October 11: Moon Men, Storytelling, Female Orangutan

The curves were smooth only when seen from a distance.  The people climbing them learned that they were treacherous, jagged things--hot to the touch, often unstable--eager, should certain important rocks be disturbed, to tumble some more, to form lower, more solid curves.

Nobody talked much as the expedition crossed the moon.  There was nothing appropriate to say.  One thing was clear:  Absolutely everybody in the city was supposed to be dead, regardless of what they were, and that anybody that moved in it represented a flaw in the design.  There were to be no moon men at all.

Here we have it.  Vonnegut's science fiction mixing with fiction mixing with historical essay.  All of the elements in Slaughterhouse come together in this little passage.  It seems like something that shouldn't be real, that is beyond fantastic.  Yet, it is the absolute truth.  Vonnegut witnessed it.  He was a moon man in Dresden on February 16, 1945. 

One of the reasons I love Slaughterhouse Five is my inability to fit it into any pigeonhole.  Yes, it's science fiction.  But it's also serious literary fiction.  AND (in some ways) memoir.  Vonnegut pops up a few times in the novel as a character.  AND social criticism.  AND political commentary.  Like I said, it defies normal categories.

I think that's the point, however.  Vonnegut is trying to describe something that he really can't wrap his mind around.  Human devastation at such a level that normal words fail.  So he turns to aliens and flying saucers and time hopping.  That makes more sense than the truth.

I feel like I'm sort of living in a similar situation in the United States right now.  People have compared Trump America to Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale.  The current season of American Horror Story is grappling with the aftermath of the 2016 presidential election, too.  The creators of that show have invented a murderous cult of clowns led by a fear-mongering narcissist.  Sound familiar?

It's a very human reaction to turn to storytelling to try to understand puzzling or troubling experiences, like the election of Donald Trump.  Most everyone can pretty much agree that the current President of the United States is, at best, more than a little unpredictable.  At worst, he's leading the country into nuclear war and the establishment of a Nazi state.  Pick whatever narrative you want.  None of them seem that appealing, unless you are a rich white male or a deluded middle class male (if the middle class even still exists).

I wonder who is going to write the Slaughterhouse Five of the Donald Trump era.  Who is going to make sense of all this insanity, now that Vonnegut has been dead almost ten years?  Certainly, if he were still alive, Vonnegut would have more that a few things to say about the current leader of his country.  Maybe he'd write a novel about Tralfamadorians kidnapping Trump and putting him in a zoo to mate with a female orangutan. 

I am grateful for writers who try to make sense of senseless circumstances through their work.  I am still trying to come up with a narrative that helps me understand how millions of people supported Donald Trump last November.  I still can't quite get there. 

So somebody, please, tell Saint Marty a story--a good one--that explains the country in which he lives.

July 7: The Curious Scarecrow, Art, Anne Frank

The candle in the hospital had gone out.  Poor old Edgar Derby had fallen asleep on the cot next to Billy's.  Billy was out of bed, groping along a wall, trying to find a way out because he had to take a leak so badly.

He suddenly found a door, which opened, let him reel out into the prison night.  Billy was loony with time-travel and morphine.  He delivered himself to a barbed-wire fence which snagged  him in a dozen places.  Billy tried to back away from it, but the barbs wouldn't let go.  So Billy did a silly little dance with the fence, taking a step this way, then that way, then returning to the beginning again.  

A Russian, himself out in the night to take a leak, saw Billy dancing--from the other side of the fence.  He came over to the curious scarecrow, tried to talk with it gently, asked it what country it was from.  The scarecrow paid no attention, went on dancing.  So the Russian undid the snags one by one, and the scarecrow danced off into the night again without a word of thanks.

The Russian waved to him, and called after him in Russian, "Good-bye."

An American meeting a Russian on German soil.  Hmmm.  Sounds familiar.  Seems that Donald Trump met with Vladimir Putin today in Hamburg at the G20 Summit.  I haven't had much of an opportunity to listen to the news today, so I'm not sure what kind of embarrassment happened.  I'm sure Donald Trump opened his mouth and said something completely idiotic.  And I'm sure Putin sat or stood next to him, stone-faced, looking a little reptilian.

This is not going to be a political post.  I just found the parallels between the passage from Slaughterhouse and reality interesting.  It's strange how life imitates art and vice versa.  I often have moments like this.  Just finished reading The Handmaid's Tale, and Atwood's version of the future left me a little unsettled, considering everything that has been going on in Washington, D. C., over the last seven months.  A year ago, I would have said a totalitarian state was unimaginable in the United States.  I'm not quite so convinced now.

Art is, often, a reflection of its time.  Vonnegut wrote and published Slaughterhouse when America was eye-deep in Vietnam.  It's a book about war and violence and death and humankind's destructive nature.  However, the best art also transcends time.  To use Vonnegut's term, it becomes unstuck in time.  So, now, in 2017, Slaughterhouse seems just as relevant.  The Handmaid's Tale rings out a prophecy or warning.  Walden's call to civil disobedience and environmental consciousness speaks even more loudly as Donald Trump withdraws from the Paris Climate Accord.

