October 8: "The Flight of the Statues," Routine, Hardcover

Most days are pretty routine.  I did the same thing this Tuesday that I did last Tuesday.  Tomorrow, I will follow my Wednesday rituals:  working, teaching, writing, and working some more.  Nothing truly surprising will happen.

Billy Collins is taken by surprise . . .

The Flight of the Statues

by: Billy Collins

The ancient Greeks…. used to chain
their statues to prevent them from fleeing.
--Michael Kimmelman

It might have been the darkening sky
that sent them running in all directions
that afternoon as the air turned a pale yellow,

but were they not used to standing out
in the squares of our city
in every kind of imaginable weather?

Maybe they were frightened by a headline
on a newspaper that was blowing by
or was it the children in their martial arts uniforms?

Did they finally learn about the humans
they stood for as they pointed a sword at a cloud?
Did they know something we did not?

Whatever the cause, no one will forget
the sight of all the white marble figures
leaping from their pedestals and rushing away.

In the parks, the guitarists fell silent.
The vendor froze under his umbrella.
A dog tried to híde in his owner's shadow.

Even the chess players under the trees
looked up from their boards
long enough to see the bronze generals

dismount and run off, leaving their horses
to peer down at the circling pigeons
who were stealing a few more crumbs from the poor.

Okay, I didn't see any marble statues running down the street today.  However, when I got home this evening, there was a box waiting for me.  Inside the box:  hardcover copies of my new book.  This may not seem like such a big deal to you, faithful disciple, but it is huge to me, equivalent to Lincoln stepping down from the Lincoln Memorial and skipping off to Dairy Queen.  Or the faces on Mount Rushmore breaking into a barbershop quartet version of "Stand by Me."

Six months ago, my Bigfoot book was still just a file on a flash drive.  The poems were disorganized and in need of revision.  Tonight, the hairy guy is out in the world.  I'm not sure if people are going to like or buy my book, and, frankly, at this moment, I don't really care.

Cuz Saint Marty has a hardcover copy of his book in his hot little hands.

June 13: Kenneth Rexroth, "The Bad Old Days," Nostalgia

The Bad Old Days

by:  Kenneth Rexroth

The summer of nineteen eighteen   

I read The Jungle and The

Research Magnificent. That fall   

My father died and my aunt   

Took me to Chicago to live.   

The first thing I did was to take   

A streetcar to the stockyards.   

In the winter afternoon,   

Gritty and fetid, I walked

Through the filthy snow, through the   

Squalid streets, looking shyly   

Into the people’s faces,

Those who were home in the daytime.   

Debauched and exhausted faces,   

Starved and looted brains, faces   

Like the faces in the senile   

And insane wards of charity   

Hospitals. Predatory

Faces of little children.

Then as the soiled twilight darkened,   

Under the green gas lamps, and the   

Sputtering purple arc lamps,   

The faces of the men coming

Home from work, some still alive with   

The last pulse of hope or courage,   

Some sly and bitter, some smart and   

Silly, most of them already   

Broken and empty, no life,   

Only blinding tiredness, worse   

Than any tired animal.   

The sour smells of a thousand   

Suppers of fried potatoes and   

Fried cabbage bled into the street.   

I was giddy and sick, and out   

Of my misery I felt rising   

A terrible anger and out

Of the anger, an absolute vow.   

Today the evil is clean

And prosperous, but it is   

Everywhere, you don’t have to   

Take a streetcar to find it,

And it is the same evil.

And the misery, and the

Anger, and the vow are the same.

__________________________

Nostalgia can be a very comforting thing.  Thinking of days gone by with a sort of wistful longing.  Marcel Proust wrote several books about the subject.  I've been thinking a lot about my time in high school these last few weeks.  I'm not sure if "wistful" is the correct adjective here. 

I did have a pretty good high school experience.  Lots of friends.  Lots of interests--drama, cross country, English, creative writing, girls.  I wouldn't say I was a popular kid, but there wasn't a whole lot of bullying in my life.  Either that, or I just didn't really pay attention to whoever was trying to bully me.

