November 30: The Anchor Was Up, Friday, Brief Pauses

At last the anchor was up, the sails were set, and off we glided.  It was a short, cold Christmas, and as the short northern day merged into night, we found ourselves almost broad upon the wintry ocean, whose freezing spray cased us in ice, as in polished armour . . . 

Friday.  Finally.  I am setting sail, like the Pequod, into the wintry ocean of the weekend.,

For some reason, this week has seemed long.  Really long.  It started with finishing my water essay.  It's ending tonight with a basketball game, dinner, and, maybe, some of my Christmas essay.  That's what I have tonight.  Not much.  I'm too tired.

I've been working out the ideas for my new essay all day long as I sat answering phones at the medical office.  It's the way that I've written for years.  Moments stolen during the day.  Perhaps that's why I write poems as opposed to novels or short stories.  I think it's easier to think poetically in these brief pauses in my days.  Images recorded on sticky notes and paper scraps.  Yes, I keep my journal close by, but I don't always have enough time in between phone calls to drag out it out and scribble.

At the basketball game this evening, I will be reading a biography of Charles Schulz.  That's part of my research for my Christmas essay.  I think.  I know I want to write about Charlie Brown.  Somehow.  Don't know what shape all this is going to take.  Yet.

Saint Marty is thankful this evening for time to write and read.

July 25: Heat of the Day, Italian for Dinner, Drunken Fairy Tale

After the heat of the day, the evening came as a welcome relief to all.  The Ferris wheel was lighted now.  It went round and round in the sky and seemed twice as high as by day.  There were lights on the midway, and you could hear the crackle of the gambling machines and the music of the merry-go-round and the voice of the man in the booth calling numbers.

After the heat of today, the evening wasn't that much of a relief.  I had quite a bit to do after I left work.  In fact, I just got home a little while ago.  My wife and I had to drop a friend's car off at the airport, and then we went out for dinner at a local Italian restaurant.  Garlic bread, soaked in butter.  Tortellini with parmesan and basil.  And an apple martini that was so strong I now feel as though I'm on a Ferris wheel.

I'm really glad it's Friday.  I'm glad my daughter is coming home tomorrow from Bible camp.  I'm glad to have some time to read a book, write a poem, or watch reruns of The Big Bang Theory.  Hell, I might do all three.  I'm trying to stay focused here, but, like I said, that apple martini was about 99% vodka and 1% artificial fruit flavor.  So I might as well get to my fairy tale before I pass out at the keyboard.

Once upon a time, a lumberjack named Bono went to an Italian pub and ate garlic bread and parmesan tortellini.  He also ordered a really large apple martini.  The other lumberjacks in the pub started to tease him, calling him names like "Bonbon" and "Applebon" and "Bonhead."  Lumberjacks aren't very creative.

Bono stumbled home, very drunk and angry.  He decided to practice his ax juggling before he went to bed.  Bono threw three axes in the air.  One ax came down and chopped off his left hand.  The second ax chopped off all the toes on his right foot.  The third ax landed on the top of his head, killing him.

Moral of the story:  never write a fairy tale when you're drunk.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Saint Marty is ready for a nap