November 24: "Lincoln," To-Do List, Distractions

My life is full of constant digressions and distractions.  When I get up in the morning, I always have ambitious plans of what I will accomplish during the day.  By the time I surrender to sleep at around midnight or 1 a.m., my to-do list has been transformed into a to-don't list.  There never seems to be enough time, ever.

Billy Collins gets distracted . . . 

Lincoln

by: Billy Collins

Whatever it was that just flew out of my head

did not leave a trace,

not a contrail in the sky

not a footprint in a field of new snow.

The last thing I remember

is reading a sentence

in a long biography of Abraham Lincoln,

something about his face being so ugly

it became beautiful

in the eyes of Walt Whitman,

but there was something after

that made me fold down the corner

of the page and close the book--

so much I cannot think of today,

a team of white birds lifting off a shoreline

and disappearing into the sun.

So, once more I have whiled away the hours, conferring with the flowers, consulting with the rain.  That means I completed about 10% of my intended tasks.  I played keyboard for two church services, went grocery shopping for Thanksgiving, and planned for/led a virtual poetry workshop.  Oh, and I took my puppy for two long walks.  

After I'm done typing this blog post, I'm going to dive into finishing another writing project.  Nothing I want to discuss right now, but the due date is fast approaching.  I can't get distracted by Lincoln's face or a team of white birds lifting off a shoreline.  I need to stay focused.

Said Saint Marty as he cleans the bathroom, organizes and alphabetizes his bookshelves, bakes a ham, reads The Brothers Karamazov, and trains for a half marathon.

March 10: Dam, Darrell Bourque, "Lincoln in New Orleans, 1831"

I came home to a wall of slush and ice in my driveway.  My wife had already moved a good portion of it, but there was literally a dam of heavy, wet snow to clear.  As I swore, cursed, and grunted with my shovel, I kept asking myself, "Why do I love this place?"  It almost made me wish for an eternal winter.  No more snow, just enough cold to keep things from melting.

Well, I'm tired, sore, and hungry.  Ready for bed.  I'm done for the day.

Another night, another poem.

Saint Marty has to go make his daughter some Ramen noodles now.

Lincoln in New Orleans, 1831

by: Darrell Bourque

When he arrived that year he had to walk
a mile or so on flatboats to reach the shore.
He had poled and floated here, watched hawks
circling overhead on lazy afternoons, still bore

the scar he’d gotten years before when he chased
and fought off seven fugitive slaves who tried to rob him
and his measly crew near Baton Rouge. He pasted

some home remedy on the gash and then stemmed
the blood with some cloth he had on board. It lasted
all his life, this scar over his right eye but it hemmed

in nothing. What really lasted was the chatter and talk
around Maspero’s Exchange where one mulatto girl more
was trotted and pinched, undressed while buyers gawked
and ciphered for the lowest price they could get for her.

February 24: Oscar Night, Party, New Cartoon

Yes, tonight Hollywood celebrates itself in the year's biggest pageant of cinematic self-absorption.  The dresses, the tuxedos, the jewelry, the hairdos.  The limos and red carpet.  And, of course, the burning question on everyone's mind:  "Who are you wearing?"

I recognize the supreme shallowness of the Oscars.  I know that, really, who wins Best Supporting Actor or Best Actress isn't going to bring about peace in the Middle East.  I also know that, tomorrow morning, when the Oscar parties on the West Coast are winding down and all the stars are stumbling back to their hotel rooms, my life will be the same.  Same job.  Same money problems.  Same worries.

Yet, for one night, I can be selfish and catty and vapid.  I can imagine my life revolves around whether Lincoln or Argo wins Best Picture.  I will be at an Oscar party.  There will be cheese and crackers and rotelle dip.  I will compete against my siblings and parents and children and in-laws for the honor of taking home a mock-Oscar statuette.  It will be cut-throat.  We will tease and taunt and humiliate each other.  It's one of my favorite nights of the year.

Yes, the Saint Marty clan takes its Oscars seriously.

P.S. Stay tuned for the next installment of Confessions.

Confessions of Saint Marty