November 25: Strange In an Airplane, Charlie in the Box, Give Thanks

Santiago contemplates a different perspective . . . 

It must be very strange in an airplane, he thought. I wonder what the sea looks like from that height? They should be able to see the fish well if they do not fly too high. I would like to fly very slowly at two hundred fathoms high and see the fish from above. In the turtle boats I was in the cross-trees of the mast-head and even at that height I saw much. The dolphin look greener from there and you can see their stripes and their purple spots and you can see all of the school as they swim. Why is it that all the fast-moving fish of the dark current have purple backs and usually purple stripes or spots? The dolphin looks green of course because he is really golden. But when he comes to feed, truly hungry, purple stripes show on his sides as on a marlin. Can it be anger, or the greater speed he makes that brings them out?

Just before it was dark, as they passed a great island of Sargasso weed that heaved and swung in the light sea as though the ocean were making love with something under a yellow blanket, his small line was taken by a dolphin. He saw it first when it jumped in the air, true gold in the last of the sun and bending and flapping wildly in the air. It jumped again and again in the acrobatics of its fear and he worked his way back to the stern and crouching and holding the big line with his right hand and arm, he pulled the dolphin in with his left hand, stepping on the gained line each time with his bare left foot. When the fish was at the stern, plunging and cutting from side to side in desperation, the old man leaned over the stern and lifted the burnished gold fish with its purple spots over the stern. Its jaws were working convulsively in quick bites against the hook and it pounded the bottom of the skiff with its long flat body, its tail and its head until he clubbed it across the shining golden head until it shivered and was still.

The old man unhooked the fish, rebaited the line with another sardine and tossed it over. Then he worked his way slowly back to the bow. He washed his left hand and wiped it on his trousers. Then he shifted the heavy line from his right hand to his left and washed his right hand in the sea while he watched the sun go into the ocean and the slant of the big cord.

Santiago has never been in an airplane.  Yet, he wonders what the sea looks like from the sky.  The old man imagines seeing schools of dolphin and other fish, their colors and shadows in the water.  Green with purple stripes.  He is used to the violent up-closeness of the universe.  Catching fish, reeling them in, and clubbing them over their heads.  Santiago will never have the luxury of distance or perspective.

It has been a lost year for me.  Or a year of loss.  However you want to label it.  In 2022, my sister died.  One of my best friends died.  In addition, time has been as slippery as a dolphin.  It has slipped through my fingers for long stretches.  And I have been struggling with depression for almost six months now.  Days have blurred and blended into each other.  

So, here I set, one month away from Christmas day.  Yesterday was Thanksgiving.  The first without my sister Rose.  The first without my daughter living under my roof.  The first without receiving a text message from my friend, Helen, wishing me blessings and grace. 

It has been almost two months since my last blog post.  I have no idea how that much time has passed.  The pandemic has altered the perception of time for a lot of people, I think.  Those months in lockdown seem as distant now as the moons of Jupiter.  But they also seem like yesterday.  A little more than two years ago, we celebrated Zoom Thanksgiving, followed by Zoom Christmas and Zoom New Year's Eve and Zoom Easter.  People predisposed to a hermit lifestyle pre-COVID have been transformed into full-blown Howard Hughes-hood today.

At points, these last six months have been a struggle for me--with lots of down days and sleepless nights.  My lowest moments have been Mariana Trench deep.  Yet, I'm still here, mostly because of my family and friends.

Stepping back and looking at my life from an airplane perspective, I know that I have people who fiercely love me.  I have a niece who lives in San Francisco who sends me text messages that make me laugh and, sometimes, cry because she cares about me so much.  In the past 24 hours, I had a really close friend reach out about spending time together during the holidays.  I am part of a network of Christmas podcasters who are my Island of Misfit Toys family--they welcome me because I'm a Charlie in the Box.

So on this Thanksgiving weekend, I think of all the people who love me and have stuck with me this last half-year.  If I disappointed or let you down in some way, I'm sorry.  It wasn't intentional, believe me.  Some days, just getting out of bed has been a victory for me.  

As we enter this season of light, I hold on to what Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel once wrote:  "Even in darkness it is possible to create light and encourage compassion.  That it is possible to feel free inside a prison.  That, even in exile, friendship exists and can become an anchor.  That one instant before dying, man is still immortal."

Saint Marty gives thanks for all the anchors in his life tonight.

March 12: All His Distant Friends, Joy Harjo, Cheerios in my Life

Santiago settles in under the stars . . .

"How do you feel, fish?" he asked aloud. "I feel good and my left hand is better and I have food for a night and a day. Pull the boat, fish."

He did not truly feel good because the pain from the cord across his back had almost passed pain and gone into a dullness that he mistrusted. But I have had worse things than that, he thought. My hand is only cut a little and the cramp is gone from the other. My legs are all right. Also now I have gained on him in the question of sustenance.

