December 21, 2024: "Dining Alone," Solitude, Winter Solstice

Because I'm a poet, solitude is essential at times.  To read and think and create.

In modern society, solitude is suspect.  Going to a movie alone attracts sympathy and stares.  Sitting on a bench alone, scribbling in a notebook, makes onlookers uncomfortable, as if you're an undercover FBI agent taking down names.  Dining alone is the ultimate transgression--smacking of isolation or mental illness or serial-killer-in-the-making.

Billy Collins reflects on the etiquette of eating dinner alone . . . 

Dining Alone

by: Billy Collins

He who eats alone chokes alone.

---Arab saying

I would rather eat at the bar,

but such behavior is regarded

by professionals as a form of denial,

so here I am seated alone

at a table with a white tablecloth

attended by an elderly waiter with no name--

ideal conditions for dining alone

according to the connoisseurs of this minor talent.

I have brought neither book nor newspaper

since reading material is considered cheating.

Eating alone, they say, means eating alone,

not in the company of Montaigne

or the ever-engaging Nancy Mitford.

Nor do I keep glancing up as if waiting

for someone who inevitably fails to appear--

a sign of moral weakness

to those who take this practice seriously.

And the rewards?  

I am thinking of an obvious one right now

as I take the time to contemplate

on my lifted fork a piece of trout with almond slices.

And I can enjoy swirling the wine in my glass

until it resembles a whirlpool

in a 19th-centruy painting of a ship foundering in a storm.

Then there are the looks of envy 

from the fellow on the blind date

and the long-married couple facing each other in silence.

I pierced a buttered spear of asparagus

and wondered if the moon would be visible tonight,

but uncapping my pen was out of the question

for writing, too, is frowned upon

by the true champions of solitude.

All that would have to wait

until after I have walked home,

collar up, under the streetlights.

Not until I would hear the echo of the front door,

closing behind me could I record

in a marbled notebook--

like the ones I had as a schoolboy--

my observations about the art

of dining alone in the company of strangers.

It is Winter Solstice--the longest night of the year.  The sun didn't rise until well past 8 a.m., and, by the time I left church at around 5 p.m. this evening, it was already getting dark.  

A little while ago, I stood in my backyard, gazing up into the heavens.  It's a clear, cold night--the kind that seems etched in glass.  I didn't see any moon, but the stars were bright as pearls.

It's easy to feel isolated and alone on this day.  Darkness has a way of making you feel like the first or last person on the planet.  Solitude is all around.  At the moment, everyone else in my house is asleep.  My son isn't screaming at his online gaming friends.  My puppy hasn't so much as moaned since she was put in her cage for the night and covered with blankets.  And my wife surrendered to sleep about an hour ago.

I'm feeling slightly exhausted myself.  (Nothing new there.  I've been exhausted for about a month now.)  My wife and I went Christmas shopping this afternoon.  This year, we are trying as best as we can to shop local.  Too many of the big chain stores and websites contributed to the campaign of the Felon in Chief.  So we decided local artists, artisans, writers, book stores, and art galleries would get our money over, say, Walmart or Amazon.  And it felt really good to know that we weren't helping with the downfall of democracy in this country.  Yes, I know I'm only one person, and whether I buy my son socks at Walmart is not going to destroy the Walton family fortune.  But that one solitary act of protest, if repeated hundreds of thousand of times, will make an impact.  Collective solitude in action.

Tomorrow, days start getting longer, light returning gradually to my part of this planet.  My hope is that the darkness that's ben sitting on my shoulders will gradually fade, as well.  In the meantime, I embrace my solitude.  Feel whatever emotion fills that space with me--sadness or anger or creativity or love.  I know that I'm really not alone and never have been.

Poet Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote, "I hold this to be the highest task of a bond between two people:  that each should stand guard over the solitude of the other."

Saint Marty is standing guard this dark night for all his disciples.  

December 17, 2024: "Rome in June," Exhausted, Sacred Spaces

Final grades are submitted, and I am the walking dead tonight.  I barely have the brain power to string a coherent sentence together.  After I'm done typing these few words, I am going to put my head on a pillow and sleep so hard that I may miss the rapture if it happens.

Billy Collins goes Keats hunting in Rome . . . 

Rome in June

by: Billy Collins

There was a lot to notice that morning

in the Church of Saint Dorothy, virgin martyr--

a statue of Mary with a halo of electric lights,

a faded painting of a saint in flight,

Joseph of Copertino, as it turned out,

and an illustration above a side altar

bearing the title "The Musical Ecstasy of St. Francis."

But what struck me in a special way

like a pebble striking the forehead

was the realization that the simple design

running up the interior of a church's dome

was identical to the design on the ceiling

of the room by the Spanish Steps

where Keats had died and where I

had stood with lifted eyes just the day before.

It was nothing more than a row

of squares, each with the carved head

of a white flower on a background of blue, 

but all during the priest's sermon

(which was either about the Wedding at Cana

or the miracle of the loaves and fishes

as far as my Italian could tell)

I was staring at the same image

that the author of Hyperion had stared at

from his death bed as he was being devoured by tuberculosis.