Art is important.  It gives voice to things that aren't being said.  Things that should be said.  Writing a poem or novel, painting a portrait, composing a song--any creative endeavor--is an act of hope.  I put pen to paper because I believe in beauty and kindness and compassion and grace.  As Anne Frank said, "In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart." 

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for art.

June 29: Concentrate on the Good Ones, Book Club, Praise Be

"So--" said Billy gropingly, "I suppose that the idea of preventing war on Earth is stupid, too."

"Of course."

"But you do have a peaceful planet here."

"Today we do.  On other days we have wars as horrible as any you've ever seen or read about.  There isn't anything we can do about them, so we simply don't look at them.  We ignore them.  We spend eternity looking at pleasant moments--like today at the zoo.  Isn't this a nice moment?"

"Yes." 

"That's one thing Earthlings might learn to do, if they tried hard enough.  Ignore the awful times and concentrate on the good ones."

"Um," said Billy Pilgrim.

Shorty after he went to sleep that night, Billy traveled in time to another moment which was quite nice, his wedding night with the former Valencia Merble.  He had been out of the veterans' hospital for six months.  He was all well.  He had graduated from the Ilium School of Optometry--third in his class of forty-seven.

Now he was in bed with Valencia in a delightful studio apartment which was built on the end of a wharf on Cape Ann, Massachusetts.  Across the water were the lights of Gloucester.  Billy was on top of Valencia, making love to her.  One result of this act would be the birth of Robert Pilgrim, who would become a problem in high school, but who would then straighten out as a member of the famous Green Berets.

Valencia wasn't a time-traveler, but she did have a lively imagination.  While Billy was making love to her, she imagined that she was a famous woman in history.  She was being Queen Elizabeth the First of England, and Billy was supposedly Christopher Columbus.

Did Columbus and Queen Elizabeth the First ever meet?  I'm not sure, but that's beside the point.  The Tralfamadorian solution to things like war and genocide is simply not to focus on them.  Instead, they focus on good things, like days at the zoo or, in Billy's case, the conception of his first child with his new bride, Valencia.  Good moments, that will make everything alright.

I'm not sure I agree with this advice.  However, I do believe that dwelling on some past tragedy is not very healthy.  I have a had a lot of bad things happen in my life, as has everybody reading this post, I'm sure.  If I went around all day thinking about the death of my sister or my wife's mental illness or the election of Donald Trump, I wouldn't be able to function.  I would curl up on my bed, under the covers, in a fetal position, and just not live. 

Ignoring traumas from the past isn't a good practice, either.  That creates issues like depression, PTSD, and other forms of mental illness.  No, bad things must be dealt with, through talk therapy and group therapy and medical therapy and chocolate.  That's the only way to overcome bad shit.  I'm speaking from experience.

Tonight, however, I am going to have a good moment, one that Tralfamadorians would probably return to in times of war.  My book club is meeting tonight at my house.  This month's book is Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale.  When I'm done typing my posts, I'm going to cut up some cheese for a little tray.  Then, I'll set the tables with dishes and cups, because Book Club is really just an excuse to eat.

It will be a lovely moment with lovely people whom I love.  Is there enough love in that sentence?  It will be a good night, filled with laughter and conversation. No war.  No end of the universe.  Just cheese and crackers and brownie trifle.  As the characters in The Handmaid's Tale say, "Praise be."

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for good friends.

June 27: Tralfamadorian Test Pilot, Margaret Atwood, Happy in This Moment

"Would--would you mind telling me--" he said to the guide, much deflated, "what was so stupid about that?"

"We know how the Universe ends--" said the guide, "and Earth has nothing to do with it, except that it gets wiped out, too."

"How--how does the Universe end?" said Billy.

"We blow it up, experimenting with new fuels for our flying saucers.  A Tralfamadorian test pilot presses a starter button, and the whole Universe disappears."  So it goes.

So, the Tralfamadorians know how it all ends, and they're doing nothing to stop it.  Because it has already happened, is happening, and will happen again.  They're not upset about it because time is a fluid thing.  That's how Billy can be a zoo exhibit on Tralfamadore, an optometrist in Ilium, and a prisoner in Germany.

It's kind of a comforting thought, existing at all times.  Death isn't an end.  Pain isn't so painful.  Sadness is just a rest stop between moments of happiness.  That kind of outlook would save a whole lot of people a lot of trouble.  I know I would sleep better at night if I took a few lessons from the Tralfamadorians.

Instead, I spend my life worrying.  This morning, I woke up worried about grading some research papers this afternoon.  This afternoon, I worried about getting all of my work done at the office.  Tonight, I'm a little concerned about writing two blog posts and also reading The Handmaid's Tale for my book club meeting on Thursday.  If I was just a little unstuck in time, I wouldn't be stressed at all right now.

But, I am not living in a science fiction novel.  I can't time travel, and I have never ridden in a flying saucer.  I am a human being, living in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan on the continent of North America in the Western Hemisphere on the planet Earth in the galaxy of the Milky Way.  I live in a specific moment.  That's what human beings do.

And I am happy in this moment.  I graded some papers.  I'm almost done writing this blog post.  Pretty soon, I'll have a few hours to read some Margaret Atwood.  That's what I have tonight.  And that's good enough.

Saint Marty is thankful for this moment.