In reality, I suppose, the good old days probably weren't all that good at times.  I had health struggles.  Between my freshman and sophomore years, I ended up in a diabetic coma for a while.  A few days in intensive care, followed by a week-long hospital stay.  Not fun.  Money was always a worry.  I always put pressure on myself to be the best at everything.  The summer after I graduated from high school, I ended up in a months-long depression due to the death of someone very close to me.

Nostalgia sort of whitewashes all that shit I went through.  That's the unhealthy part of it.

Saint Marty is trying not to be nostalgic tonight.  That means not watching The Breakfast Club or Ferris Bueller's Day Off or Stand By Me.

June 1: Rehearse That Now, Stories Within Stories, "Stand By Me"

"It was at this point, gentlemen, that enraged by the defection of seven of his former associates, and stung by the mocking voice that had last hailed him, and maddened by his long entombment in a place as black as the bowels of despair; it was then that Steelkilt proposed to the two Canallers, thus far apparently of mind with him, to burst out of their hole at the next summoning of the garrison; and armed with their keen mincing knives (long, crescentic, heavy implements with a handle at each end) run amuck from the bowsprit to the taffrail; and if by any devilishness of desperation possible, seize the ship. For himself, he would do this, he said, whether they joined him or not. That was the last night he should spend in that den. But the scheme met with no opposition on the part of the other two; they swore they were ready for that, or for any other mad thing, for anything in short but a surrender. And what was more, they each insisted upon being the first man on deck, when the time to make the rush should come. But to this their leader as fiercely objected, reserving that priority for himself; particularly as his two comrades would not yield, the one to the other, in the matter; and both of them could not be first, for the ladder would but admit one man at a time. And here, gentlemen, the foul play of these miscreants must come out.

"Upon hearing the frantic project of their leader, each in his own separate soul had suddenly lighted, it would seem, upon the same piece of treachery, namely: to be the foremost in breaking out, in order to be the first of the three, though the last of the ten, to surrender; and thereby secure whatever small chance of pardon such conduct might merit. But when Steelkilt made known his determination still to lead them to the last, they in some way, by some subtle chemistry of villany, mixed their before secret treacheries together; and when their leader fell into a doze, verbally opened their souls to each other in three sentences; and bound the sleeper with cords, and gagged him with cords; and shrieked out for the Captain at midnight.

"Thinking murder at hand, and smelling in the dark for the blood, he and all his armed mates and harpooneers rushed for the forecastle. In a few minutes the scuttle was opened, and, bound hand and foot, the still struggling ringleader was shoved up into the air by his perfidious allies, who at once claimed the honor of securing a man who had been fully ripe for murder. But all these were collared, and dragged along the deck like dead cattle; and, side by side, were seized up into the mizzen rigging, like three quarters of meat, and there they hung till morning. 'Damn ye,' cried the Captain, pacing to and fro before them, 'the vultures would not touch ye, ye villains!'

"At sunrise he summoned all hands; and separating those who had rebelled from those who had taken no part in the mutiny, he told the former he had a good mind to flog them all round- thought, upon the while, he would do so- he ought to- justice demanded it; but for the present, considering their timely surrender, he would let them go with a reprimand, which he accordingly administered in the vernacular.

"'But as for you, ye carrion rogues,' turning to the three men in the rigging- 'for you, I mean to mince ye up for the try-pots;' and, seizing a rope, he applied it with all his might to the backs of the two traitors, till they yelled no more, but lifelessly hung their heads sideways, as the two crucified thieves are drawn.

"'My wrist is sprained with ye!' he cried, at last; 'but there is still rope enough left for you, my fine bantam, that wouldn't give up. Take that gag from his mouth, and let us hear what he can say for himself.'

"For a moment the exhausted mutineer made a tremulous motion of his cramped jaws, and then painfully twisting round his head, said in a sort of hiss, 'What I say is this- and mind it well- if you flog me, I murder you!'

"'Say ye so? then see how ye frighten me'- and the Captain drew off with the rope to strike.

