August 18: "Aimless Love," Ordinary Things, Falling in Love

Today was a quiet day of quiet loves.

Not much going on.  I played a church service this morning,  I played one of my favorite hymns--"I Am the Bread of Life."  It was rainy and misty most of the morning and afternoon.  A good day to stay inside and watch TV or read a book.  I did both.  Netflix and Garrison Keillor, mixed with a little Wendell Berry.  I even squeezed in a little nap.  Then, when my wife got off work, we did some grocery shopping.

Like I said, nothing huge and important happened  Just small, ordinary things.  Easy to overlook.

Billy Collins falls in love over and over . . . 

Aimless Love

by: Billy Collins

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

I know that I'm guilty of going through my days wearing blinders.  Not really noticing the tiny blessings that come my way.  It's easy to do nowadays, especially with the current political situation in the United States.  Instead of saying grace for the cold pizza I had for lunch or the people who showed up for the poetry workshop I led tonight, I get myself wound up over what moronic thing Donald Trump uttered today.

So, for this post, I'm trying to hold dear all my loves (large and small) from this weekend:  my daughter holding a baby lamb at the U. P. State Fair; an all-night rainstorm; playing pipe organ for church; friends writing poetry with me; a long walk with my puppy; my son helping carry in bags of groceries from the car; the poems of Wendell Berry; some really good sandwich cookies from Walmart; a soft pillow and warm blanket; the sound of my wife's sleeping breaths in the dark.

I could go on.  And on.  And on.  Each day provides new opportunities to fall in love, if I keep my eyes open and take note.

Saint Marty is going to fall in love with the movie On Golden Pond now.

February 29: "Random," Leap Day, Control Freak

Billy Collins plays darts . . . 

Random

by:  Billy Collins

Tossing a dart

at an open encyclopedia,

I happen to hit a flying squirrel.

Their kind, the entry explains,

as I close in,

are seldom seen

due to their nocturnal habits

and high dwelling places.

So much there to admire!

It isn't easy to find something interesting to write about on a daily basis.  It often feels like throwing darts at an open encyclopedia, as Collins does in this poem.  He ends up writing about flying squirrels.  Tonight, my dart has landed on leap day.  

In my time on this planet, I have lived through 14 leap days.  (Yes, you can now figure out how old I am, which is right between "ouch" and "boing!")  I know some people who take this gift of extra time very seriously.  They make a point of leaping every February 29th--doing something they have never done before.  Sky diving.  Oil painting.  Cake decorating.  Distance running.  Poetry writing.  

I've never really taken a leap of faith like that, and I'm not about to start today.  I'm a creature of habit and routine.  Purposely upsetting the applecart of my life is not a practice I enjoy.  Perhaps its a matter of control.  Translation:  I'm a control freak.  I eat the same breakfast every day.  (I'm also an insulin-dependent diabetic, so that helps me control my blood sugars.)  I watch the same movie for weeks on end.  Read the same poems over and over and over.  Know what I'm having for dinner tomorrow night and the night after that.

About the only leap I will make today is into my pajamas.  I've reached the age where a good night is sitting on my couch in my PJs, eating a bowl of Special K, and watching Netflix.  I'm still a night owl.  Have been most of my life.  Falling asleep before 1 a.m.--now that would be a leap for me.

I have friends who do crazy shit all the time--ski jumping, ultramarathoning, voting for Donald Trump.  Perhaps those same friends think that writing poetry is crazy shit.  Maybe it's all relative--one person's leap is another person's everyday.

Saint Marty hopes the next time he throws his dart at an encyclopedia it lands on "nap."

January 4: Belly Meat of a Big Fish, Feeling More Human, Love and Concern

The boy takes care of old Santiago . . . 

When the boy came back the old man was asleep in the chair and the sun was down. The boy took the old army blanket off the bed and spread it over the back of the chair and over the old man's shoulders. They were strange shoulders, still powerful although very old, and the neck was still strong too and the creases did not show so much when the old man was asleep and his head fallen forward. His shirt had been patched so many times that it was like the sail and the patches were faded to many different shades by the sun. The old man's head was very old though and with his eyes closed there was no life in his face. The newspaper lay across his knees and the weight of his arm held it there in the evening breeze. He was barefooted.

The boy left him there and when he came back the old man was still asleep.

"Wake up old man," the boy said and put his hand on one of the old man's knees.

The old man opened his eyes and for a moment he was coming back from a long way away. Then he smiled.