It was worth coming to Rome

if only to see what supine Keats was beholding

just before there would be no more Keats,

only Shelley, not yet swallowed by a wave,

and Byron before his Greek fever,

and Wordsworth who outlived Romanticism itself.

And it pays to lift the eyes, I thought outside the church

were a man on a bench was reading a newspaper,

a woman scolding her child,

and the heavy sky, visible above the narrow streets

of Trastevere, was in the process

of breaking up, showing segments of blue

and the occasional flash of Roman sunlight.

Again, no brain power tonight.  I hope to feel human by tomorrow, but there are no guarantees.  

I love Collins' narrative in today's poem, him standing in the room where Keats died of tuberculosis.  There are few places I've visited in my life that hold the same sort of sacred energy for me.  Some churches--Saint Patrick's Cathedral in New York City, in particular.  Some historic landmarks--Pearl Harbor in Hawaii nearly destroyed me.  Some places attached to writers I admire--the root cellar of Roethke House in Saginaw felt like I was breathing poetry.  The very air in these spaces seems sacred.

But then there are ordinary sacred spaces, as well.  For me, tonight, recovering from some long days of grading and schoolwork, my couch feels pretty damn sacred.  Plus, my puppy is next to me, nudging my hand with her nose.  

Saint Marty can give thanks for that.

November 15: "Catholicism," Exhausted, Perfection

I'm a cradle Catholic.  

I was baptized by a bishop, so my mother had high hopes of me entering the priesthood.  Obviously, I was a disappointment to her in that respect.  However, I have been playing the pipe organ every weekend since I was about 18 years old.  If you do the math, that's well over two thousand Masses, and that number doesn't even include special holidays and times I played two and three times on a weekend.  Throw in Methodist, Lutheran, Presbyterian, and Episcopalian churches, and the number of worship services I've played climbs well above five or six thousand.  

That's a lot of time on an organ bench, meditating on my life and its failings.

Billy Collins examines his conscience . . . 

Catholicism

by: Billy Collins

There’s a possum who appears here at odd times,
often walking up the path to the house
in the middle of the day like a little ghost
with a long tail and a blank expression on his face.

He likes to slip behind the woodpile,
but sometimes he gets so close to the window
where I am standing with a glass in my hand
that I start to review my sins, systematically

going from one commandment to the next.
What is it about him that causes me
to begin an examination of conscience,
calling to mind my failings in this time of reflection?

It could just be the twitching of the tail
and that white face, but his slow priestly pace
also makes a contribution, as do the tiny paws,
more like hands, really, with opposable thumbs

able to carry a nut or dig a hole in the earth
or lift a chalice above his head
or even deliver a document,
I am thinking as he nears the back door,

not merely a subpoena but an order
of excommunication with my name and a date
written in fine Italian ink
and signed with a flourish of the papal sash.

I'm pretty exhausted tonight.  I just got back home from practicing at a couple different churches for this weekend.  Most people would be surprised how similar Catholic and Lutheran worship services are.  Often, I play many of the same hymns for Mass on Saturday evenings and Lutheran worship on Sunday mornings.

What I have learned during my tenure as a church musician is that there's not much difference between various Christian denominations.  They all follow the same lectionary, sing the same songs, and read the same Bible (with a few extra books thrown in for Catholics).  

Some people have asked me which denomination I like the best.  That's a hard question for me to answer.  I like Catholics for their pageantry and rituals.  Methodists have the best music.  And Lutherans, for the most part, are the most open-minded and accepting.

This week, a good poet friend of mine (who was raised Jewish) said that I'm a mystery to her, because I'm a Catholic, but love being irreverent.  Admire saints, but would rather hang out with sinners.  They're more fun.  

We're all the same--broken and imperfect--trying to survive in a broken and imperfect world.

Bless Saint Marty, for he has and will continue to sin.  Over and over and over.  Perfection is kind of boring.

September 5: "Poetry," Illness, Reality Check

It has been a day of illness for me.  At first, I thought I was suffering from allergies--runny nose, cough, blocked ears.  As the day and my symptoms progressed (fever, aches, more mucous than Slimer from Ghostbusters), I surrounded myself with an Appalachian range of used Kleenexes and tissues.  My eyes are gushing, and my throat stings.

Before you ask, I did test for COVID.  Twice.  Both tests came back negative.  So, I can't even claim that distinction.  Basically, I just have a very nasty cold.  Annoyingly ordinary.  Nothing to write home or a poem about.  

Billy Collins tries to define poetry . . . 

Poetry

by: Billy Collins

Call it a field where the animals

who were forgotten by the Ark

come to graze under the evening clouds.

Or a cistern where the rain that fell

before history trickles over a concrete lip.

However you see it,

this is no place to set up

the three-legged easel of realism

or make a reader climb

over the many fences of a plot.

Let the portly novelist

with his noisy typewriter

describe the city where Francine was born,

how Albert read the paper on the train,

how curtains were blowing in the bedroom.