"'Best not,' hissed the Lakeman.

"'But I must,'- and the rope was once more drawn back for the stroke.

"Steelkilt here hissed out something, inaudible to all but the Captain; who, to the amazement of all hands, started back, paced the deck rapidly two or three times, and then suddenly throwing down his rope, said, 'I won't do it- let him go- cut him down: d'ye hear?'

But as the junior mates were hurrying to execute the order, a pale man, with a bandaged head, arrested them- Radney the chief mate. Ever since the blow, he had lain in his berth; but that morning, hearing the tumult on the deck, he had crept out, and thus far had watched the whole scene. Such was the state of his mouth, that he could hardly speak; but mumbling something about his being willing and able to do what the captain dared not attempt, he snatched the rope and advanced to his pinioned foe.

"'You are a coward!' hissed the Lakeman.

"'So I am, but take that.' The mate was in the very act of striking, when another hiss stayed his uplifted arm. He paused: and then pausing no more, made good his word, spite of Steelkilt's threat, whatever that might have been. The three men were then cut down, all hands were turned to, and, sullenly worked by the moody seamen, the iron pumps clanged as before.

"Just after dark that day, when one watch had retired below, a clamor was heard in the forecastle; and the two trembling traitors running up, besieged the cabin door, saying they durst not consort with the crew. Entreaties, cuffs, and kicks could not drive them back, so at their own instance they were put down in the ship's run for salvation. Still, no sign of mutiny reappeared among the rest. On the contrary, it seemed, that mainly at Steelkilt's instigation, they had resolved to maintain the strictest peacefulness, obey all orders to the last, and, when the ship reached port, desert her in a body. But in order to insure the speediest end to the voyage, they all agreed to another thing- namely, not to sing out for whales, in case any should be discovered. For, spite her leak, and spite of all her other perils, the Town-Ho still maintained her mast-heads, and her captain was just as willing to lower for a fish that moment, as on the day his craft struck the cruising ground; and Radney the mate was quite as ready to change his berth for a boat, and with his bandaged mouth seek to gag in death the vital jaw of the whale.

"But though the Lakeman had induced the seamen to adopt this sort of passiveness in their conduct, he kept his own counsel (at least till all was over) concerning his own proper and private revenge upon the man who had stung him in the ventricles of his heart. He was in Radney the chief mate's watch; and as if the infatuated man sought to run more than half way to meet his doom, after the scene at the rigging, he insisted, against the express counsel of the captain, upon resuming the head of his watch at night. Upon this, and one or two other circumstances, Steelkilt systematically built the plan of his revenge.

"During the night, Radney had an unseaman-like way of sitting on the bulwarks of the quarterdeck, and leaning his arm upon the gunwale of the boat which was hoisted up there, a little above the ship's side. In this attitude, it was well known, he sometimes dozed. There was a considerable vacancy between the boat and the ship, and down between this was the sea. Steelkilt calculated his time, and found that his next trick at the helm would come round at two o'clock, in the morning of the third day from that in which he had been betrayed. At his leisure, he employed the interval in braiding something very carefully in his watches below.

"'What are you making there?' said a shipmate.

"'What do you think? what does it look like?'

"'Like a lanyard for your bag; but it's an odd one, seems to me.'

'Yes, rather oddish,' said the Lakeman, holding it at arm's length before him; 'but I think it will answer. Shipmate, I haven't enough twine,- have you any?'

"But there was none in the forecastle.

"'Then I must get some from old Rad;' and he rose to go aft.

"'You don't mean to go a begging to him!' said a sailor.

"'Why not? Do you think he won't do me a turn, when it's to help himself in the end, shipmate?' and going to the mate, he looked at him quietly, and asked him for some twine to mend his hammock. It was given him- neither twine nor lanyard were seen again; but the next night an iron ball, closely netted, partly rolled from the pocket of the Lakeman's monkey jacket, as he was tucking the coat into his hammock for a pillow. Twenty-four hours after, his trick at the silent helm- nigh to the man who was apt to doze over the grave always ready dug to the seaman's hand- that fatal hour was then to come; and in the fore-ordaining soul of Steelkilt, the mate was already stark and stretched as a corpse, with his forehead crushed in.

