October 22: On the Limn of Possibility, "Carol" Dip

I've always liked the word "limn."  It gives me a sense of comfort, and I don't know why.  It's a verb, meaning, "to represent in drawing or painting" or "to portray in words; describe."  Because it is so close to the word "limb," many people get the two confused.  I, personally, think there should be a noun version of "limn," so that, if you are on the limn of something, you are on the edge of it.  You are on the line that marks the outer most reaches of the object or person or place or space.  So, if I say to you some time, "That's on the limn of possibility," that means it is within the realm of possibility.  It could happen.

This morning, I would like to think of things on the limn of possibility.  Some people may call them dreams or pipe dreams or wishes or fantasies.  However, I prefer to exist on the limn, because that's where the interesting things of the world happen.

Let me give you a few examples.  It was on the limn of possibility that peasant parents in China might give birth to a Nobel Prize winning writer.  Mo Yan won the Nobel this year.  It was also on the limn of possibility that a young, African American man from Hawaii might grow up to be President of the United States.  President Obama was elected in 2008.  Finally, it was on the limn of possibility that the Son of God might be born to an unwed mother in a barn in an obscure little village.  Over two thousand years ago, you know what happened.

Thus, I will give you a few things on the limn of possibility that give me a little happiness.

It is on the limn of possibility that I will be hired by the university as a tenure-track professor of poetry.  (One of my favorite things on the limn.)

It is on the limn of possibility that I will win the Nobel Prize in Literature.  (Hey, if Mo Yan or Pearl S. Buck or Dario Fo can win, so can I.)

It is on the limn of possibility that I will write a bestselling memoir.  (Everybody wants to read about a middle-aged poet living in the middle of Michigan's Upper Peninsula.  In the movie adaptation, I will be played by George Clooney or Brad Pitt.)

It is on the limn of possibility that I will have pizza for lunch.  (Actually, this one is more than on the limn.  I have two pieces of pizza in the fridge right now.  I just wanted to throw in one thing that would come true today, even if it does involve three-day-old pepperoni from Little Caesar's.)

It is on the limn of possibility that Saint Marty will be named a Blog of Note.  (I haven't harped on this one for quite some time, so I thought I'd throw it in.)

It is on the limn of possibility that I will lose 40 pounds and be named one of People Magazine's 100 sexiest people.  (I can see the title to my photo already:  "Sexiest Blogger" or "Sexiest Poet" or "Sexiest Nobel Prize Winner."  Hey, it's always possible.)

OK, I have lifted my spirits with this little list of things on the limn.  Now, it is time for a Carol dip.  I will focus on something else within the limn of possibility:

Will Barack Obama be reelected as President of the United States?

And the answer from the great Charles Dickens is:

Sort of looks like Mitt, doesn't it?

Well, my finger landed on a picture of Scrooge before the knocker on his front door.  The subtitle to the illustration is this:  The ghostly knocker which presages a terrifying Christmas Eve for Ebenezer Scrooge.

I don't really like that answer.  It sort of hints at something terrifying to come (i.e., the election of Mitt Romney).

Saint Marty prefers to exist on the limn today:  President Obama will dominate the last debate this evening and soundly defeat Mr. Romney come November.  That's a limn Saint Marty can live with.

October 18: Trying to Remain Positive

Once more, I find myself in a little bit of a funk this afternoon.  I could attribute my mood to the fact that my blood sugar is currently 38.  For those people unfamiliar with diabetes or blood sugar levels, I will tell you that normal glucose levels are between 70 and 110.  So, 38 is more than a little low.

Don't worry, I have already drank apple and cranberry juices.  I have also eaten a blueberry Nutri Grain bar.  I will be fine.  However, as I've explained in previous posts, low blood sugars alter brain chemistry quite a bit.  For me, I tend to become very depressed, overwhelmed even.  Again, it's all about brain chemistry.  I'm probably the only person who can actually combat depression with food.  In a little while, this black cloud that is hanging over me will lift, and I will be much better.  At the moment, I can't quite get there yet, although I am doing much better.

I'm going to add a few more blessings this evening, like I did this morning.  It may help diminish the darkness a little.

Blessings.  Let's see.

How about my cousin, Grant, who is an internationally famous chef and has won about 5 million James Beard Awards?  Nope, that just makes me angry and jealous.

How about the Nobel Prize in Literature?  Nope.  Two words:  Mo Yan.  Jealousy again.

How about chocolate of any kind?  Nope.  I don't have any with me.

How about my trip to the Wisconsin Dells?  Nope.  That just reminds me that I don't have another vacation until January.

How about I just give up and wait for the sugar to kick in?

Saint Marty thinks that's a damn fine idea.

October 11: Losing Once Mo

As most of you are probably aware by now, I did not win the Nobel Prize in Literature this year, despite my four-year-old son's prediction.  That phone call from the Swedish Academy never came this morning.  Instead, I had to watch Peter Englund, the permanent secretary of the organization, walk through those white doors into the great hall and announce that Mo Yan, a Chinese novelist, was the winner of the Prize for 2012.

Whatever.  He grew up poor, the son of farmers.  Whatever.  He lives under the censorship of communist China.  Whatever.  He's only 57 years old, and he's already won the Nobel Prize.  Whatever.  When Peter Englund called to tell Mo Yan that he had won the Nobel, Yan said he was "overjoyed" and "scared."  Whatever.  He made his literary debut in 1981, which means it took him only 30 years to get the attention of the Swedes.  Whatever.  He's the first Nobel laureate from China.  Whatever.

I guess my reaction today is "whatever."  If the Swedish Academy wants to honor a communist, that's fine.  If they want to award another novelist, big deal.  If they want to ignore my immense talent for yet another year, so be it.

Saint Marty is a patient man.  Sort of.

The man who stole my Nobel