I mowed the lawn yesterday because of rain in the weather forecast. (It never rained.) I played two church services, one yesterday evening and one this morning. I wrote a few poems. I led a poetry workshop tonight that ended a little over an hour ago.
The highlight of last couple days was going to see the new Superman with my wife last night. Then we went to one of our favorite restaurants/pubs where we had a couple drinks, ate some chicken nachos and breadsticks, and decompressed from the stress of the last couple weeks.
Sharon Olds comes clean about her feelings over her father . . .
I Wanted to Be There When My Father Died
I wanted to be there when my father died
because I wanted to see him die—
and not just to know him, down
to the ground, the dirt of his unmaking, and not
just to give him a last chance
to give me something, or take his loathing
back. All summer he had gagged, as if trying
to cough his whole esophagus out,
surely his pain and depression had appeased me,
and yet I wanted to see him die
not just to see no soul come
free of his body, no mucal genie of
spirit jump
forth from his mouth,
proving the body on earth is all we have got,
I wanted to watch my father die
because I hated him. Oh, I loved him,
my hands cherished him, laying him out,
but I feared him so, his lying as if dead on the
couch had seemed to pummel me, an Eve
he took and pressed back into clay,
casual thumbs undoing the cheekbone
eye-socket rib pelvis ankle of the child
and now I watched him be undone and
someone in me gloried in it,
someone lying where he’d lain in chintz
Eden, some corpse girl, corkscrewed like
one of his amber spit-ems, smiled.
The priest was well called to that room,
violet grosgrain river of his ribbon laid
down well on that bank of flesh
where the daughter of death was made, it was well to say
into other hands than ours
we commend this spirit.
couch had seemed to pummel me, an Eve
he took and pressed back into clay,
casual thumbs undoing the cheekbone
eye-socket rib pelvis ankle of the child
and now I watched him be undone and
someone in me gloried in it,
someone lying where he’d lain in chintz
Eden, some corpse girl, corkscrewed like
one of his amber spit-ems, smiled.
The priest was well called to that room,
violet grosgrain river of his ribbon laid
down well on that bank of flesh
where the daughter of death was made, it was well to say
into other hands than ours
we commend this spirit.
Yes, Olds hates and loves her father. Human beings are able to experience conflicting emotions simultaneously. ("We shake with joy, we shake with grief. / What a time they have, these two / housed as they are in the same body."--Mary Oliver) When my sister, Sally, died, I was not only heartbroken over her loss, but also grateful for the end of her suffering. When my daughter moved downstate last weekend to begin medical school, I was not only excited for her, but also grieved for her absence in my life.
So, it was good last night to spend some time with my wife, holding hands, eating popcorn, watching the Man of Steel kick some Lex Luthor ass, and coming clean about our feelings over our daughter's move. No surprise, we're both shaking with joy and grief at the same time.
I wish the universe did have superheroes with powers to keep things on an even keel. At this point in the history of the United States, it wouldn't hurt to have Superman around to stop wars, save innocent people from harm, and stop the occasional supervillain. (Unfortunately, our current supervillain is sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office.)
I'm of the belief that any person can be a superhero. I mean, Martin Luther King, Jr., didn't grow up thinking he was going to be the leader of the Civil Rights Movement in the United States, let alone win the Nobel Peace Prize. And I'm sure that Marie Curie, as a little girl, had no clue she would discover radioactivity and lead the way for effective cancer treatments (and also win two Nobels). Martin and Marie were two ordinary people who became extraordinary heroes because of their circumstances.
I'm not a superhero, but I try to be the best person I can be every day of my life. I don't always succeed. Yet, the striving is important. Human beings are incredibly flawed creatures. We can save a child from a burning house, but we can also stand on the sidelines and witness genocide. I'd like to think that, at the end of my life, my character strengths will outweigh my failings. And, just maybe, I will have made some kind of impact on the world.
Saint Marty wrote a poem about superheroes for night, based on the following prompt from July 19 of The Daily Poet:
In admiration of Juan Felipe Herrera's poem entitled "187 Reasons Mexicans Can't Cross the Border," write your own list poem using "because" as your refrain word. Examples from Herrera's poem:
Because the north is really south, Because every nacho chip can morph into a Mexican wrestler, Because Pancho Villa's hidden treasure is still in Chihuahua, Because we couldn't clean up Hurricane Katrina, Because we have visions instead of televisions. Some suggested ideas may be: "99 Reasons to Grow Your Own Food," "54 Reasons It's Not Your Fault You're Fat," "88 Reasons to Say No without Saying No."
7 Reasons We Need Superman Right Now
by: Martin Achatz
1. Because most aliens on this planet just want to drive to McDonald's to get an M&M McFlurry.
2. Because capes are back in style.
3. Because truth and justice are endangered species, almost extinct in the continental United States, and the Smithsonian doesn't have room in its collections for 185,000 migrants.
4. Because if he catches a cold, he could reverse global warming with a sneeze.
5. Because eggs are expensive, and we need his blood to create a super chicken.
6. Because all of our other heroes have been sent to concentration camps.
7. Because we need a Fortress of Solitude to hide our neighbors when the white vans roll through the neighborhood.
