

After I spoke with the nurse practitioner, she ordered an EKG.  The EKG turned out fine.  Now I'm going to be scheduled for a stress test.  In the meantime, she gave me a prescription to treat acid reflux.  I'm hoping that does the trick.  I'm not quite reassured.  Yet.

That was the morning.  This afternoon, I found out that I somehow have to have the roof of my house replaced.  A contractor came to my home to give me an estimate on replacing the ceiling in my kitchen.  Said contractor will not touch the ceiling until the roof has been dealt with.  That means somehow getting a loan, which means going further into debt, which means another monthly payment, which means I need to sell one of my organs to try to raise funds.

I have not had a great day.  However, my wife and children are healthy and happy.  I have to keep reminding myself that things could be much worse.

So, the roofer is coming out tomorrow morning to give us an estimate.  The stress test will be sometime early next week.  If the medicine doesn't alleviate the chest pressure, I have to go back to the doctor so more tests can be run.

Saint Marty already hates the summer, and it hasn't even really begun.

At Home

by:  Joshua Mehigan

...very few are able to tell exactly what their houses cost... THOREAU

This is my lawn.  I planted it, I grew it,
and I work hard ensuring it's attractive.
I keep it clear of every type of pest.
I rake it and I mow it.  I see to it
that no stray dogs stray here.  It keeps me active.
God sends the sunshine, and I do the rest.

That is my fence, where I go to lean to eavesdrop.
Outside of my own thoughts, I hear the quiet
of many smaller creatures barely moving.
In the fall, sometimes I can hear the leaves drop.
My land is mine.  I have worked hard to buy it.
It's the one thing I can always be improving.

In it, I find it's easier to find
the natural boundary of my heart and mind.

I'm not convinced...yet...

June 22: Two Miles, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

I woke up this morning and said to myself, "If it's cold and foggy again, I'm not going running today."

When I stepped outside, it was beautiful, warm, and sunny.  "Well," I said to myself, "if it's like 80 degrees outside when church is over, I am NOT going running today."

When worship was over, I stepped outside.  It was 65 degrees, sunny, with a nice breeze.  "Well," I said to myself as I got into my car, "if my wife is back from grocery shopping when I get home, I'm NOT going running today."

When I got home, my wife wasn't there, and the phone was ringing.  I answered it.

"Hi, honey," my wife said, "I'm on my way home.  I'll be there in about 15 or 20 minutes."

I got changed and went for a run.  Two miles.  I thought it was going to be hideous.  Sore legs, sore lungs, sore feet.  Instead, the run was wonderful.  Granted, when I was done, I felt like I was going to die, but I recovered quickly.  Now, I can have a completely guilt-free day.  I can eat pizza or ice cream or a pound of bacon without a twinge of remorse.  Well, if I eat the bacon, I might feel a twinge, but it will originate in my lower intestine, not my conscience.

Today's Classic Saint Marty comes from 2011.  Exactly three years ago.

June 22, 2011:  Saint Thomas More, Rain, Tired

Yesterday's post was all about the first day of summer.  June 21 was supposed to be the longest day of the year.  It rained almost the entire day.  Today, which is supposed to be just as long as yesterday, has been a day-long downpour.  No sun.  No light.  All my talk about embracing the light in my last post was a waste of time.  When I left the Spiritual Autobiography Workshop last night, the fog was so thick I thought it was snowing when I looked out of the window.  It was dark by 9 p.m.

Perhaps because of this inclement weather, I have felt really tired today.  I've been trying to cut back on the amount of Diet Mountain Dew I drink, holding myself to one can per day.  This morning, I had my allotted can, but by lunchtime, I was falling asleep.  I am currently chugging down my second can of Dew.  I'm perking up a little bit, but I still can't quite get up to speed.  My mind is working about three bulbs short of a chandelier.  I'm hoping I'll get a second wind soon.

Today's feast saint is Thomas More, patron of lawyers.  Thomas More is probably most famous for standing up to Henry VIII, refusing to "render allegiance to the King as the Head of the Church of England."  Thomas was imprisoned in the Tower of London and, about a year and a half later, was beheaded for treason.  His last words were that he was dying "the King's good servant--but God's first."  During his lifetime, Thomas was a prolific author.  His most famous work is Utopia, about a fictional island state named Utopia.  In the book, More discusses things like religious tolerance, female priests, married priests, and divorce.