Let the playwright with her torn cardigan

and a dog curled on the rug

move the characters

from the wings to the stage

to face the many-eyed darkness of the house.

Poetry is no place for that.

We have enough to do

complaining about the price of tobacco,

passing the dripping ladle,

and singing songs to a bird in a cage.

We are busy doing nothing--

and all we need for that is an afternoon,

a rowboat under a blue sky,

and maybe a man fishing from a stone bridge,

or better still, nobody on that bridge at all.

I couldn't even be a poet tonight, even though Collins says that poets are "busy doing nothing."  I didn't even have the energy to do nothing.  I was supposed to lead an online poetry workshop this evening.  After debating with myself for close to an hour, I came to the conclusion that I would have looked like extra from The Walking Dead if I got on Zoom and tried to write with anyone.  

So I simply grabbed a pillow and blanket and fell asleep on the couch.  Every once in a while, I would climb to the surface of consciousness long enough to take a drink of water or blow my nose.

Eventually, I woke up and decided to type this post.  Now that I'm done, I'm ready to collapse.  Literally.  I think these last few weeks of little sleep and lots of work have caught up with me.  My body is giving me a reality check.  

Here's the reality:  Saint Marty is exhausted.

February 24: "Used Book," Perpetually Tired, Back in the Saddle

Billy Collins reading a . . .

Used Book

by:  Billy Collins

I turn a page

someone dog-eared,

like the bent ear

of a dog who's still lost.

Yes, I have been absent for quite a while.  I know that.  I'd like to say that I've been putting the finishing touches on a novel or collection of poems (I've been doing a little of the latter).  But that's not the reason.  I could claim sickness, but that's not the reason, either.  Teaching?  Nope.  Planning the Great Lakes Poetry Festival for the library where I work?  A little.  Working as an undercover poet for President Biden writing limericks about his predecessor?  Sounds like fun, but no.

The truth of the matter is that I've been tired.  Perpetually tired.  I usually write these blog posts either very early in the morning (when everyone in my house is still asleep) or very late at night (when everyone in my house has gone to bed).  However, my writing impulses have been running on low battery for the last month or so, and all I want to do is . . . sleep.  And once you fall out of a routine, it's hard to pick it up again.

People don't realize the energy it takes to write.  There are constant distractions--laundry to fold, papers to grade, a book to finish, a movie or TV show to watch.  Being able to set all that aside takes willpower and determination.  (Notice I didn't say "inspiration."  If I always waited to be inspired before I pick up a pen to write, I would never write again.)  Writing is plain hard work.

What have I been doing instead or writing?  Well, I've been rereading some of my favorite books and poetry collections.  Books that I've scribbled marginalia in, dog-eared pages of, and memorized passages from.  Old friends.  Collins compares the bent pages of well-loved books to the bent ear of a lost dog.  We're both saying the same thing--the words and pages of used books are comforting in times of chaos and upheaval and exhaustion.

I'm going to try to get back into the writing saddle.  No guarantees what I produce will be profound or funny or even interesting.  The next post I write may simply be my grocery list or a catalogue of Sharon Olds' books on my bookshelf (there are a lot).  But Rome wasn't built in a day, and runners don't start with marathons.  (Apologies for the clichés.  It's the best I can do at the moment.)

So, this lost dog is back home, and hopefully you will be reading a lot more of the Gospel of Saint Marty in the coming days.

 

December 26: "Mornings at Blackwater," Christmas Calamity, Internet Outage

Mary Oliver's morning ritual . . .

 Mornings at Blackwater

by:  Mary Oliver

For years, every morning, I drank

from Blackwater Pond.

It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,

the feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me

from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is

that the past is the past,

and the present is what your life is,

and you are capable 

of choosing what that will be,

darling citizen.

So come to the pond, 

or the river of your imagination,

or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.

And live

your life.

Like Oliver, I have morning rituals--acts that I don't even think about when I rise from sleep.  Like brushing my teeth.  Shaving.  Taking my puppy out for her morning ritual.  I'm not sure these tiny habits fill my life with meaning.  Yet, if I don't perform them, the world seems just a little bit . . . off for the rest of the day.

The day after Christmas always fills me with melancholy.  After a month of frenzied preparation, I find myself empty.  Because the whole month of December is filled with rituals for me.  Writing a yuletide poem.  Shopping for presents.  Watching movies that I've watched since I was a child.  Baking cookies.  Attending Advent church services.  Practicing music.  Playing music.

Then, on December 26th, it all disappears.

Another unfortunate Christmas ritual that repeats itself, year after year, is what I call my Christmas Calamity.  Every Christmas or Boxing Day, I wake up to some sort of emergency at my house.  Frozen water pipes.  Blocked sewer.  No heat.  Rarely has the holiday gone by in recent memory without something going majorly wrong.

At about 11:30 last night, my son woke me up to tell me that the internet wasn't working.  Mind you, I was sound asleep.  When I'm woken up at night, for any reason, it usually takes me a few hours to fall back into slumber.  So, in the early hours of today, I found myself resetting my router, over and over, to no avail.  At about 6 a.m., I contacted my internet provider via chat.  

