November 19: Good News--Not That Anyone Noticed

So, I may have misinterpreted my Carol dip this morning (not that anyone has noticed since my earlier post has received no views).  If you are curious as to the subject, go and take a look at it.  It concerns having to speak with the English department head at the university about the courses I will be teaching next semester.  I was feeling pretty fatalistic about my prospects, imagining two sections of technical writing (or, as I like to call it, resume and cover letter hell).  My question for ol' Chuck Dickens was something along the lines of "Will I get two sections of Introduction to Film to teach in the winter?"

The response I got was pretty ominous--something with the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come staring at Scrooge and making him feel more than a little uncomfortable.  Scary specter of the future.  That didn't seem like a very positive omen.  I was already preparing myself for the cover letters and research proposals before I phoned my boss.

Well, it turns out I may have been a little premature.  When I got him on the phone, the Department Head said, "How would you feel about two sections of Intro to Film?"

I think I said something like, "That sounds fine by me."  What I was thinking was, "Take me home and love me long time, sailor boy."

Good news.  Really good news.  If it weren't a work night, I'd have a drink to celebrate.  Something with gin and a twist of lime.   Instead, I will simply acknowledge an unexpected blessing.

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come is smiling on Saint Marty this evening.

Lights...Camera...Blessing...

April 10: The Future, Fear, Heap of Black

...It thrilled him with a vague uncertain horror, to know that behind the dusky shroud there were ghostly eyes intently fixed upon him, while he, though he stretched his own to the utmost, could see nothing but a spectral hand and one great heap of black.

"Ghost of the Future!" he exclaimed, "I fear you more than any Spectre I have seen.  But, as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart.  Will you not speak to me?"

Did someone order small pox?

Obviously, this passage concerns Scrooge's first encounter with the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.  As Scrooge himself admits, he fears this ghost more than any of the others he has met during the course of the novel.  Of course, Dickens' depiction of the future (think Death from Monty Python's The Meaning of Life) does not exactly instill confidence.  In the Monty Python movie, Death is introduced like this:  "He's here about the reaping?"  In A Christmas Carol, the Future basically walks around showing Scrooge scenes of death and grief.  Not really pleasant stuff.

I think most of us fear the future.  I say "most" because I don't like to think that I'm the only person in my crowd who finds the "Yet to Come" a little, well, terrifying.  There's a reason why Dickens describes the third Christmas Ghost as a "great heap of black."  Black is impenetrable.  Black is mysterious.  Black is scary.

If you haven't noticed, things like taxes and finances and job interviews make me nervous.  It's the uncertainty.  The questions.  Will there be enough tax money to make it through the summer?  Will I get a raise with the new university contract?  Will my wife get a second job interview?  I prefer things a little  more definite.  Remember that I'm the guy who likes to know what he's having for dinner when he wakes up in the morning.  (For the record, Cornish pasties.)  I'm not John Keats, and I don't like living with negative capability.

The future doesn't speak.  It just points its bony finger and nods.

Therefore, I have Scrooge's back on this one.  I don't like the future.  Perhaps the reason Scrooge is such a skinflint is his uncertainty of what is to come.  He's been damaged by the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.  He's the ant, putting away food for some unspecified winter, while the rest of us jump around like stupid grasshoppers.  I'm not saying we should all be assholes to every person we meet.  I'm saying there's a little Scrooge in all of us when it comes to the dusky shroud and ghostly eyes of the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come.

Saint Marty just gave himself a full-body shiver.

March 31: Lottery, Rich End, New Cartoon

...He thought, if this man could be raised up now, what would be his foremost thoughts?  Avarice, hard dealing, griping cares?  They had brought him to a rich end, truly!

Scrooge has been brought to a chamber of death by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.  He is staring down at the neglected body of the dead man.  Of course, Scrooge has not yet made the connection that the dead man is actually himself.  His ego will not allow it.  Instead, he wonders what this Lazarus would think if he was called out of the tomb.

Obviously, Avarice and hard dealing and griping cares haven't served Scrooge that well.  While these qualities may have made him materially wealthy, in the end, his death brings no sorrow to any person.  In the end, he is alone, bereft and unwept.  It's a pretty sobering moment in the novel.

Yesterday, millions of people lined up to buy tickets for a lottery that was worth $640 million.  For the price of a sausage biscuit from McDonald's, any person could purchase a chance at a half-billion-dollar fantasy.  Yes, even I got swept up in this mania of greed.  While the odds were hugely against me winning (I think I heard 176 million to 1), I couldn't pass up the chance to dream for a few, blissful hours.  Luxury.  Freedom from debt and worry.  Maybe a new pair of jeans.

Of course, life isn't that easy.  Obviously, I woke up to all the griping cares with which I went to sleep.  I will have to go to work on Monday.  I will have to somehow figure out a way to pay my mortgage AND car insurance AND water bills this week.  I have to remind myself that avarice is not a virtue, that envy (while a very human trait) is not very healthy.  I'm not into hard dealing.  I believe in generosity, in helping out the less fortunate.  That's what I've been taught.

Lazarus Scrooge has not come to a rich end, when "rich" is defined by friends and charity and good will.  If that's the standard for being rich, I think I'm doing OK.

Saint Marty just wishes he'd been about six correct numbers richer in the lottery last night.

Confessions of Saint Marty

January 9: Stave Six, What Comes Next, Future

Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol consists of five chapters (or staves).  At the end of Stave Five, Dickens assures his readers that Scrooge did live up to his promise to reform.  He also assures his audience that Tiny Tim did not die.  This second piece of information was added by Dickens after some of his readers expressed concern over the little lame Cratchit's fate.  Let's face it:  Dickens had a habit of killing off children characters.  Ask Little Nell.  So Dickens had to give his audience some assurance that Tiny Tim did not hobble off to that great Christmas Party in the sky.

In essence, his readers wanted a Stave Six.  My daughter used to ask me at the end of a book, "What comes next?"  That's what Dickens' Londoners wanted.  They wanted to know that everybody lived happily ever after.  Of course, Dickens, being a good writer and an even smarter businessman, gave his consumers exactly what they wanted.  A happy ending.  And he made a lot of money doing it.

I think we all want to know what happens in the next stave of our lives.  We all want to know, "What comes next?"  We learn that as kids.  I wanted to know what happened to Charlie after he inherited Willy Wonka's factory.  I wanted to know what happened to all of Charlotte's little spider babies.  I wanted to know what happened to Grover after he found the monster at the end of the book.

Tiny Tim doesn't end up as a Biology experiment

I guess I've been stressing about the future since I was a child.  Scrooge is scared shitless by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.  So am I.  I want to know that Tiny Tim lives and walks without his little crutch.  I want to know what happens in Stave Six.

Saint Marty wants a Charles Dickens happy ending.