Being from a "mixed" marriage--I was raised Catholic, my wife is Methodist--I appreciate More's ideas about tolerance.  I've never made a big deal with my daughter about the fact the we go to "Daddy's church" on Saturday and "Mommy's church" on Sunday.  It's just church, and it's all about Jesus.  When my daughter gets a little older, maybe she'll start asking questions and making choices.  But, in a perfect world, maybe in Utopia, such distinctions wouldn't really matter that much.  American Catholics are notoriously liberal in their religious beliefs.  Most Catholics I know wouldn't have a problem with married priests, or female priests, for that matter.  Every Catholic church I know has some kind of support group for divorced Catholics nowadays.  The world really has changed since Thomas More wrote Utopia.  Yet, we still argue about the same things.  Despite his radical ideas, Thomas More became a saint.  He was a man of his time and a man of the future.

In my life, I've had to stand up for a lot of things.  My father almost didn't come to our wedding because we got married in the Methodist church.  (He eventually did come, because we had a Methodist pastor AND a Catholic priest performing the ceremony.)  Many members of my family still struggle with my wife's mental illness and sexual addiction.  Rather than taking up love and compassion, they take up stones to throw.  My life is far from utopia.  Modern society will never be utopia.  I know that.  Thomas More knew that.  But, in my own actions, in the choices I make each day, maybe I make the world just a tiny bit better.

It's all in our hands

On this rainy Wednesday, with my tired mind, I embrace the idea of tolerance.  I embrace the idea of not limiting people because of gender or race or sexual orientation or religion.  I embrace the idea of the healing power of love, as corny as that sounds.  I embrace the idea of utopia.

Saint Marty raises his Mountain Dew to Saint Thomas More.

Confessions of Saint Marty

September 10: One Piston, Diet Mountain Dew, "Carol" Dip Monday

I'm firing on about one piston this morning.  It has not been an easy transition from weekend brain to work brain.  I'm sitting here, typing about one word every twenty seconds, which means I'll be done with this post about 2 p.m., just in time for me to get to the university to teach.  Fits and starts, that's the way my mind is functioning.  I do have what's left of a two liter bottle of Diet Mountain Dew, and I'm nursing it, trying to make it last.  It doesn't seem to be helping out very much.

The other thing that's distracting me this morning, besides my slumbering grey matter, is an alarm.  When I walked into my office this morning, there was a high-pitched alarm sounding.  Imagine a dentist's drill raised about five octaves.  That's what it sounds like.  Yes, it is still alarming, and I am starting to develop a headache.  It's driving me crazy.  At times, I can almost block it out, but then it gets louder or changes pitch.  I've got the TV on, trying to drown it out, but that's not working either.  I'm about ready to find a hammer and smash the entire electrical panel that it's coming from.  I'm controlling my impulses at the moment.

Thus, my question on this Carol dip Monday is fairly straightforward:

Will this stupid alarm be silenced soon?

And the answer from Charles Dickens is:

...It made him shudder, and feel very cold.

Great.  I'm looking for relief from this aural torture, and I get the Ghost of Christmas Future making Scrooge frightened and clammy.  Looks like no relief is in sight.

Saint Marty's week is not off to a good start.

Even this isn't going to help...

February 8: Monday Tireds, Irresistible Drowsiness, Diet Mountain Dew

Yes, this post is going to be one of my I'm-so-tired-I'm-drooling-on-my-keyboard posts.  I'm sitting here, trying to come up with something witty or profound to say.  Haven't had much luck.  I did a Carol dip and came up with this passage from the end of Stave Two:

He was conscious of being exhausted, and overcome by an irresistible drowsiness; and further, of being in his own bedroom.  He gave the cap a parting squeeze, in which his hand relaxed; and had barely time to reel to bed, before he sank into a heavy sleep.



I hear Fred hired a stripper!

 Really, that's what my finger stopped on.  Not much help from Scrooge this morning.  He's just as friggin' tired as I am. Of course, Scrooge has been painting the town with the Ghost of Christmas Past.  Or maybe Scrooge stayed too late at his nephew Fred's Super Bowl party.  Whatever the reason, the old bastard is going to bed.

I, unfortunately, do not have that option at the moment.  I won't have that option for about, oh, 16 or 17 hours.  It's going to be a long day, and my can of diet Mountain Dew isn't helping me much, although it tastes pretty good.

I'm just going to have to push through the fog and hope my Titanic doesn't collide with any icebergs today.

Saint Marty's on autopilot for the moment.