The first piece of advice I received was to restart my router.  Again.  When that didn't rectify the situation, Aisha, my chat buddy, tried to send some messages to my modem.  And when that failed, she set up a time for a technician to stop by my house this afternoon.

So, after about three or four hours of sleep, I drove to work, annoyed and exhausted, with many of my morning rituals undone.  My world was a little off.  I sent a couple messages to my daughter and my sister.  Eventually, early this afternoon, my daughter's significant other went over to my house to check things out.  Within five or ten minutes, I received a text from him:  "WiFi is working now."

He simply restarted the modem.  An easy fix that I knew nothing about.

So, as the final days of 2023 dwindle, I am hoping that this year goes out with a whimper instead of a bathtub full of sewage.

The only thing that saved me from a breakdown this morning was another ritual:  writing poetry with my friend, Gala.  We try to do this every week, if our schedules align.  It's an act that calms my unquiet mind.  Centers me.  

So, the rituals of Christmas are over, including the Christmas Calamity.

Tonight, Saint Marty is exhausted.  That's another Christmas ritual.  

December 12: "Wild Geese," Expectations, Christmas Essay

Mary Oliver on being family . . . 

Wild Geese

by:  Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

     love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Mary Oliver doesn't believe in guilt and recrimination and expectations.  Walking through the desert for a hundred miles on your knees repenting just isn't her thing.  Instead, she celebrates the sun and rain and prairies and deep trees.  She knows her place in the family of things.

I'm in agreement with Oliver.  Disappointment is a useless emotion, and I've learned a good way to avoid it:  don't have expectations.  Accept family for who they are, not who you want them to be.  Some people arrive 15 minutes early for everything.  Others don't.  Some people are Christmas people.  Others prefer Halloween.  Some people plan their lives weeks/months in advance.  Others are lucky if they remember to put on underwear in the morning.  

Instead of wasting time being disappointed or annoyed, I discovered a better practice way back when my daughter was in preschool.  When one of her classmates was absent, the teacher would say, "John Smith isn't here today.  We wish him well."  It's totally disarming and generous.  No judgement at all.

I'd love to be able to say that I'm never disappointed or angry or hurt by people.  That I love everyone in my family of things.  I can't.  But I can say that I try to be understanding and compassionate toward every person I know and love.  I literally do wish them all well.  

It's not only a blessing on the person you wish well, but also a blessing on yourself.  It releases you from all kinds of negative emotions and actions.  You literally feel better about yourself, your family, and the world. 

I spent most of today finishing my annual Christmas essay.  It was quite the chore, despite the fact that I've been working on it for several months.  I'm relieved and exhausted tonight.  I think the essay turned out well.  I feel good about it.

Whenever I'm in the middle of a big or small writing project, I can become . . . irritable.  That's a kind way of describing myself and my mood.  I'm not tolerant or understanding.  I don't wish people well.  I just want people to do one of two things:  leave me alone or leave me alone.

I'm past that point now.  The essay is done, for better or worse.  Tomorrow morning, I'll go to the radio station to record it to air next week some time.

So, on this dark December night, Saint Marty can again say with all sincerity:  "I wish you well."  

October 8: "Skunk Cabbage," Smelling Lurid, Noxious Weed

In the spring, Mary Oliver kneels by some . . . 

Skunk Cabbage

by:  Mary Oliver

And now as the iron rinds over

the ponds start dissolving,

you come, dreaming of ferns and flowers

and new leaves unfolding,

upon the brash

turnip-hearted skunk cabbage

slinging its bunched leaves up

through the chilly mud.

You kneel beside it.  The smell

is lurid and flows out in the most

unabashed way, attracting

into itself a continual spattering

of protein.  Appalling its rough

green caves, and the thought

of the thick root nested below, stubborn

and powerful as instinct!

But these are the woods you love,

where the secret name

of every death is life again--a miracle

wrought surely not of mere turning

but of dense and scalding reenactment.  Not

tenderness, not longing, but daring and brawn

pull down the frozen waterfall, the past.

Ferns, leaves, flowers, the last subtle

refinements, elegant and careful, wait

to rise and flourish.

What blazes the trail is not necessarily pretty.

It is spring, and Oliver ventures into her beloved woods in search of ferns and flowers and new leaves.  What she finds flourishing in the mud is thick-rooted, smelling lurid, and unabashed.

The best laid plans, however.  Sometimes, you think you're going to find wild blueberries, and all you find are goldenrod and nettles.  I had lots of things I wanted to accomplish this weekend--from writing a new poem to grading student papers.  Needless to say, I didn't get half done with my to-do list.  I ended up kneeling in the mud, smelling the turnip-hearted skunk cabbage.  

I did get lesson-plans done.  Updated my online content for teaching.  Planned out a poetry workshop that I had to cancel due to a power outage this evening.  Edited an episode of a podcast.  Plus, I played keyboard for two church services!  I'm beat.  Exhausted.  I can't really accomplish anything more tonight.

