November 24: Wildest Dreams, Powerless, Charles Dickens Biography

So saying, they turned on their heels and walked out of the door and into a life-style beyond their wildest dreams.

If only finding happiness were as easy as that.

I believe there is nothing more difficult than to admit that you are powerless.  Human beings like to believe that they are in charge of their destinies, from first breath to last.  Of course, this belief is false.  Most of the big things in life--birth, death, love, an ABBA reunion tour--are pretty much out of our control.  On top of that, we have no control over other people, either.  As much as we would like to live forever or have our children live forever, we have no say in that.  Just as we have no say in who we love, or who loves us.  Death happens.  Or it doesn't.  Love happens.  Or it doesn't.  ABBA happens.  Or it doesn't.

Now, those statements are not profound or groundbreaking in any way.  In fact, in the grand scheme of things, I would say that's pretty much Being Human:101.  However, I need to remind myself of these truths pretty much on a daily basis, because I'm stubborn.  And because I like to play God.  I think I know what's best for me and for everybody else.  Certainly, I think I know what will make me happy.

Today has been a day that has reminded me, frequently, of all of these annoying truths.  I won't go into detail, but I'm sitting here now, typing this post, wishing everyone would just . . . do what I think they should do.  It would make my life so much easier.  Of course, I only have control over my actions.  For example, writing this blog today is challenging for me.  My heart isn't in it, because I'm struggling with its subject matter.  In short, this writing is not making me very happy.  Yet, I choose to continue writing.

Of course, I could choose to do something else.  Something that would make me happier.  I could log out, turn off my computer, and take a nap.  Or order a pizza.  Or watch It's a Wonderful Life.  Or work on my Christmas essay.  Or read a good book.  I haven't read Peter Ackroyd's biography of Charles Dickens in a few years.  That would be about 1200 pages of pure pleasure for me.

Perhaps reading that Dickens biography sounds like torture to you.  Writing for pleasure is also pretty foreign to most people, as well.  Jimmy Stewart might irritate you.  (If he does, by the way, you and I can't be friends.)  Happiness, you see, is a matter of choice, as long as you aren't basing your happiness on someone else's actions.

So, I am powerless.  I admit that.  I am going to choose to do something tonight that makes me happy.  It may involve Charles Dickens or Jimmy Stewart or a fountain pen.  I have control over that.  And I will not let anyone else's actions interfere with my happiness.  Until tomorrow.

After all, as Saint Marty says, tomorrow is another day to be powerless.

A picture that makes Saint Marty happy . . .

June 18: Charles Dickens, Adonis, "New Testament"

Emily Dickinson only published a few poems during her lifetime.  In fact, I've published more poetry in my life right now than Dickinson ever did while she was alive.  Walt Whitman just kept on revising the same book over and over and over.  It worked for him. 

I'm always fascinated by the lives of writers.  One of my favorite things to do is read biographies of famous authors.  Peter Ackroyd wrote a 1200-page biography of Charles Dickens.  I've read that book six or seven times.  I've read about Flannery O'Connor, Robert Frost, Ernest Hemingway, William Faulkner, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman, James Joyce, and e. e. cummings.

It's kind of a sickness, I think.  I like learning about the struggles these artists faced.   Alcoholism and mental illness and drug addiction.  Flannery O'Connor's battle with lupus.  Robert Frost's lifelong bouts of depression.  Hemingway and bipolar.  All of these great writers faced incredible life challenges, and, through those challenges, they created amazing things.

I suppose it has to do with facing human failings.  Every great writer that I've read about has dealt with some incredible hurdle.  I find that a little comforting.  These great poets and novelists and short story writers are incredibly flawed human beings, and they transform these flaws into works that shed a little light into the dark places of the universe.  Each of these people created their own testaments for the world to read.

That gives Saint Marty a great deal of hope.

New Testament

by:  Adonis

He doesn’t speak this language.
He doesn’t know the voices of the wastes—
a soothsayer in stony sleep,
he is burdened with distant languages.

Here he comes from under the ruins
in the climate of new words,

offering his poems to grieving winds
unpolished but bewitching like brass.

He is a language glistening between the masts,
the knight of strange words.

Everybody's a critic . . .

May 23: "Midnight in Paris," Obsession, "Star Wars"

My friend, Keith, has been telling me for a few years that I needed to watch Midnight in Paris.  I believe his exact words were, "That movie is un-be-liev-able."  Last week, I had lunch with him, and he mentioned the movie again.

So I ordered it.

And I saved it for tonight.  Well, I watched it, and my friend was right.  It is an unbelievably great movie.  I'm watching it again right now with my wife.  I have a feeling it's going to become one of my obsessions for a while.

I once spent an entire Christmas break watching the film Stranger than Fiction every day.  It drove my wife crazy.  I do that.  I become a little . . . crazy about moves and books.  I've read a thousand-page Charles Dickens biography by Peter Ackroyd at least four or five times.  When I was a kid, I went to see the original Star Wars 27 times at the movie theater.  Obsession.

I'm obsessed with writing this blog.  That's why I've written close to 2,000 posts.  I want to be read, liked.  I want to write things that move people.  Help people.  Excite people.  I'm not sure if I'll ever get to that point, but I'm obsessed with the idea.

Maybe Saint Marty really does need professional help.

Care to join me in a little stroll down lunatic lane?

April 2: Head and Heart, Inspirations, Poetry

Two things must be done by the modern nature writer who would first understand the animal world and then share his discovery with others.  He must collect his facts, at first hand if possible, and then he must interpret the facts as they appeal to his own head and heart in the light of all the circumstances that surround them.  The child will be content with his animal story, but the man will surely ask the why and the how of every fact of animal life that particularly appeal to him.  For every fact is also a revelation, and is chiefly interesting, not for itself, but for the law or the life which lies behind it and which it in some way expresses.

Those words belong to William J. Long, an early twentieth century nature writer whom E. B. White first read as a child.  Long was one of the young White's muses.  In the above paragraph, I see snatches of the aesthetic that probably guided much of White's mature writing life, including the composition of Charlotte's Web.

Every writer has inspirations.  As an undergraduate student, mine were Peter Ackroyd, Robert Frost, and Flannery O'Connor among others.  I loved authors who combined history and nature and faith in strange, lyrical ways.  As I got older, I adopted other muses.  Sharon Olds.  Phil Levine.  Oscar Hijuelos.  I could keep going.  I've learned something from each and every author I've read.

I recently finished  Donna Tartt's The Goldfinch.  The breadth and scope of her storytelling is astounding.  She, justifiably, has been compared to Charles Dickens.  Her prose reads like poetry, and I really admire it.  She makes me almost want to give up writing.  That's how good she is.

Tomorrow night, I'm giving a poetry reading and workshop at a local library for an organization called the Center for Lifelong Learning.  From what I understand, CLL is mostly for retired/mature people who are curious to try new things.  I'm going to make them try poetry.  I know one of my former math professors is going to be there with his wife.  It's going to be an adventure.

Who knows?  Maybe Saint Marty will end up being someone's muse tomorrow evening.

Works for me