July 31: Book Club Barbecue, Phil Legler, "Bedstraw"

My book club met tonight.  We read Fannie Flagg's The All-Girl Filling Station's Last Reunion this month.  I liked it.  It wasn't really my cup of chai.  It was a light, funny distraction.  Flagg knows how to create characters that have a life of their own.  Plus, I learned about a part of American history I'd never known before.

We had a barbecue.  Hot dogs and bratwurst.  Fruit salad.  Noodle salad.  Brownies topped with pretzels and caramel.  The weather was perfect.  Seventy degrees and sunny.  In the background, a water fountain bubbling.  Perfect.  The only thing that was missing was my wife.  She had to work tonight.  Book club is usually the only night of the month where we spend a few hours with adults.

Tonight's Phil Legler poem is about love and summer.

Saint Marty needs to get to bed.

Bedstraw

by:  Phil Legler

Like your touch
gone from me, they have already
closed once this morning.

The sleepy field was wet.
Yet now from a bowl of water
slowly the petals open.

And what a curious name
they have.  Imagine the sweetness
if lovers in a grove

lay and slept on them,
opening and closing themselves
in the press of dew.

Bedstraw in the July evening

July 14: A Good Night of Candles, Brownies, and a "Web" Dip

Hey, guys and gals.  It's really late.  My wife and I just finished cleaning up our house.  We hosted a Partylite candle party this evening.  Lots of wax, a couple cheese balls, and brownies.  Family and friends came, and we had a really good time.

But it's really late, and I just got a chance to sit down with my laptop.  This post is not going to be long.  I don't have the energy or time.  What I have is a lot of happiness.  And cheese.  The brownies are all gone.

My Web dip question is:

Will I be blessed by a full-time teaching job at the university this year?  (What the hell?  I don't have anything to lose here.)

Next morning, Wilbur arose and stood beneath the web.  He breathed the morning air into his lungs.  Drops of dew, catching the sun, made the web stand out clearly.  When Lurvy arrived with breakfast, there was the handsome pig, and over him, woven neatly in block letters, was the word TERRIFIC.  Another miracle.

I'll take that.  A terrific miracle.

Now all Saint Marty needs is a spider to weave a web that reads HIRE THIS MAN in the English Department office.

A miracle with cheddar

June 14: Neglected Grave, Mortal Coil, Last Day

Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name, EBENEZER SCROOGE.

Most of my disciples can probably guess where this little paragraph occurs in A Christmas Carol.  It is the culmination of the visit of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.  In it, Scrooge is given the unpleasant revelation of his imminent demise.  Judging from all the evidence, Scrooge's death is fast approaching.  Not ten years down the line.  Not five years down the line.  The impression I've always gotten from reading the book is that Scrooge is going to die within a year. 

The main clues for this assumption come from the death of Tiny Tim.  The Ghost of Christmas Present predicts, "If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race...will find him here."  That means that Tiny Tim will be dead within a year.  In the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come stave, Scrooge sees Bob Cratchit mourning over his son's body.  A few scenes later, the paragraph above appears.  That means that Scrooge is already planted in the ground by the time Tiny Tim shuffles off this mortal coil.  Scrooge has less than a year to live at this point in the narrative.

I've posed this scenario to my Good Books students in the past:  if you suddenly heard God's voice in your ear, and God's voice told you, "You will die next Tuesday at 3:17 p.m. EST," what would you do?  The answer I invariably receive is not sit in a classroom with me, talking about Great Expectations or The Grapes of Wrath.  They would be out with their family or girlfriends or boyfriends.  They would spend their remaining time with their kids.  They wouldn't worry about their finances.  In fact, 100% of my students don't even mention money, unless they intend to purchase gifts for loved ones.  That last mortgage payment for J. P. Morgan Chase doesn't even make a blip on the radar.  It doesn't even make the top 100 list of things to do.

Certainly, when Scrooge is faced with the reality of his untimely end, it changes him.  Actually, it scares the shit out of him.  He can no longer go back to his old life and old habits.  He must embrace a different way of thinking and acting.  I know, if I were in the position of knowing my final dance was approaching, I wouldn't be blogging.  I wouldn't be working.  I wouldn't be doing a lot of the things I normally do every day.