"But, gentlemen, a fool saved the would-be murderer from the bloody deed he had planned. Yet complete revenge he had, and without being the avenger. For by a mysterious fatality, Heaven itself seemed to step in to take out of his hands into its own the damning thing he would have done.

"It was just between daybreak and sunrise of the morning of the second day, when they were washing down the decks, that a stupid Teneriffe man, drawing water in the main-chains, all at once shouted out, 'There she rolls! there she rolls!' Jesu, what a whale! It was Moby Dick.

"'Moby Dick!' cried Don Sebastian; 'St. Dominic! Sir sailor, but do whales have christenings? Whom call you Moby Dick?'

"'A very white, and famous, and most deadly immortal monster, Don;- but that would be too long a story.'

"'How? how?' cried all the young Spaniards, crowding.

"'Nay, Dons, Dons- nay, nay! I cannot rehearse that now. Let me get more into the air, Sirs.'

"'The chicha! the chicha!' cried Don Pedro; 'our vigorous friend faint;- fill up his empty glass!'

Ishmael is holding his audience spellbound with this tale of mutiny and murder.  The Spaniards are sitting in the bar, hanging on his every word.  And he drags the story out, braiding in details and suspense.  Now, almost at the end, Moby Dick makes an appearance, and the narrative ramps up in suspense.

This little narrative-within-a-narrative is a trick that writers have been using forever.  Melville is following the lead of Homer and Virgil and Ovid and Cervantes.  Yesterday, I went to a showing of the film Stand By Me at a local theater.  It was throwback Thursday, where older films are shown at a lower price.  I couldn't resist seeing River Phoenix as Chris Chambers on the big screen again.
.
Of course, there are stories within stories in Stand By Me.  There's the pie-eating contest, with its climax of blueberry vomit.  It was my nine-year-old son's favorite part.  And then there's the little stories that are told along the way.  Teddy's ear being burned on a stove by his father.  Vern's quest to find his buried jar of pennies.  Gordy's brother being killed in a car wreck.  And Chris being stabbed in the throat at the end of the movie and dying.

I first saw Stand By Me at the end of the summer I graduated from high school, so I have a lot of memories attached to it.  The movie makes me happy and sad at the same time.  It came into my life at an end and a beginning.  Saying goodbye to my high school posse of friends.  Meeting a whole other posse.  It was a terrifying time.  As Gordy says in the movie, "Friends come in and out of our lives like busboys in a restaurant."

Seeing the movie again put me right back at that moment in my life.  I was only three years older than River Phoenix when the movie first came out.  I always think of my high school friends when I watch Stand By Me.  In fact, for many years, any time I saw a River Phoenix film, it was like being back in school again for me.  He was like a classmate.

I know that sounds strange.  Every once in a while, I sort of go on a River Phoenix movie binge, watching most of his films, including the more obscure ones.  Stand By Me, The Mosquito Coast, My Own Private Idaho, Dark Blood, and The Thing Called Love.  I know that nostalgia is a dangerous thing.  It doesn't allow for a person to focus on the present or future if you're constantly pining for days gone by.  Generally, I keep my eyes forward.  However, it may be time for a few River movies in the next week or so.

Saint Marty always gets like this when cap and gown season rolls around.

February 6: Heart of an Arctic Crystal, High School and Girls and Drugs and Sex, Intimate Friendship

We had lain thus in bed, chatting and napping at short intervals, and Queequeg now and then affectionately throwing his brown tattooed legs over mine, and then drawing them back; so entirely sociable and free and easy were we; when, at last, by reason of our confabulations, what little nappishness remained in us altogether departed, and we felt like getting up again, though day-break was yet some way down the future.

