June 12: Gold Hamilton, Nature Essay, Juggling Fairy Tale, Michael Mlekoday, "Self Portrait, Downtown"

Roaming through the aisles, Ives had picked up some half-dozen ties and wallets for certain male friends, a scarf for his brother, and a nice French hat for his sister Kate.  That year he had decided on buying Robert a good watch and prevailed upon an overwhelmed saleswoman to pull some twenty watches out of a case, before he settled on a black-banded gold Hamilton with Roman numerals, suitable, Ives had thought, for a young man headed to a seminary.

Ives never gives that watch to Robert.  Within a couple of hours, Ives will be standing on a sidewalk in front of a church, staring down at the pavement, into the shocked expression of his murdered son.  Ives' life is on a collision course with tragedy.  A sledgehammer of change.

This past month, I have been amazed how quickly the trajectory of life can veer in an unexpected direction.  I thought this summer was going to be calm, easy.  I would have time to write, read, clean out my attic.  Yet, in the space of a few weeks, my summer has been completely transformed.  I now am putting myself in debt for another five years to put a new roof on my house.  I don't even know what's wrong with my car, and I still have a huge hole in my kitchen ceiling.

I know you're all probably tired of hearing about these subjects.  Sorry.  These are things I fall asleep and wake up thinking about.  I'm actually thinking that I need to get another part-time job or sell some organs to raise a few extra dollars.  All this worry is exhausting.

I finished writing my nature essay a couple of days ago.  Put it in an envelope and mailed it yesterday to the contest.  It's over and done.  And the best I can say about the essay is that it's done.  It's not great.  In fact, I considered not submitting it at all.  I've just been so preoccupied this past month that I didn't devote as much energy to my writing.  The result was an essay that's alright.  Not great.  Certainly not worth $250.

It feels like I'm very scattered.  My life is in fragments at the moment.  I haven't been able to concentrate.  Perhaps, after I find out what's wrong with my car and the roofers are stripping my house of shingles, I'll be able to carve out a little peace of mind.  Not right now, though.

Once upon a time, a juggler named Freego lived in a small village on the shores of a beautiful lake.  Freego was the worst juggler that had ever lived.  He could only juggle one ball at a time because he lacked concentration.  He would stand in the village square and throw his ball in the air over and over.  Nobody stopped to watch Freego's act.

One day, Freego decided he needed to learn how to juggle two balls.  All day and all night, he practiced at home.  He threw balls, caught balls, dropped balls.  After many months, Freego thought it was time to unveil his new, improved juggling act.

He went to the village square and called out, "Watch the Great Freego defy the laws of gravity!"

A crowd gathered as Freego took his balls out of his pocket.  He took a deep breath and tossed his balls in the air.  One ball flew into the face of the village baker.  The other ball fell into the village well.

The crowd slowly dispersed, and Freego went home, humiliated.

Moral of the story:  don't play with your balls in public.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Self Portrait, Downtown

by:  Michael Mlekoday

We left because we were lost and broken.
The sun rode us like donkeys.  Our hooves
turned colors in the dust.  Shush, you said,
every time I dropped a mirror and it broke
into song.  It's the only way I could see
myself in fragments, which I think is how
the earliest surgeons studied before cutting.
Where were we going?  Maybe the woods,
maybe Detroit.  There's a way in which
the thick skin of air in the woods hangs
like sweat in the inner city.  I've mistaken
drops of air conditioner exhaust for rain
while leaning against apartment brick,
watching a fistfight bloom in mid-July,
the highway humming in the distance
like the time you kicked a hive and smiled.
I lied.  We didn't really leave, and broken
is just another way of saying we left shards
and splinters of ourselves everywhere,
like kids trying to leave a trail back home.
We're still here, right here, and here,
this debris makes the street glitter like a river.

Nope.  Not me.

May 18: Nature Essay, Kalahari Vacation, "Ives" Dip

I spent a good portion of today working on my nature essay.  I have a deadline.  June 13.  That's when the contest closes.  I really want to submit my best work, because the prize is $250.  I was first honorable mention the last time I entered.  I was one of the judges of the contest last year.  This year, I want to write something that will clearly stand out from the pack.  And I think I'm off to a good start.  It sort of reads like a cross between Annie Dillard and Galway Kinnell.  At least that's what I'm shooting for.

One of the reasons I really want to put forth my best effort is I could really use that prize money.  Every October, we make a trip to the Wisconsin Dells for a dance convention at the Kalahari Resort.  Usually, my sister joins us, and she helps to finance the trip.  Well, there's a very good chance my sister will not be able to come this year.  That means one of two things:  1) we don't go to the Kalahari this year, or 2) we somehow finance the entire trip ourselves.  So, I think you can understand why this nature essay is so important.

Which brings me to the inevitable Ives dip question:

Will I win the nature essay contest this year?