"What have you got?" he asked.

"Supper," said the boy. "We're going to have supper."

"I'm not very hungry."

"Come on and eat. You can't fish and not eat."

"I have," the old man said getting up and taking the newspaper and folding it. Then he started to fold the blanket.

"Keep the blanket around you," the boy said. "You'll not fish without eating while I'm alive."

"Then live a long time and take care of yourself," the old man said. "What are we eating?"

"Black beans and rice, fried bananas, and some stew."

The boy had brought them in a two-decker metal container from the Terrace. The two sets of knives and forks and spoons were in his pocket with a paper napkin wrapped around each set.

"Who gave this to you?"

"Martin. The owner."

"I must thank him."

"I thanked him already," the boy said. "You don't need to thank him."

"I'll give him the belly meat of a big fish," the old man said. "Has he done this for us more than once?"

"I think so."

"I must give him something more than the belly meat then. He is very thoughtful for us."

"He sent two beers."

"I like the beer in cans best."

"I know. But this is in bottles, Hatuey beer, and I take back the bottles."

"That's very kind of you," the old man said. "Should we eat?"

"I've been asking you to," the boy told him gently. "I have not wished to open the container until you were ready."

"I'm ready now," the old man said. "I only needed time to wash."

Where did you wash? the boy thought. The village water supply was two streets down the road. I must have water here for him, the boy thought, and soap and a good towel. Why am I so thoughtless? I must get him another shirt and a jacket for the winter and some sort of shoes and another blanket.

The boy knows that Santiago is an old man.  A proud man.  Santiago doesn't like to be beholden to anyone.  If a person gives him dinner and a beer, Santiago will repay him with the belly meat of a big fish.  Kindnesses must be acknowledged and returned in some way.  It seems that's the way Santiago has lived his life.

I'm pretty stubborn when it comes to taking care of myself, just like Old Santiago.  Even when I need help, it's difficult for me to ask for it.  More often than not, people simply recognize my struggles and offer a helping hand.  And I believe those acts of kindness could and should be repaid in some way.  My way, because I'm a poet, is often through words.  I acknowledge the love that family and friends show me through poems and essays and blog posts.

I am feeling more human today after five days of couch time.  I slept fairly well last night, with a minimum of coughing.  Woke up this morning with my throat only slightly sore.  I'm still freezing cold, and ibuprofen has been my constant companion since I contracted COVID.  My energy levels are still pretty low, as well.  However, I just took a shower, shaved, and ate a little bit of food.  My appetite is finally returning.

Since COVID struck my household last Thursday, I've been the recipient of so much love and concern.  Each of these quarantine days have started with at least five or six text messages from different friends and family checking to see how I'm feeling.  I'd like to think that it's because I'm such a wonderful, loving person.  In all truth, it's more likely that I simply surround myself with wonderful, loving people who do things like pick up groceries for my family, give us licorice to eat at Christmas, and recommend good movies to watch on Netflix.  (By the way, Love Hard on Netflix--one of the best new holiday movies I've seen this year.)

For everyone who has helped my family and me out these last five or six days, I owe you some homemade cookies or a poem or a dirty joke.  Take your pick.  IM me.  You all mean the world to me, and my life is incalculably richer because you're in it.

Saint Marty thinks that's a pretty good way to start out 2022--with gratitude.

January 3: Yellow Rice and Fish, Unfiltered Me, Officially COVID-Positive

The boy and Santiago share a moment of mutual fantasy . . . 

"What do you have to eat?" the boy asked.

"A pot of yellow rice with fish. Do you want some?"

"No. I will eat at home. Do you want me to make the fire?"

"No. I will make it later on. Or I may eat the rice cold."

"May I take the cast net?"

"Of course."

There was no cast net and the boy remembered when they had sold it. But they went through this fiction every day. There was no pot of yellow rice and fish and the boy knew this too.

"Eighty-five is a lucky number," the old man said. "How would you like to see me bring one in that dressed out over a thousand pounds?"

"I'll get the cast net and go for sardines. Will you sit in the sun in the doorway?"

"Yes. I have yesterday's paper and I will read the baseball."

The boy did not know whether yesterday's paper was a fiction too. But the old man brought it out from under the bed.

"Perico gave it to me at the bodega," he explained.

"I'll be back when I have the sardines. I'll keep yours and mine together on ice and we can share them in the morning. When I come back you can tell me about the baseball."