Yes, we became very wakeful; so much so that our recumbent position began to grow wearisome, and by little and little we found ourselves sitting up; the clothes well tucked around us, leaning against the headboard with our four knees drawn up close together, and our two noses bending over them, as if our knee-pans were warming-pans. We felt very nice and snug, the more so since it was so chilly out of doors; indeed out of bed-clothes too, seeing that there was no fire in the room. The more so, I say, because truly to enjoy bodily warmth, some small part of you must be cold, for there is no quality in this world that is not what it is merely by contrast. Nothing exists in itself. If you flatter yourself that you are all over comfortable, and have been so a long time, then you cannot be said to be comfortable any more. But if, like Queequeg and me in the bed, the tip of your nose or the crown of your head be slightly chilled, why then, indeed, in the general consciousness you feel most delightfully and unmistakably warm. For this reason a sleeping apartment should never be furnished with a fire, which is one of the luxurious discomforts of the rich. For the height of this sort of deliciousness is to have nothing but the blankets between you and your snugness and the cold of the outer air. Then there you lie like the one warm spark in the heart of an arctic crystal.

We had been sitting in this crouching manner for some time, when all at once I thought I would open my eyes; for when between sheets, whether by day or by night, and whether asleep or awake, I have a way of always keeping my eyes shut, in order the more to concentrate the snugness of being in bed. Because no man can ever feel his own identity aright except his eyes be closed; as if, darkness were indeed the proper element of our essences, though light be more congenial to our clayey part. Upon opening my eyes then, and coming out of my own pleasant and self-created darkness into the imposed and coarse outer gloom of the unilluminated twelve-o'clock-at-night, I experienced a disagreeable revulsion. Nor did I at all object to the hint from Queequeg that perhaps it were best to strike a light, seeing that we were so wide awake; and besides he felt a strong desire to have a few quiet puffs from his Tomahawk. Be it said, that though I had felt such a strong repugnance to his smoking in the bed the night before, yet see how elastic our stiff prejudices grow when once love comes to bend them. For now I liked nothing better than to have Queequeg smoking by me, even in bed, because he seemed to be full of such serene household joy then. I no more felt unduly concerned for the landlord's policy of insurance. I was only alive to the condensed confidential comfortableness of sharing a pipe and a blanket with a real friend. With our shaggy jackets drawn about our shoulders, we now passed the Tomahawk from one to the other, till slowly there grew over us a blue hanging tester of smoke, illuminated by the flame of the new-lit lamp.

Whether it was that this undulating tester rolled the savage away to far distant scenes, I know not, but he now spoke of his native island; and, eager to hear his history, I begged him to go on and tell it. He gladly complied. Though at the time I but ill comprehended not a few of his words, yet subsequent disclosures, when I had become more familiar with his broken phraseology, now enable me to present the whole story such as it may prove in the mere skeleton I give.

Ishmael and Queequeg have become fast friends, sharing the same bed, staying up late talking, sharing confidences.  Even though both men have been awake from before dawn to this midnight time, neither is sleepy.  They sit close to each other, passing Queequeg's pipe back and forth, smoking, creating a haze of blue in the dark room.  And then Ishmael encourages Queequeg to tell him the story of his life.  Queequeg obliges.

When I was reading this chapter from Moby-Dick, I was reminded of a night when I was 19 or 20, on Christmas break from college.  I was still living in my parents' house, and one of my best friends was home on break from the University of Michigan.  We had gone out earlier and returned to my home, my room.  It was well past midnight.

Both of us were a little drunk, maybe a little high.  We started talking about college and high school and girls and drugs and sex.  The conversation stretched on and on, like the winter night outside.  Somehow, because my room was right next to my sister's room and just down the hall from my grandmother, we moved into the garage, where my father parked his big Chrysler.

The car had a huge back and front seat, and the garage was warm, filled with the smell of wood burning in the wood furnace that heated the house.  We sat in that car in the dark garage, and we continued to talk.  My friend, let's call him Queequeg for the sake of this post, started telling me about the girl he had been dating since our senior year in high school.  She was a girl that I had been lusting after since middle school.