And the answer from Ives is:

...There had been that autumn day when [Ives] and Annie and the kids had taken a drive upstate and, getting lost, had found an old house that had been built in the 1920s, in the style called "Stockbroker Tudor," and the kind that one saw in ads about happy families with wag-tailed dogs and gardens in the springtime and warm, homey parlors, bountiful tables, and stone fireplaces at Christmas, the kind of place that Ives had illustrated dozens of times--images from "another America" that he had somehow disregarded when it had come to his own family...

Well, either that means that we're going on the Kalahari trip and will get lost, or we're going to miss the dance convention and stay home, in our old house built in the 1890s in the style of Laura Ingalls Wilder.

Saint Marty is really hoping that he isn't stuck in Walnut Grove in October.

Even Laura got out of town every once in a while

May 12: Come Along Now, Beautiful Writing, Nature Essay

Withe some difficulty, [Ives] waited for the services to begin.  He did not know if it was the candles or the crowd or the heating, or the heavy perfumes in the air, or his age--he was nearly seventy-five--but that morning he found himself frequently yawning.  Lately, Ives had been dozing off during Mass, his eyes heavier with each visit.  A kind of sweet drowsiness came over him, and the sensation that someone was about to whisper, ever so gently, "Come along now."

Ives is near the end of his life, has forgiven his son's killer.   He and his wife have rekindled their floundering marriage.  Ives is, for the first time in decades, happy.  At peace.  I think Ives feels as if he has done all he can to make the world a better place.

But that's not why I chose to start this post with that particular paragraph.  I'm not going to write about forgiveness or happiness.  I'm not going to wax philosophic about making a difference in the universe in the short time you dwell in it.  I'm not going to talk about my beautiful, funny wife.

I chose that paragraph simply because it is beautiful.  The sentences are gentle and long.  They lull me into a state of quiet bliss, where I can almost smell the perfumes of the church and hear the voice in my ear, whispering that invitation.  I love the writing in it.

When I sit down to start a new writing project, whether it's a poem or essay or short story, I always start by reading something that inspires me.  Something that has a certain tone or image or voice that captures my imagination.  And I let that reading guide my writing.  It sort of becomes my touchstone for the duration of my writing process.

I have certain "go-to" writers that have often served as my muses.  Sharon Olds.  Phil Levine.  Billy Collins.  Oscar Hijuelos.  Annie Dillard.  I could go on, but you get the idea.  These poets and essayists and novelists do something to me.  Touch me deeply.  And they all make me want to be a better writer.

My next writing project, now that I've finished my Mother's Day poem, is a nature essay.  I have an idea for the essay, but I have not yet found my muse.  After I'm done typing tonight's posts, I plan to do a little reading.  I'm thinking Annie Dillard or Robert Lowell.  For some reason both of these writers are stuck in my head at the moment.  I'm not sure why.

But Saint Marty will know why when he's done writing the essay.

I guess there are other kinds of inspiration...

May 5: Nature Essay, Pablo Neruda, "Ode to the Birth of a Fawn"

I have a couple of pressing writing projects this month.  For Sunday, I have to compose a poem for Mother's Day.  It's for a worship service at church.  I have started this poem several times without much success.  Tonight, I will try, yet again, to find my way again.

The other writing project I have this month is an essay about nature for a local writing contest.  I have entered this contest before and was awarded first honorable mention.  Last year, I was one of the contest's judges.  I sifted through some 25 or so essays for a month.  This year, I'm throwing my hat in the ring once more.  First prize is $250 and publication in a local newspaper.  Nothing to sneeze at.

So, I have to think about nature.  Maybe take some walks in the woods.  Climb a mountain.  Rake my lawn.  Whatever it takes.

Pablo Neruda knows how to write about nature.  The ode below proves that.

Now, Saint Marty has to go commune with the outdoors from the safety of his kitchen window.

Ode to the Birth of a Fawn

by:  Pablo Neruda

The doe lay on her side
behind
the wire fence.
Her eyes were
two great almonds.
The great buck kept vigil
and in the sun of midday
the crown of his antlers
shone
like
an altar aflame.

Blood and water,
a distended, pulsing
sac,
and in it
a new fawn,
helpless, shapeless.

There it lay in its opaque
wrapping
upon the stained grass.
The doe licked it
with her silver tongue.
It couldn't move,
but gradually
from the undefined and
steaming mass,
fouled, wet, defenseless,
the form
emerged,
the finely pointed nose
of regal
pedigree,
oval eyes unrivaled
on the earth,
delicate
legs,
the forest's natural
arrows.
The doe licked it
tirelessly, cleaned it
of its darkness, and pure
delivered it to life.

And so it rose,
fragile but flawless,
and began to move,
to walk, to be,
to look for brooks in the forest.
It gazed upon a radiant world.

The sky above
the tiny head
was a translucent
grape as the fawn
attached itself to the doe's teat,
quivering as if shaken
by light from heaven.