That's what makes the difference for Scrooge.  It should make a difference for everybody.  There's no guarantee, when you eat that bowl of Rice Krispies this morning, that you will be around to finish off the box of Rice Krispies tomorrow.  That should make us hug our daughters a little longer.  Enjoy that Milky Way bar a little more.  Listen to those birds singing for a few extra minutes.  I know it would change my day(s) drastically.

Maybe I should live today like it is my last day.  Make choices that really count, that make me happy.

Saint Marty needs to go.  He has a family-size bag of Cheetos and a pan of brownies to eat.

Judgement Day is here.  Grab a spoon.

March 5: Peculiar Flavour, Potluck, Memoir Reaction

Ghost peddles Christmas crack

"Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch?" asked Scrooge.

"There is.  My own."

"Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?" asked Scrooge.

"To any kindly given.  To a poor one most."

"Why to a poor one most?" asked Scrooge.

"Because it needs it most."

The Ghost of Christmas Present spends a good deal of his stave sprinkling incense from his torch of holiday revellers.  A few drops of his magic "water," and happy meals become joyous, angry encounters become good-natured conversations, and lonely miners/sailors/lighthouse keepers become Christmas carollers.  The Spirit never really identifies what he's spreading around with his torch.  I've always thought of it as a mixture of the milk of human kindness and liquid Christmas spirit.  Whatever it is, if it were bottled, my guess is that it would sell better than crystal meth.

I have a lot of work to complete today, but, for some reason, I'm in a great mood.  While the tasks are going to be a little tedious, I'm not exactly dreading them.  I'm not looking forward to them.  However, I don't hear the procrastination imp in my mind whispering, "Yeah, but don't you have a poem you want to write?" or "Yeah, but don't you want to get a blueberry muffin from the coffee shop?" or "Yeah, but don't you want to read that novel over spring break?"  Nope, the imp is pretty silent.  It's almost as if the Ghost of Christmas Present has emptied his entire torch on me.  Or beaten the shit out of the imp.

Part of my good mood I can attribute to the fact that I was able to post my first installment of Project Memoir last night.  I wasn't sure about its quality at the time I clicked on the "Publish" icon.  This morning, however, after rereading it, I'm pretty happy with what I've written.  However, I would really appreciate feedback on it.  If you haven't read it yet, please check out the March 4 post and leave a comment.  My main question for you, my disciples, would be, "Would you read an entire book of this shit?"  Give me your honest reaction.  I can take it.  Then I will curl up into the fetal position and suck my thumb.

Tomorrow, we have a potluck at work.  My former coworker is returning to her job with me.  I will no longer be a business office of one, and I will be able to stop referring to her as my "former coworker."  In celebration of this occasion, we will be having a potluck.  I will be making my soon-to-be former former coworker one of her favorites:  a pan of brownies with good, thick frosting, topped with a layer of M&Ms.  Sprinkled with a lot of the Ghost's incense, as well, of course.

Saint Marty is determined to have a good day.  Bring on the torch.

September 4: Blues Fest, Disappointment, New Cartoon

Playing at the Blues Fest went great this morning.  Just as we started unloading and setting up in the tent, it started to pour rain.  Buckets.  But we got everything set up, and, with a slight delay of fifteen minutes, we started playing.  By then end of the hour, the tent was almost completely full.  One of the organizers from the Blues Fest told us that, yesterday, the guitar workshop only got one person to show up.  We packed the place.  Score one for Jesus.

I hung around the Blues Fest for a little while with some friends from the English Department.  I listened to the first act on the main stage.  The band was good, but the rain and wind were brutal.  After about an hour and a half, I had enough blues in the rain.  I came home.

I was pretty tired when I arrived at my house.  I had to make brownies for the family barbecue tonight, and then I took a half hour nap.  I feel a little refreshed, but I'm still tired.

Well, I'm a little disappointed that, once more, Wonder Twin is the only entrant in my contest.  I'm going to give all of you disciples (I know you're out there) one more chance.  The contest will close next post.  Get your game hats on.  Give me a subject to write a poem about.  I will write a poem, send you an autographed copy of it (along with a really cool saint holy card), and publish your poem on the blog. 

Saint Marty wants him some contestants.

Confessions of Saint Marty