"The Yankees cannot lose."

"But I fear the Indians of Cleveland."

"Have faith in the Yankees my son. Think of the great DiMaggio."

"I fear both the Tigers of Detroit and the Indians of Cleveland."

"Be careful or you will fear even the Reds of Cincinnati and the White Sox of Chicago."

"You study it and tell me when I come back."

"Do you think we should buy a terminal of the lottery with an eighty-five? Tomorrow is the eighty-fifth day."

"We can do that," the boy said. "But what about the eighty-seven of your great record?"

"It could not happen twice. Do you think you can find an eighty-five?"

"I can order one."

"One sheet. That's two dollars and a half. Who can we borrow that from?"

"That's easy. I can always borrow two dollars and a half."

"I think perhaps I can too. But I try not to borrow. First you borrow. Then you beg."

"Keep warm old man," the boy said. "Remember we are in September."

"The month when the great fish come," the old man said. "Anyone can be a fisherman in May."

"I go now for the sardines," the boy said.

The boy knows that Santiago isn't telling him the truth about the cast net or the pot of yellow rice and fish.  It is a fiction shared between them--one that allows the old man to maintain his dignity and the boy to demonstrate his respect for Santiago.  A narrative that defines their relationship.

I think everybody does this every day of their lives.  We tell ourselves lies in order to make it from alarm clock to sleeping pill.  Okay, maybe I'm talking about myself and extrapolating, but isn't that the conceit we all buy into when we read blog posts or like Facebook posts.  We try to convince ourselves and friends and "friends" and family and an army of followers that we are living our best lives.  

If you don't believe me, try an experiment.  First, post of picture of yourself when you first wake up in the morning, before your first cup of coffee.  Don't photoshop the picture, and don't add some hyper-aware caption intended to make people laugh.  Just the picture without explanation.

Then, post a second picture after you have had your coffee, brushed your teeth, taken your shower, done your hair.  Add some saying like "Ready to face the day" or "Time to conquer the world."  

Wait and see which post gets the most response--unfiltered you or filtered you.  My guess is you will get more likes/thumbs ups/hearts/comments for the caffeinated, coifed, and captioned you.  In fact, I'd be willing to lay money on it.  Because we all want to believe that we have perfect lives with perfect jobs and spouses and significant others and children.  And we want everyone else to believe the same things about us.

That's why a lot of people send out Christmas letters that read like a David Letterman Top Ten list of Reasons Why My Life is Better Than Yours.  By the time I'm done reading a letter like that, I feel as if my existence is an episode of The Brady Bunch where Mr. and Mrs. Brady run a meth house and Alice is in charge of a human trafficking ring.  

Longtime readers of Saint Marty know that I rarely sugarcoat my life.  I try to be honest about myself.  Brutally honest, most of the time.  Therefore, I often sound depressed, afraid, frustrated, unsure, isolated, and alone. #UnfilteredMe

On the other hand, I also have kids who love me; a wife who has seen me through some of the worst times of my life; friends who text me when I'm sick to see how I'm doing; a really cute puppy; lots of great books on my bookshelf; and a subscription to Netflix.  #LuckiestPersonOnThePlanet

So, I'm going to conclude this post with a description of my unfiltered day.  I coughed my lungs out all last night.  Watched a Netflix documentary on Joan Didion this morning that was fantastic.  Coughed my lungs out some more.  Got officially tested and declared officially COVID-positive.  Cleaned at church for a couple hours (nobody around, fully masked the entire time).  Watched the movie Tick, Tick . . . Boom with my wife.  I'm tired.  Really tired.  But I probably won't sleep that well tonight (see earlier comments about coughing my lungs out).  I really miss my daughter, who has been staying at her boyfriend's parents' house since COVID struck home.

That's it, folks.  Saint Marty, naked and afraid.  But not really naked, and only slightly afraid.  Mostly just exhausted.

March 22: Really Big, Weekend, Game Night

Ford and Arthur have just been launched into outer space as a new chapter begins . . .

The Hicthhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a wholly remarkable book.  It has been compiled and recompiled many times over many years and under many different editorships.  It contains contributions from countless numbers of travelers and researchers.  

The introduction begins like this:

"Space," it says, "is big.  Really big.  You just won't believe how vastly hugely mind-bogglingly big it is.  I mean, you may think it's a long way down the road to the chemist, but that's just peanuts to space.  Listen . . ." and so on.