I have to become one with my inner Neruda

June 5: "The Secret Goldfish," Nature Essay, Contest Worries

...He used to be just a regular writer, when he was home.  He wrote this terrific book of short stories, The Secret Goldfish, in case you never heard of him.  The best one in it was "The Secret Goldfish."  It was about this little kid that wouldn't let anybody look at his goldfish because he'd bought it with his own money.  It killed me...

D.B., Holden's brother, is a writer.  We learn this within the first paragraph of Catcher.  However, Holden's a little disappointed with D.B.  D.B. has sold his soul to Hollywood and is writing for the movie industry.  Holden's thinks his brother is wasting his talents.

Writers are a neurotic bunch.  I include myself in this statement.  Writers tend to obsess about things like pronoun usage and comma placement.  As I said, we're weird.

I'm sorry that this post is going to be short once more.  I had to finish my nature essay for the writing contest today.  Not to fear.  The essay is done and on its way to the judges.  Now I have to play the waiting game.  I'm going to be waiting for a while on this one.  At least until August.

I'm not a very patient waiter.  I don't know if that's evident, but I want to be very honest here.

Of course, right after I put the envelope in the mail for this contest, I reread the essay and found things I wanted to change.  Small things that probably only bug me.  I had to put it away.

That's my worry for this Wednesday.  Contests.  (I have the poetry chapbook competition to worry about, as well, but I've been able to put that one out of my head for a while.  Come the end of this month, however, I will be a basket case.)

I totally have to let go.  I can't do anything about it now.  It's in God's hands now.  Well, His and the judges' hands.

Saint Marty isn't great at letting go.

This is pretty accurate

May 21: Tying Up Loose Ends

I'm going to tie up some loose ends with this post.

First, I did find my DVD remote last Friday night, shortly after I said my prayer to Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost things.  In my fervor to straighten and clean, I had taken the remote and stored with with some of my son's toys.  In my defense, the remote was sitting in a pile of plastic hammers and saws and cars.

Second, the reading last night at Peter White Public Library went really well.  It wasn't my greatest moment ever as a reader, but I didn't suck, either.  Afterward, I went out for drinks with the other writers from the reading and ended up drinking one-too-many gin and tonics.  The world had a little glow to it on the way home.  (DISCLAIMER:  I do NOT endorse drinking and driving!)

Third, I'm still working on my nature essay for the writing contest.  I will share more details later about this subject.  I probably won't share the actual essay until after I learn if I win or lose.  My guess is I'm going to lose, and, when I do, I will publish the essay in total on this blog.

I think those are all the loose ends I have to report on.  If I think of any more, I'll have to write an addendum.

Meanwhile, Saint Marty has some sentences to write:

Saint Marty will not drink and drive.  Saint Marty will not drink and drive.  Saint Marty will not drink and drive.  Saint Marty will not drink and drive.  Saint Marty will not drink and drive.  Saint Marty will not drink and drive...

Those damn loose ends...They go better with gin and tonics...

May 20: Reading Tonight, Nature Essay, Magic 8-Ball Monday

I have a lot of things on my mind this morning.  It's going to be an incredibly busy day.  Aside from working, I'm appearing at Peter White Public Library in Marquette for a book release event of The Way North, an anthology of U. P. writers.  I, along with several other authors in the collection, will be reading and answering questions.

I'm not quite sure how this reading is going to go.  Late last week, one of the other readers suggested we all dress in "traditional" U. P. clothing--flannel, swampers, hunter's orange, snowmobile helmets.  I think he was half-joking, but some of the other writers latched on to the idea.  I have no idea what I'm going to be walking into tonight.  I have an orange dress shirt I'm going to wear, but that's the only concession I'm making.

After the reading, I'm going out for drinks with the other readers.  I probably won't order anything with alcohol in it.  I've got to work tomorrow morning, after all.  However, it will be good to be included in a pack of writers.  I seldom get that opportunity in my daily existence.

The other thing I have to do today is work on a nature essay.  A local publisher is sponsoring a writing contest, and I've decided to give it a shot.  First prize is $250, for God's sake.  Now, I've never written a nature essay before.  I'm not really sure how to go about writing a nature essay, but I do have an idea for my subject.  I think it's going to be a hybrid of memoir and nature writing.  We'll see how it turns out.

Which brings me to Magic 8-Ball Monday.  The questions I have is simple:

Will I win the nature essay writing contest?

And the answer from the gospel according to Salinger is:

"I agree!  I agree they do, some of them!  But that's all I got out of it.  See?  That's my point.  That's exactly my goddam point," I said.  "I don't get hardly anything out of anything.  I'm in bad shape.  I'm in lousy shape.:

Well, the first half of that answer is pretty affirmative:  "I agree!"  The second half isn't quite as hopeful:  "I'm in lousy shape."  I'm, not quite sure how to interpret that answer.    Positive?  Negative?

Saint Marty is going with the first half of the answer this morning.  He wants to be happy, not depressed, today.

I won't be wearing one of these tonight