Life isn't always pretty.  In fact, I'd say that skunk cabbage frequently appears instead of roses.  

Tonight, all Saint Marty can smell is that noxious weed.  It's the smell of failure.  Dark, heavy clouds shot through with disappointment.

July 17: Let Us Hope, Too Busy, Hopeful Suppression

Santiago speaks his hopes , , ,

Maybe if I can increase the tension just a little it will hurt him and he will jump, he thought. Now that it is daylight let him jump so that he'll fill the sacks along his backbone with air and then he cannot go deep to die.

He tried to increase the tension, but the line had been taut up to the very edge of the breaking point since he had hooked the fish and he felt the harshness as he leaned back to pull and knew he could put no more strain on it. I must not jerk it ever, he thought. Each jerk widens the cut the hook makes and then when he does jump he might throw it. Anyway I feel better with the sun and for once I do not have to look into it.

There was yellow weed on the line but the old man knew that only made an added drag and he was pleased. It was the yellow Gulf weed that had made so much phosphorescence in the night.

"Fish," he said, "I love you and respect you very much. But I will kill you dead before this day ends."

Let us hope so, he thought.

Santiago does a lot of hoping in this passage:  he hopes to increase the tension on the line; make the fish jump; and kill the fish before the day ends.  The old man knows what he's doing.  All of his hopes come from his decades of fishing on the ocean.  

As I said in my post last night, it is my sister's birthday today.  However, I didn't spend the day dwelling on that fact--not on her presence in so much of my life, and not in her absence these past seven years, either.  I was too busy.

I went to two church services this morning.  I played at one, sang at the other.  Then, when I got home, I mowed my lawn in 85-degree heat.  After that, I finished my preparations for a poetry workshop, took a shower, and drove to a friend's house for a meeting of my book club.  (In case you are wondering, we discussed Margaret Atwood's Oryx and Crake.)  On the way to book club, I stopped at the cemetery to visit my sister's grave.  And after book club, I sped home and led the poetry workshop.  

So, you see, I couldn't be too sad today, except for those few moments at the cemetery.  Is busyness a sign of hope?  I'm not sure.  It could be my way of avoiding difficult feelings, too.  Take your pick.  I could be hopeful, or I could be suppressing.  Or a little of both.  Hopeful suppression, or suppressive hope.  

Sitting on my couch, typing this post, I realize that I'm often in this state, whatever it is.  If a busy life is a sign of hope, I am the most hopeful person alive.  It may also be a coping mechanism.  Either way, at the end of the day, I am usually too tired to be feel anything.

Tonight, therefore, I am a mixed bag.  Exhausted.  Hopeful.  Sad.  Grateful for friends and poetry.

Saint Marty's blessing tonight:  really great friends who love books.

April 28: No Great Weight, Poetry Closing Jam, Open Mic

Santiago reaches the end . . . 

He spat into the ocean and said, "Eat that, Galanos. And make a dream you've killed a man."

He knew he was beaten now finally and without remedy and he went back to the stern and found the jagged end of the tiller would fit in the slot of the rudder well enough for him to steer. He settled the sack around his shoulders and put the skiff on her course. He sailed lightly now and he had no thoughts nor any feelings of any kind. He was past everything now and he sailed the skiff to make his home port as well and as intelligently as he could. In the night sharks hit the carcass as someone might pick up crumbs from the table. The old man paid no attention to them and did not pay any attention to anything except steering. He only noticed how lightly and how well the skiff sailed now there was no great weight beside her.

She's good, he thought. She is sound and not harmed in any way except for the tiller. That is easily replaced.

Visited a local high school English class this morning to share and write some Bigfoot poetry.  The kids were great.  So talented.

The last night of the Great Lakes Poetry Festival.  A Poetry Closing Jam.  We had a wonderful musician to accompany poets at an open mic.  Lots of different voices.  New people.  Friends.  I was exhausted by the end of the program.

Saint's Marty koan for this evening:  sometimes you're the boat, and sometimes you're the carcass.

September 4: I Would Become Better, Stuart Smalley, Quiet is Better

Merton's fears about praying in church . . .

Another thing which Catholics do not realize about converts is the tremendous, agonizing embarrassment and self-consciousness which they feel about praying publicly in a Catholic Church. The effort it takes to overcome all the strange imaginary fears that everyone is looking at you, and that they all think you are crazy or ridiculous, is something that costs a tremendous effort. And that day in Santa Sabina, although the church was almost entirely empty, I walked across the stone floor mortally afraid that a poor devout old Italian woman was following me with suspicious eyes. As I knelt to pray, I wondered if she would run out and accuse me at once to the priests, with scandalous horror, for coming and praying in their church—as if Catholics were perfectly content to have a lot of heretic tourists walking about their churches with complete indifference and irreverence, and would get angry if one of them so far acknowledged God’s presence there as to go on his knees for a few seconds and say a prayer! 