(After a while the style settles down a bit and it begins to tell you things you really need to know, like the fact that the fabulously beautiful planet Bethselamin is now so worried about the cumulative erosion by ten billion visiting tourists a year that any net imbalance between the amount you eat and the amount you excrete while on the planet is surgically removed from your body weigh when you leave:  so every time you go to the lavatory there it is vitally important to get a receipt.)

It is the beginning of the weekend, and I have nothing really pressing to do.  No papers that HAVE to be graded, no poetry readings to attend, no birthday parties, no school events.  Nothing.  The weekend seems big.  Really big.  Vastly hugely mind-bogglingly big.  Of course, on Sunday night, I will probably be sitting on my couch wondering where all my time went.  Right now, however, it's a vast ocean of relaxation.  At least that's what I'm telling myself.

After a long week of work and teaching and grading and car troubles, I am ready to do . . . absolutely nothing tonight.  I will go out to dinner with my wife, daughter, and daughter's boyfriend.  Have a couple drinks.  Then I will come home and, if I'm not too tired, read a book or watch some Netflix.  This past week, a good friend and I watched the film Saving Mr. Banks.  I had never seen it before.  It was wonderful.  Maybe I'll try to talk my wife into watching it with me (or my daughter).

For the last month or so, it feels like I've been pulled in many directions.  I haven't had a whole lot of family time.  I missed one of my daughter's last chorus concerts because I had to teach.  I missed my son's last grade school carnival because I had to work.  My nights have been late, and my wife is usually asleep with my son when I get home.  I feel a little disconnected.

So, aside from wanting to watch a movie with my wife, I want to have a game night tomorrow with my whole family.  Maybe Trivial Pursuit.  Maybe the new game my wife just bought me called Bring You Own Book.  It's sort of like the game Apples to Apples.  I just have to get my kids to agree to sit down and play with me.  Granted, I'm not as cool as a video game or the latest binge-worthy television show, but I can be fun.  (If the "fun" thing doesn't work, I will resort of guilt.  I'm not proud.)

Those are my plans for the weekend.  I'm sure the coming week will hold surprises.  I'm sure I'll be pulled in a thousand different directions at once again.  Hopefully, I will find out whether I've secured employment for myself.  I have a couple prospects.  Interviewed for one job today.  But, for the next three days (I'm counting today, as well), it's deep breathing for me.  And time with my wife and family.

Saint Marty is getting back to the basics.

March 20: Da Da Da Dum, Feeling Trapped, Peanuts and Grapes

Ford is still trying to reason with the Vogon guard who is about to launch Arthur and him into outer space . . .

"But listen," he shouted to the guard, "there's a whole world you don't know anything about . . . here, how about this?"  Desperately he grabbed for the only bit of culture he knew offhand--he hummed the first bar of Beethoven's "Fifth."

"Da da da dum!  Doesn't that stir anything in you?"

"No," said the guard, "not really.  But I'll mention it to my aunt."

If he said anything further after that it was lost.  The hatchway sealed itself tight, and all sound was lost except the faint distant hum of the ship's engines.

They were in a brightly polished cylindrical chamber about six feet in diameter and ten feet long.

Ford looked round it, panting.

"Potentially bright lad I thought," he said, and slumped against the curved wall.

Arthur was still lying in the curve of the floor where he had fallen.  He didn't look up.  He just lay panting.

"We're trapped now, aren't we?"

"Yes," said Ford, "we're trapped."

It's a terrible thing to feel trapped, without any kind of recourse.  At the moment, it appears as though Arthur and Ford are trapped in an airlock, waiting to be sucked into the vacuum of space where they will certainly perish.  After surviving the demolition of the entire planet Earth, this fate seems a little anticlimactic.  One button gets pushed, oxygen disappears, and the two friends cease to exist.  The end.

Of course, feeling trapped isn't an unusual state.  Lots of people feel trapped.  Last night, I felt trapped by a stack of ungraded student essays.  I just sat at my kitchen table, bleeding read ink all over those papers.  Did the same today, as well.  At around 3 p.m., I handed out my last "B-" and was done.  It almost felt like I was floating weightless in outer space.

Last night, my wife's car was sitting at a local mechanic's garage, completely dead.  Just a few sparks, a whiff of ozone, and, viola!, completely fried battery.  Well, this evening, I picked the vehicle up.  It was a costly little fix that we don't have the money for.  Around three hundred dollars.  It's funny.  A little over a day ago, my wife and I had been talking about how we were almost caught up with bills and expenses.  Now, we are trapped again. 