Darkness fosters a greater sense of intimacy.  Queequeg started sharing details of his relationship with this girl that he probably wouldn't have shared in broad daylight.  Of course, the alcohol and marijuana we had consumed probably helped, as well.  Long story short, the night became one long Penthouse forum.  Queequeg told one sex story after another.  Waterbed sex.  Sauna sex.  Car sex.

I sat mute in the front seat of my parents' Chrysler.  Every once in a while, I would add a grunt or a laugh or an "Oh, my God," to let Queequeg know that I was still awake and listening.  Some time during that long night, we stepped outside to pass a joint back and forth, inhale its sweet smoke, hold it in, cough it out, let it fill our lungs and minds.  In truth, I kept as quiet as possible, because I wanted Queequeg to keep telling me his stories about this girl.  Wanted as many details as possible.

I had been jealous of Queequeg for two years.  Jealous of the time he spent with this girl.  Jealous that he had been able to do what I hadn't--to be with her, kiss her, go to prom with her, have sex with her.  Hearing Queequeg's stories in the dark that night, I was able to imagine what I had missed because I was too shy and awkward and weird in high school.  Queequeg was confident, good looking, and quirky.

So I stayed up all night with him, drained him of every story that I could.  By early light, we were both almost sober, a little exhausted, and incredibly horny.  But it had been really good.  Some time before dawn, I had confessed my jealousy to Queequeg, and he had laughed and said something like, "Yeah, I knew you were into her, too."

Up until that night, I don't think I really understood what intimate friendship was.  And I knew, as sun pushed through the windows of my parents' garage, that I would never really have a friendship as deep and lasting.  It was a very Stand By Me moment.

Saint Marty is thankful this afternoon for the intimate friendships he's had in his life.

June 20: Simulated Earthling Habitat, Zoos, Wishful Thinking

Billy was displayed there in the zoo in a simulated Earthling habitat.  Most of the furnishings had been stolen from the Sears Roebuck warehouse in Iowa City, Iowa.  There was a color television set and a couch that could be converted into a bed.  There were end tables with lamps and ashtrays on them by the couch.  There was a home bar and two stools.  There was a little pool table.  There was wall-to-wall carpeting in federal gold, except in the kitchen and bathroom areas and over the iron manhole cover in the center of the floor.  There were magazines arranged in a fan on the coffee table in front of the couch.

There was a stereophonic phonograph.  The phonograph worked.  The television didn't. There was a picture of one cowboy killing another one pasted to the television tube.  So it goes.

There were no walls in the dome, no place for Billy to hide.  The mint green bathroom fixtures were right out in the open.  Billy got off his lounge chair now, went into the bathroom and took a leak.  The crowd went wild.

A weird little section.  Billy as an exhibit.  Homo sapiens, relaxing, listening to music, pretending to watch TV, going to the bathroom.  Vonnegut is making a point here, I think.  He is satirizing our habit of capturing wild animals and turning them into entertainment.  Zoos.  Circuses.  Safaris.

I will admit that I like going to zoos.  One of my favorite things to do as a child was visit the Detroit Zoo.  We would spend an entire day there.  I could spend a couple hours just in the penguin habitat.  I loved going into the place where the tigers were in cages until one of the big cats actually lifted a leg and pissed on me when I was five or six.  Yes, I have been soaked in tiger urine.

I wonder what a Tralfamadorian exhibit for me would include.  A laptop computer, probably.  Journals and pens and a desk.  A television and DVD player with all of my favorite films, heavy on Christmas and River Phoenix flicks.  Books.  Lots of books.  Pictures of my wife and kids.  Those would be the essential things, if they were really trying to capture my essence.

I've never really thought about the things that really represent who I am.  Strange.  If I walked into a gorilla habitat, I would expect lots of tropical trees and fruits and rain, places to hide.  If I visited an elephant habitat, it would include a grassy savanna, maybe a mud hole to wallow in, and a river.  That's what I would expect.