However, I prayed, then I looked about the church, and went into a room where there was a picture by Sassoferrato, and stuck my face out a door into a tiny, simple cloister, where the sun shone down on an orange tree. After that I walked out into the open feeling as if I had been reborn, and crossed the street, and strolled through the suburban fields to another deserted church where I did not pray, being scared by some carpenters and scaffolding. I sat outside, in the sun, on a wall and tasted the joy of my own inner peace, and turned over in my mind how my life was now going to change, and how I would become better.

I think everybody goes through moments like this--Christians, Jews, Muslims, Rastafarians, agnostics, atheists, you name it.  At some time or other, everyone has a moment of clarity, where all the tumblers of life seem to click into place.  When you feel as if you're in exactly the place you're supposed to be, doing what you were meant to do, with the person you were meant to do it with.  Sometimes those moments last a long time.  Sometimes they are as fleeting as afternoon light.

I haven't felt like that in a while.  I've had a few hours--leading poetry workshops, teaching classes, visiting with old friends--when I'm reminded that, as Stuart Smalley says, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!"  Unfortunately, my existential moments have been outnumbering my Stuart Smalley moments in the last year or so.  You know, being awake at 3:27 a.m., searching through kitchen cupboards for Fig Newtons, and questioning the meaning of life.

It's Friday night as I type this post.  I started it two days ago, after a session of Zoom writing and wine with a friend.  I continued writing it last night, after I led an outdoor poetry workshop inspired by the work of John Ashbery.  And tonight, I just got home from cleaning two churches after a ten-hour work day at the medical office.  It's 10 p.m., and I'm exhausted.  (I'm also eating some blueberry Newtons that I've been hoarding for a couple weeks.)

Nobody's lives are perfect.  Struggle is part of the human condition.  It's what makes us human.  Imperfection.  My personal failings are multitude.  If asked to list them all, I would need three Moleskine journals, three or four ink cartridge refills for my fountain pen, and several bottles of cheap wine.

If forced to choose my biggest failing, I would have to say that I overthink everything.  I mean everything.  Dinner.  Blog posts.  Answers to the simplest questions.  Relationships.  Poems.  For example, I'm drinking a glass of wine at the moment.  Before pouring this glass, I sat at my kitchen table, questioning whether I have been drinking too much recently.  In doing so, I went over the last month of my life, trying to remember every time I drank before I went to bed.  Once I had that number, I thought of all the money I've spent on alcohol in the last 30 days.  Finally, I thought about the strong strain of addiction that runs through my genetics.  I came to the conclusion that I don't have a drinking problem, and I grabbed the wine bottle out of the fridge.

That is the way my mind works.  Reading this, you might think I'm a tad obsessive.  But, by analyzing and scrutinizing, I am able to avoid most unpleasant surprises.  Think of me as the guy who's always in the crow's nest, scanning the horizon for icebergs.  But despite all my emergency preparedness, I've been blindsided by a lot of unpleasant realities recently.  The tumblers of my life are not falling into place.  Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.  I've lost my equilibrium.

I could blame Donald Trump.  The pandemic.  Mental illness.  Addiction.  This year has been like a boil that's burst open, all kinds of poison pouring out into the universe.  A good friend, who's dealing with struggles similar to mine, recently said to me, "Quiet is better."  Better than arguing with life, because, in the end, life always wins the argument.  That's what she meant.  Practicing silence is meditation.  Brings peace to moments of great discord.  Allows you to find balance.

That is my wisdom for this night.  Quiet is better.  It's a miracle, as a matter of fact.  It lets you sleep.  Reflect.  Write.  Pray.

All the things that help bring Saint Marty back to center.

March 17: Music and Art and Things, Exhausted, Good Dream

Ford Prefect is discussing the tedious life of a Vogon with the young Vogon guard about to throw him into outer space . . .

"Er . . ." said the guard, "er . . . er . . . I dunno.  I think I just sort of . . . do it really.  My aunt said that spaceship guard was a good career for a young Vogon--you know, the uniform, the low-slung stun ray holster, the mindless tedium . . ."

"There you are, Arthur," said Ford with the air of someone reaching the conclusion of his argument, "you think you've got problems."

Arthur rather thought he had.  Apart from the unpleasant business with his home planet the Vogon guard had half-throttled him already and he didn't like the sound of being thrown into space very much.

"Try and understand his problem," insisted Ford.  "Here he is, poor lad, his entire life's work is stamping around, throwing people of spaceships . . ."

"And shouting," added the guard.

"And shouting, sure," said Ford, patting the blubbery arm clamped round his neck in friendly condescension, "and he doesn't even know why he's doing it!"

Arthur agreed this was very sad.  He did this with a small feeble gesture, because he was too asphyxiated to speak.

Deep rumblings of bemusement came from the guard.

"Well.  Now you put it like that I suppose . . ."

"Good lad!" encouraged Ford.

"But all right," went on the rumblings, "so what's the alternative?"

"Well," said Ford, brightly but slowly, "stop doing it, of course!  Tell them," he went on, "you're not going to do it any more."  He felt he ought to add something to that, but for the moment the guard seemed to have his mind occupied pondering that much.

"Eerrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm . . . " said the guard, "erm, well, that doesn't sound that great to me."

Ford suddenly felt the moment slipping away.

"Now wait a minute," he said, "that's just the start you see, there's more to it than that, you see . . ."

But at that moment the guard renewed his grip and continued his original purpose of lugging his prisoners to the airlock.  He was obviously quite touched.

"No, I think if it's all the same to you," he said, "I'd better get you both shoved into this airlock and then go and get on with some other bits of shouting I've got to do."

I wasn't all the same to Ford Prefect at all.

"Come on now . . . but look!" he said, less slowly, less brightly.

"Huhhhhggggggnnnnnnn . . ." said Arthur without any clear inflection.

"But hang on," pursued Ford, "there's music and art and things to tell you about yet!  Arrggghhh!"

You know, I sort of get the Vogon.  Even if you're miserable in a life situation, especially one that you've been in a long time, it's still difficult to make a change.  The thinking sort of goes like this:  you choose familiar pain versus the unknown (which might be painful or might be wonderful).  The unknown is scary.

Perhaps I'm investing too much humanity in the Vogon guard, but, given my current situation at work, I can't help it.  I've been living with the unknown for over a month now.  Not a very fun place to set up camp.  It sort of feels like I'm about to be tossed into outer space, like Arthur and Ford, and I'm trying to talk my way out of it.  But, I know you're tired of hearing me talk about this subject.  I apologize.

It has been an exhausting Saint Patrick's Day weekend.  Yesterday, especially.  Between practicing and playing the pipe organ for Mass and doing the last-minute preparations for the benefit poetry reading I organized last night, I am pretty whipped.  When I got home from church this afternoon, I actually took a nap.  A long one.  Now, I'm moving forward with grading and school work.

I guess I'm just trying to get myself mentally ready for the next five days.  Tomorrow will be the hardest and longest.  Work at 6 a.m. and then teaching until 9:30 p.m.  Long, long hours.  I know that I'll be nearly brain dead tomorrow night.  It's a matter of just keeping my nose to the proverbial grindstone for the next day.

That is my known.  I can handle that.  I've done it before.  This coming week, I have a couple job prospects that I'm following up on.  One prospect is a total blank page for me.  I just have a vague notion of what the job would entail.  The other prospect is a position that I've held before, with people that I know and really like.  I'm hoping that, within a week or so, I will have news as to what I'm going to be doing with my life for the next several years.  (Just typing that last statement also makes me anxious.  It almost sounds like some kind of prison sentence.)

Of course, all of this upheaval could turn out better than expected.  Maybe I'll get a big bump in salary.  Have better benefits.  Be able to save up some money for rainy days (translation:  car problems, heating bills, broken TVs, etc.).  Retire before I'm 80.  That's what I'm going with this evening.  It's a good dream.

And then, as Ford points out, there's music and art and things.

Saint Marty is ready for all of that.

March 10: Red Jacket Jamboree Show, Calumet, Exhausted

Greetings from Calumet!

Finished with the Red Jacket Jamboree radio show about an hour or so ago.  I'm sitting in my hotel room, pretty exhausted.  It was a weekend of rehearsals and writing and rehearsals again.  Each time that I've performed at the Calumet Theatre, my roles have evolved.  I started out as the Poet Laureate, reading a few poems.  Then, I became a storyteller and poet.  Then an actor and storyteller and poet.  Then, a singer and actor and storyteller and poet.

This time, I was a a writer and actor and storyteller and poet.

I've enjoyed the whole process.  But, as I said:  it is exhausting.

Now, Saint Marty is thankful for his bed and his family, who drove up for the taping of the show.

February 17: Most Melancholy, Funeral Mass, Rum Chata

In bed we concocted our plans for the morrow. But to my surprise and no small concern, Queequeg now gave me to understand, that he had been diligently consulting Yojo- the name of his black little god- and Yojo had told him two or three times over, and strongly insisted upon it everyway, that instead of our going together among the whaling-fleet in harbor, and in concert selecting our craft; instead of this, I say, Yojo earnestly enjoined that the selection of the ship should rest wholly with me, inasmuch as Yojo purposed befriending us; and, in order to do so, had already pitched upon a vessel, which, if left to myself, I, Ishmael, should infallibly light upon, for all the world as though it had turned out by chance; and in that vessel I must immediately ship myself, for the present irrespective of Queequeg.

I have forgotten to mention that, in many things, Queequeg placed great confidence in the excellence of Yojo's judgment and surprising forecast of things; and cherished Yojo with considerable esteem, as a rather good sort of god, who perhaps meant well enough upon the whole, but in all cases did not succeed in his benevolent designs.