I still haven't secured a new job yet.  I've posted for a position.  I'm interviewing for another.  However, I have nothing definite.  It's like being in an airlock, waiting for the oxygen to disappear.  Haven't been sleeping all that much--four or five hours a night, if I'm lucky.  When it hits the pillow, my head simply begins to spin through the possibilities of loss of job, loss of benefits, loss of health insurance, loss of car, loss of home, loss of . . . well, you get the idea what that rabbit hole is like.  It's a trap.

While I'm usually not a person who wallows in self pity, I've found myself wading into that little quagmire a lot recently.  It, too, can be a trap, feeling like the entire world has suddenly turned against you.  Yesterday evening, after the tow truck picked up my wife's dead car, I allowed myself a few moments of self pity.  (I did this in the privacy of my bathroom at home, so nobody would have to witness it.  It wasn't pretty.)

The sun has just disappeared from the sky.  I'm in my pajamas, and I can feel the pressure of sleep behind my eyes.  For the moment, my house is quiet.  Everyone is still busy with the day's obligations.  Dance lessons.  Homework.  Scholarship applications.  After I'm done typing this post, I will put on a load of laundry. 

Anything can feel like a trap, I suppose.  My son feels like having to take a shower is a trap.  My daughter feels like deadlines for scholarships are traps at the moment.  My students feel like writing their research papers is a trap.  A job can feel like a trap.  Not having a job can feel like a trap.  A marriage can feel like a trap.  Having children can feel like a trap.  It's all a matter of perspective, I suppose. 

Tonight, I'm going to allow myself to feel free instead of trapped.  No grading.  No deadlines.  No bills.  No car troubles.  No looming unemployment.  Instead, I'm going to eat some peanuts and grapes.  Maybe some cheese.  Then I'm going to read a book.  Maybe work on a new poem or watch a movie.  Then I will go to bed. 

All my worries and concerns will be there tomorrow morning when I wake up, waiting to trap me again.

Right now, however, Saint Marty has a date with Netflix.

July 20: Tremendous Wang, Netflix, Defying Expectations

Montana was under heavy sedation.  Tralfamadorians wearing gas masks brought her in, put her on Billy's yellow lounge chair, withdrew through his airlock.  The vast crowd outside was delighted.  All attendance records for the zoo were broken.  Everybody on the planet wanted to see the Earthlings mate.  

Montana was naked, and so was Billy, of course.  He had a tremendous wang, incidentally.  You never know who'll get one.

Where do I go with this passage?  A tremendous wang.  A naked movie star.  Granted, Montana does soft core porn, but still.  She's nude, and she stars in motion pictures.  I suppose that would be like me finding myself in the same room with a naked Kate Winslet or Claire Danes or Beyonce.  I will just leave it to your imagination when it comes to Billy's endowment and my own.  Billy Pilgrim is expected to mate with Montana Wildhack.  That's why the Tralfamadorians brought her to the zoo.  That's why they're both naked.  Billy has a choice to make.

It is already quite late.  I have spent the night on other pursuits.  Mainly binging on another TV series.  Just signed up for Netflix, so I have quite a lot of catching up to do in my future.  I believe my next obsession is going to be 13 Reasons Why, just to see what all the hubbub is about.  And then Breaking Bad, which I have never seen.

I have a problem when people tell me that I have to read a book or see a movie or watch a television series.  It feels a little too much like a classroom assignment, and I left being a student behind me a long time ago.  That's why I just read The Handmaid's Tale.  It took me a while to get around to Stranger Things and Commonwealth, too.  I don't like doing what people expect me to do.

It's getting late.  I'm expected to go to bed right now because I have to work tomorrow morning.  But I'm not going to bed yet.  I'm watching Titanic with my daughter, and we're only about an hour into it.  I think I'll wait until the iceberg shows up before I go brush my teeth.  Not going to do what's expected of me.

This little streak of rebellion will probably leave me exhausted tomorrow morning.  Craving something caffeinated.  And a little crabby probably.  But I'm not going to give into expectations.  I am who I am today because I didn't use my degrees in computer science and math for a career in programming.  I am who I am today because I didn't abandon my wife when she was in the grips of her sexual addiction.  I am who I am today because I followed my heart, not my head.  That may sound corny, but it's true.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for defying expectations.