August 18: Tireder and Tireder

I was sort of hoping, after three days of being back at work, that I would feel less tired.  However, I have been feeling tireder and tireder.  This morning is the worst.  It just took me almost two minutes to type that first sentence.  I had to get up, go to the refrigerator, and get a can of Diet Mountain Dew.  Then I just sat, staring at the screen.  It's going to be a rough day.  I went through my book bag, found out I don't have my favorite writing pen.  This detail may sound inconsequential, but I haven't written a poem in almost seven years without this pen.  It's sort of like how baseball players, when they're on a winning streak, won't change their socks or wash their jock straps for fear of jinxing themselves.  I had a moment of panic when I realized I didn't have my pen case.

So I don't know if you're going to be getting a new poem today or not.  If I can't get that pen, I'd say not.  I'm going to run out to my car to see if I left it on my dashboard.  I know it's not lost, just misplaced.  There is a difference.

My daughter is going on a trip this morning with my sister.  They're travelling downstate to visit relatives in Detroit.  It's the first time my daughter's been to Detroit.  If you can believe it, she's actually excited about visiting that city.  It's not just a pleasure trip.  My sister is going to visit my uncle, who is in hospice care.

Motown

Well, the caffeine is kicking in.  I feel a little wind in my sails now.  I may be able to stay awake through breakfast.  And I may even take that walk to my car to find my writing pen.

Saint Marty gives thanks for Mountain Dew this morning.

June 22: Saint Thomas More, Rain, Tired

Yesterday's post was all about the first day of summer.  June 21 was supposed to be the longest day of the year.  It rained almost the entire day.  Today, which is supposed to be just as long as yesterday, has been a day-long downpour.  No sun.  No light.  All my talk about embracing the light in my last post was a waste of time.  When I left the Spiritual Autobiography Workshop last night, the fog was so thick I thought it was snowing when I looked out of the window.  It was dark by 9 p.m.

Perhaps because of this inclement weather, I have felt really tired today.  I've been trying to cut back on the amount of Diet Mountain Dew I drink, holding myself to one can per day.  This morning, I had my allotted can, but by lunchtime, I was falling asleep.  I am currently chugging down my second can of Dew.  I'm perking up a little bit, but I still can't quite get up to speed.  My mind is working about three bulbs short of a chandelier.  I'm hoping I'll get a second wind soon.

Today's feast saint is Thomas More, patron of lawyers.  Thomas More is probably most famous for standing up to Henry VIII, refusing to "render allegiance to the King as the Head of the Church of England."  Thomas was imprisoned in the Tower of London and, about a year and a half later, was beheaded for treason.  His last words were that he was dying "the King's good servant--but God's first."  During his lifetime, Thomas was a prolific author.  His most famous work is Utopia, about a fictional island state named Utopia.  In the book, More discusses things like religious tolerance, female priests, married priests, and divorce.

Being from a "mixed" marriage--I was raised Catholic, my wife is Methodist--I appreciate More's ideas about tolerance.  I've never made a big deal with my daughter about the fact the we go to "Daddy's church" on Saturday and "Mommy's church" on Sunday.  It's just church, and it's all about Jesus.  When my daughter gets a little older, maybe she'll start asking questions and making choices.  But, in a perfect world, maybe in Utopia, such distinctions wouldn't really matter that much.  American Catholics are notoriously liberal in their religious beliefs.  Most Catholics I know wouldn't have a problem with married priests, or female priests, for that matter.  Every Catholic church I know has some kind of support group for divorced Catholics nowadays.  The world really has changed since Thomas More wrote Utopia.  Yet, we still argue about the same things.  Despite his radical ideas, Thomas More became a saint.  He was a man of his time and a man of the future.

In my life, I've had to stand up for a lot of things.  My father almost didn't come to our wedding because we got married in the Methodist church.  (He eventually did come, because we had a Methodist pastor AND a Catholic priest performing the ceremony.)  Many members of my family still struggle with my wife's mental illness and sexual addiction.  Rather than taking up love and compassion, they take up stones to throw.  My life is far from utopia.  Modern society will never be utopia.  I know that.  Thomas More knew that.  But, in my own actions, in the choices I make each day, maybe I make the world just a tiny bit better.

It's all in our hands

On this rainy Wednesday, with my tired mind, I embrace the idea of tolerance.  I embrace the idea of not limiting people because of gender or race or sexual preference or religion.  I embrace the idea of the healing power of love, as corny as that sounds.  I embrace the idea of utopia.

Saint Marty raises his Mountain Dew to Saint Thomas More.