How do I want to be described on my zoo plaque?  Good father.  Loving husband.  Loyal brother and son and friend.  Passionate.  Artistic.  Talented.  I wouldn't mind being called a genius, but that's probably pushing it.  Great writer.  Voracious reader.  Poet extraordinaire. 

Okay, I need to stop.  I'm venturing into wishful thinking.  If you want to see me in my natural habitat, stop by my house tonight.  I'll make us some popcorn, read you a poem or two, and pop Stand By Me into the DVD player.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for the zoo of his life.

September 26: My Son Again, Terry Godbey, "Eight Years Old"

I promise this will be the last post about my son.  You're all probably getting tired of my sentimental musings.  When birthdays and weddings and anniversaries come around, it gets me all maudlin and reflective.  Can't help it.

I'm also pretty darn tired.  It's been a very long week.  And, when I'm this tired, I'm prone to watching movies like It's a Wonderful Life or Stand By Me and crying like a schoolgirl.  I'll snap out of it in a day or so.  But, for tonight, I'm going to wallow a little bit.

Terry Godbey knows what I'm talking about.  The poems she writes about her son are full of the surprise and ache of parenting.  One day, your child is small, weak, and beautiful.  Before you know it, your child is tall, independent, and beautiful.  It happens so fast.

Saint Marty just wants things to slow down a little.

Eight Years Old

by:  Terry Godbey

Even in winter, my son refuses to wear
a pajama top.  When he comes near,
I lean close and brush his skin
or stroke it outright
like bolts of wedding satin,
and something catches in my throat
like undissolved chocolate
in a cup of cocoa.  He is lush,
toes pink and curled
as the pearly hearts of seashells,
voice lifting and plunging,
a heron diving for fish,
his pogo-stick stride,
arms like clock hands gone wild,
the balloons of his cheeks when he grins,
and on his restless legs, faint hairs
pointing in all directions
as if ruffled by wind,
a great storm on the way.

Hold on just a little bit longer...

December 7: Good Friends

Let me just say, I have good friends.

On Sunday night, after my daughter's birthday party at church, I was facing a really long clean-up by myself.  My wife had to pick up my son from the babysitter, and I had an entire church hall to return to usable condition.  I was not looking forward to it.  Then, a friend showed up and stayed with me until the floors were swept; the popcorn machine was cleaned; the garbage was taken to the dumpster; and the boxes were loaded into the back of my car.  Good friend.

At work, I have someone who keeps me honest.  I've known this person for close to 15 years, by my last count.  She knows when something is going wrong in my life, without me having to say a word.  She will listen to my troubles.  Tell me when I'm full of shit.  She knits hats for me, and runs races with me.  Good friend.

There's another person who I've known for close to 20 years.  She's been through some really difficult times in the last few years, and she's seen me through some of the worst times in my life.  She makes costumes for plays and programs I direct.  If I need somebody to keep me organized, she becomes my very own, live Franklin planner.  She pisses me off.  I piss her off.  But, when I'm down on my luck, she'll come along and pick me up.  Good friend.

Another person lives about four hours away from me.  He's a pastor.  When he lived nearby, we would meet on Thursday nights, eat onion rings, and write poetry.  He has seen me at my absolute worst, and loved me anyway.  He has seen me angry, depressed, despondent, despairing, and loved me even more fiercely.  While he's not great at remembering birthdays, he still calls me every week or so to check in.  Good friend.

I work in a band with another person.  Even though she's musically gifted, can listen to a song and immediately play it on her guitar, she still makes me (a mediocre keyboard player) feel like a rock star.  She values my opinion and thinks my poetry is amazing.  She recognizes my passions and lets me pursue them.  Good friend.

I could keep going.  There are so many more people I could tell you about.  The thing I wanted to remind myself this morning is that I have really good friends.  People who I know I can count on.  There's a line in the movie Stand By Me that goes, "Friends come in and out of our lives, like busboys in a restaurant."  It's true.  I can't be sure how long the people I just wrote about will be in my life.  So I just want to acknowledge the blessings I've received from all my good friends.

Marty is one lucky saint.


Stand by your friends