October 1: "Scenes of Hell," Walz and Vance, Meatloaf

Given a choice between rereading Dante's Inferno or rereading his Paradiso, I will always choose the former.  Why?

Because badness is more interesting than goodness.  Sin more interesting than grace.  Turmoil more interesting than calm.

Billy Collins' Inferno . . . 

Scenes of Hell

by: Billy Collins

We did not have the benefit of a guide,
no crone to lead us off the common path,
no ancient to point the way with a staff,

but there were badlands to cross,
rivers of fire and blackened peaks,
and eventually we could look down and see

the jeweler running around a gold ring,
the boss trapped in an hourglass,
the baker buried up to his eyes in flour,

the banker plummeting on a coin,
the teacher disappearing into a blackboard,
and the grocer silent under a pyramid of vegetables.

We saw the pilot nose-diving
and the whore impaled on a bedpost,
the pharmacist wandering in a stupor

and the child with toy wheels for legs.
You pointed to the soldier
who was dancing with his empty uniform

and I remarked on the blind tourist.
But what truly caught our attention
was the scene in the long mirror of ice:

you lighting the wick on your head,
me blowing on the final spark,
and our children trying to crawl away from their eggshells.

I just finished watching Tim Walz debate J. D. Vance.  Democrats are going to claim that Walz won.  Ditto for Republicans with Vance.  I'm not really interested in the final score tonight.  (Of course, I have an opinion about this subject, but that's not really pertinent to my point tonight.)

We slow down when driving by car accidents.  If there's a fire down the street, we step out of our houses to watch the excitement.  When leaves start turning color from summer emerald to autumn mustard or pumpkin or cardinal, we stop and take pictures with our phones.  On September 11, 2001, we all watched, over and over, the towers collapsing.

Human beings are fascinated by calamity.  I'm just as guilty as the next person on this.  Perhaps it's morbid curiosity.  Or maybe we just feel a little better about our lives by witnessing something terrible happen to another person

+.  Then we can say to ourselves, "Well, yeah, my life is shitty, but I haven't been diagnosed with lung cancer like Floyd down the street."

We all have our own versions of Hell.  For Democrats (and a good deal of other people around the world), it's another Trump presidency.  For MAGA Republicans, it's whatever fear-mongering lies come out of the mouth of their orange-faced leader.  I'm sure Tim Walz and J. D. Vance have their own versions of Hell, as well.  J. D.'s Hell may be reading all the terrible reviews of Hillbilly Elegy.  Tim's Hell may be a world without meatloaf.  

Saint Marty's Hell would be filled with piles of ungraded freshmen essays.

September 23: "High," Mondays, Arbor Day

It has been a Monday.

I know there are people out there who like Mondays.  I don't understand those individuals, the way I don't understand abstract algebra, organic chemistry, or MAGA Republicans.  Perhaps it has something to do with hope and possibility, as in, since last week was so shitty, I hope this week isn't going to suck ass, too.

I am not opposed to the possibility of a good Monday.  It's just that, in my experience, Mondays are the Arbor Day of the week--nobody really enjoys or celebrates them, except a few tree lovers, if you get what I mean.

Billy Collins has a good day, thanks to some enhancements . . . 

High

by: Billy Collins

On that clear October morning,

I was only behind a double espresso

and a single hit of anti-depressant,

yet there, on the shore of the reservoir

with its flipped-over row boats,

I felt like I was walking with Jane Austen

to borrow the jargon of the streets.

Yes, I was wearing the crown,

as the drug addicts like to say,

knitting a bonnet for Charlie,

entertaining the troops,

sitting in the study with H. G. Wells--

so many ways to express that mood

of royal goodwill

when the gift of sight is cause enough for jubilation.

And later in the afternoon

when I finally came down,

a lexicon was waiting for me there, too.

In my upholstered chair by a window

with dusk pouring into the room,

I appeared to be doing nothing,

but inside I was busy riding the marble,

as the lurkers like to put it--

talking to Marco Polo,

juggling turtles,

going through the spin cycle,

or--my favorite, if I had to have one--out of milk.

I did not start my day with an espresso/anti-depressant cocktail.  However, I did dose myself with a caffeinated beverage, but it didn't help.  It was still Arbor Day.

There were a few bright spots.  I had lunch with one of my best friends to work on plans for a book tour when my new poetry collection is released.  At the library, I hosted a great blues concert by a band fronted by another good friend of mine.  Both of these lifted my Monday spirits.  Not so much that I was walking with Jane Austen or wearing the crown.

When I got home tonight, there was a package waiting for me.  It was from a good poet friend, Dennis Hinrichsen.  He sent me a copy of his newest collection of poems, Dominion + Selected Poems.  Once I unloaded my car, put out the garbage for tomorrow morning, and changed into my pajamas, I sat down on my couch and started reading this gift, and it put me in the mood of royal goodwill, as Collins says.  My Arbor Day became Christmas as I unwrapped one poem after another.

I was reminded that I'm a really fortunate person.  I've got a beautiful, supportive spouse; great kids; a really cute puppy; and friends who send me unexpected presents in the mail that transform me.

Saint Marty will take another Monday like this any time.