In the last month or so, I’ve found myself overwhelmed by almost everything—the current political situation, teaching, my work at the library, my daughter’s move downstate. Emotionally, I’ve been running on empty for a while, and, every time I’ve tried to sit down to type out a blog post, I’ve found myself too distracted and/or tired. Perhaps I’m soul weary.
Sharon Olds writes about the state of her soul . . .
Am and Am Not
by: Sharon Olds
When I’m tilted forward, brushing my teeth,
I glance down. We do not know
ourselves. My cunt, like a hand, stroked him,
such subtle, intricate movement. Central
inside me this one I am and am not,
not only like a palm, more like a snake’s
reticulated body, rings of muscle—
like the penis outside-in, its twin.
Who is it? I lean against the sink, mouth open
and nursing with Colgate, nixie palate
scoured with pond-mind, it is my sould
in there, elastic as an early creature
gone out on its own again, is it my
soul’s throat? Its rings ripple
in waves, as if it swallows, but what it
swallows stays, and grows, and grows,
we become one being, whom we hardly know,
whom we know better than we know anyone
else. And in the morning I look down. Who? What has—
what?! Seeing just the skin of the belly—
she is asleep in there, the soul, vertical
undulant one, she is dancing upright in her dream.
So, let me take care of a little business here.
First, in my post from September 17, I told you about my puppy being attacked by a neighbor’s German shepherd. My puppy is fine. We filed and police report, and the owners of the German shepherd felt horrible and paid for our vet bill. As of this evening, our puppy isn’t showing any lasting signs from the bite on her leg, and she’s walking just fine. (A blessing.)
I recently celebrated another Saint Marty’s Day (last Sunday). It was a good weekend, eating some of my favorite foods and attending an art awards ceremony where some of my friends were recognized. My daughter sent me some of my favorite candy bars—Five Star Bars from Lake Champlain Chocolates. (All blessings.)
Last week, I worked on an article for a local publication—an interview with one of my writer friends who’s just published two new books (a collection of poems and a collection of short stories). I’ve known Jonathan for over 30-plus years, and he’s just the kindest, brightest soul. It took me a few days to pull everything together, but the article turned out really well, I think. My friend really liked it. He said in a text that “it is dazzlingly beautiful as a piece of writing too! You’re one hell of a stylist!”. (Blessings.)
In the midst of all these blessings, the United States federal government has been shut down by President 47 and his flunkies. He’s also deploying the military against citizens in Democratic American cities, and he’s in a full meltdown over not winning this year’s Nobel Peace Prize. (I didn’t win the Nobel Prize in Literature, either—it went to a Hungarian writer—but you don’t see me shutting down a country because the Swedish Academy made a mistake.) Basically, things are rapidly decompensating into authoritarianism. Plus, Diane Keaton died yesterday.
Am I worried that ay criticism of the current White House administration that I publish on this blog may get me a one-way ticket to an El Salvadoran concentration camp? Not really. (My kids seem more worried about that than I am.). And I’m still going to attend a No Kings 2 protest this coming weekend. Now is not the time to be silent, and I’ve been pretty quiet these last 25 days or so.
Sometimes souls need to be handled with care. That’s what I’ve been doing the last month or so. Trying to take care of myself, physically, mentally, and spiritually. I’ve suffered some bouts of insomnia, and, for a little while, I thought I was sliding into one of my blue funks. (I’m not. Don’t worry.). So, I’ve been allowing myself to watch familiar movies and TV shows, reread favorite books, and eat more than a little chocolate.
I’m going to try to be more diligent about blogging regularly. When I don’t write, I can slip into sadness and depression. Don’t want that to happen, especially since the days are getting shorter and the weather is turning cold.
So, I am back. For now.
Saint Marty wrote a poem for today, based upon the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Write a poem about going on a picnic on a rainy day, a stormy day, during a hurricane, a snowstorm, or some other weather event not conducive to sitting outside. For a twist, have the poem include either a positive outcome or a positive moment during what might be viewed as a terrible day,
Picnic Rocks
by: Martin Achatz
On July evenings, we drove to Presque Isle,
parked at Picnic Rocks, brought out
our bags of KFC or Burger King, found
some bench or empty plot of sand,
sat and ate in the hubbub of swimmers,
waves, and gulls, to escape the heat
that sat on our shoulders like sunburn.
You collected stones, put them in
buckets, brought them home to your
bedroom. After you died, we found
Tupperware after Tupperware of these
momento mori, pieces of volcano
and basalt chewed smooth by
Superior and guided to that beach
where Charon might drop off or pick up
lost souls. I remember a few weeks
after, how I could almost feel you
beside me at Picnic Rocks, searching with your
ghostly fingers for just the perfect stone
to pay your passage across those endless, blue waters.