It was dark now as it becomes dark quickly after the sun sets in September. He lay against the worn wood of the bow and rested all that he could. The first stars were out. He did not know the name of Rigel but he saw it and knew soon they would all be out and he would have all his distant friends.

My favorite part of this passage--"he would have all his distant friends."

I've been an astronomy enthusiast my whole life--from the time I was about eight or nine and got a telescope for Christmas.  I spent many a night gazing at all my distant friends when I was a kid.  I remember the first time I looked at the moon's craters through my telescope and realized there were mountains and valleys out there in space.  It was a humbling revelation, making me realize how really tiny I was in comparison to everything in the universe.

This evening, I am in Calumet, Michigan, with my wife and son.  I'm here to write and perform in a radio variety show.  These weekends are always kind of a whirlwind of travelling, writing, rehearsing, and acting.  I get to meet and work with a lot of gifted and talented musicians and performers, many of whom I call friends.  

I sometimes wonder how I ended up living a life that has allowed me to do some of the things that I've done.  I've spoken with and interviewed three-time United States Poet Laureate Joy Harjo, the first Native American ever to hold that position.  I've spoken with and interviewed two-time United States Poet Laureate Natasha Trethewey.  I still have both of their private cell phone numbers as contacts in my cell phone,  I sat in a room with Pulitzer Prize-winning poet Sharon Olds for a whole week as she talked poetry, read poetry, and critiqued my poetry.  

I've published a collection of poems.  Released two spoken-word CDs of my poetry.  I was selected to serve as Upper Peninsula Poet Laureate.  Two times.  Consecutively.  I've directed plays and musicals.  Starred in plays and musicals.  I saw Lily Tomlin perform Search for Signs of Intelligent Life in the Universe on Broadway.  I met Alec Baldwin.  Saw Elie Wiesel speak in-person about the horrors of the Holocaust.  I touched Vincent Price.  

I have two beautiful, smart kids.  The cutest puppy in the world.  A couple jobs I love.

I don't go around bragging about all the things I've done.  All the brilliant people I've met.  Self promotion is not my thing.  I find people who feel the need to make themselves the brightest stars in the sky a little . . . boring.  They want to be moons and comets and Joy Harjos.  And they're really just bowls of Cheerios.  Bland and milky.

And Saint Marty has to pour a lot of sugar on the Cheerios in his life to make them interesting enough to eat.

July 3: Independence Day Eve, Elie Wiesel, Classic Saint Marty

This morning, on my way to church, I heard on the radio that Nobel Peace Prize Laureate Elie Wiesel had died.  He was 87 years old and had spent a good portion of his life reminding people of the horrors of the Holocaust, in the hope that the world will never again experience such tragedy.

I once saw Wiesel speak at the university where I teach.  He was probably in his seventies at the time.  I sat and listened to this soft-spoken man talk about literature, which was the focus of his professional life. He told stories about studying Franz Kafka, one of his favorite writers.  Wiesel found great strength in reading Kafka and using Kafka to understand his own experiences.  Literature was one of the ways in which Wiesel was able to start dealing with his own narrative.

The world has lost a great voice for humanity and peace, for justice and compassion.  For almost ten years after the Holocaust, Wiesel never spoke about his time in Auschwitz.  He witnessed in silence.  Kept things to himself.  And then he began to speak and write.  That was his life's mission.  His goal.

On this Independence Day Eve, I honor a great man who really understood the price of freedom.

Two years ago, I was a little preoccupied with some pretty trivial concerns . . .

July 3, 2014:  Secrets, Being Private, Introvert

Secrets are hard to keep.  Long before Sunday came, the news spread all over the county.  Everybody knew that a sign had appeared in a spider's web on the Zuckerman place.  Everybody knew that the Zuckermans had a wondrous pig...

I am not good at keeping secrets.  I should probably be a little more introverted.  It would save me a lot of trouble.  For instance, I've spent this whole week submitting poems and poetry manuscripts to contests and publishers.  I've already blogged about it.  I'm blogging about it again.  When the rejections start coming in, I will probably blog about it again.  If I were an introvert, I wouldn't have to admit to failure.


But, that's not me.  I'm a pretty social guy.  Tomorrow, for Independence Day, I will be attending two parades and a fireworks display.  My favorite part of the day will be seeing friends and family.  And eating barbecued bratwurst.  I will probably tell people about my miserable work situation.  I will discuss the fact that two poets retired from the English Department, and I still don't have a full-time teaching job.  If I had a rash on my ass, I would probably talk about that as well.  Like I said, I'm not an introvert.

Maybe I should try to be a little more private.  Not talk about every aspect of my life.  In my blog posts, I could discuss the weather or restaurants or the fact that the asshole down the street has been setting off fireworks for three friggin' hours.

See, Saint Marty is about as secretive and private as Miley Cyrus.

I wore that outfit to work today