Now, this plan of Queequeg's or rather Yojo's, touching the selection of our craft; I did not like that plan at all. I had not a little relied upon Queequeg's sagacity to point out the whaler best fitted to carry us and our fortunes securely. But as all my remonstrances produced no effect upon Queequeg, I was obliged to acquiesce; and accordingly prepared to set about this business with a determined rushing sort of energy and vigor, that should quickly settle that trifling little affair. Next morning early, leaving Queequeg shut up with in our little bedroom- for it seemed that it was some sort of Lent or Ramadan, or day of fasting, humiliation, and prayer with Queequeg and Yojo that day; how it was I never could find out, for, though I applied myself to it several times, I never could master his liturgies and XXXIX Articles- leaving Queequeg, then, fasting on his tomahawk pipe, and Yojo warming himself at his sacrificial fire of shavings, I sallied out among the shipping. After much prolonged sauntering, and many random inquiries, I learnt that there were three ships up for three-years' voyages- The Devil-dam, the Tit-bit, and the Pequod. Devil-dam, I do not know the origin of; Tit-bit is obvious; Pequod you will no doubt remember, was the name of a celebrated tribe of Massachusetts Indians; now extinct as the ancient Medes. I peered and pryed about the Devil-dam; from her, hopped over to the Tit-bit; and finally, going on board the Pequod, looked around her for a moment, and then decided that this was the very ship for us.

You may have seen many a quaint craft in your day, for aught I know;- square-toed luggers; mountainous Japanese junks; butter-box galliots, and what not; but take my word for it, you never saw such a rare old craft as this same rare old Pequod. She was a ship of the old school, rather small if anything; with an old-fashioned claw-footed look about her. Long seasoned and weather-stained in the typhoons and calms of all four oceans, her old hull's complexion was darkened like a French grenadier's, who has alike fought in Egypt and Siberia. Her venerable bows looked bearded. Her masts- cut somewhere on the coast of Japan, where her original ones were lost overboard in a gale- her masts stood stiffly up like the spines of the three old kings of Cologne. Her ancient decks were worn and wrinkled, like the pilgrim-worshipped flag-stone in Canterbury Cathedral where Becket bled. But to all these her old antiquities, were added new and marvellous features, pertaining to the wild business that for more than half a century she had followed. Old Captain Peleg, many years her chief-mate, before he commanded another vessel of his own, and now a retired seaman, and one of the principal owners of the Pequod,- this old Peleg, during the term of his chief-mateship, had built upon her original grotesqueness, and inlaid it, all over, with a quaintness both of material and device, unmatched by anything except it be Thorkill-Hake's carved buckler or bedstead. She was apparelled like any barbaric Ethiopian emperor, his neck heavy with pendants of polished ivory. She was a thing of trophies. A cannibal of a craft, tricking herself forth in the chased bones of her enemies. All round, her unpanelled, open bulwarks were garnished like one continuous jaw, with the long sharp teeth of the sperm whale, inserted there for pins, to fasten her old hempen thews and tendons to. Those thews ran not through base blocks of land wood, but deftly traveled over sheaves of sea-ivory. Scorning a turnstile wheel at her reverend helm, she sported there a tiller; and that tiller was in one mass, curiously carved from the long narrow lower jaw of her hereditary foe. The helmsman who steered that tiller in a tempest, felt like the Tartar, when he holds back his fiery steed by clutching its jaw. A noble craft, but somehow a most melancholy! All noble things are touched with that.

Please forgive my extended absence.  Like Queequeg, I have put a whole lot of faith in my God's guidance these last three days.  My life has been divided between work and poetry and funeral home.  Ishmael ends up on the Pequod, which he says is "most melancholy."  Today, I ended up at church.  Most melancholy.

It is Saturday night.  My father's funeral Mass was this morning.  It started with a military ceremony, because my dad was a Korean War vet.  Taps played.  When they handed my mother the flag and said, "On behalf of the President of the United States, the United States Army, and a grateful nation, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one’s honorable and faithful service,” I started crying.  I pretty much kept crying for the rest of the service.

It's strange.  I haven't cried a whole lot over this past week.  Probably because I have kept myself so busy with work and teaching and readings.  Until this morning, I hadn't had a chance to process things.  Grief had to take a back seat.  Not today, I guess.  By the time the funeral lunch was over, I was completely done.  Exhausted.  Pushing through mud.  I went home and slept.

I am probably going to sleep a lot more tonight.  I've been running on adrenaline since last Thursday.  I think my store of that particular hormone has been depleted.  However, my wife's cousin gave me two little bottles of Rum Chata at the funeral.  I plan on cracking them open tonight.

That's about all I have for tonight.  I'm weary and sad. 

Saint Marty promises to try to talk about something besides death and sadness tomorrow.

December 21: Exhausted, Lisa Larnot, "Christmas Prelude"

Okay, I'm pretty exhausted right now.  Can't really focus on the computer screen or the words I'm typing.  My eyes keep closing.

So, I have a poem.  I think it's good, but I won't verify its worth until I've had about an eight-hour-nap. 

Saint Marty is ready to start counting sheep.

Christmas Prelude

by:  Lisa Jarnot

O little fleas

of speckled light

all dancing

like a satellite

 

O belly green trees

shaded vale

O shiny bobcat

winter trail

 

Amoebic rampage

squamous cock

a Chinese hairpiece

burly sock

 

A grilled banana

smashes gates

and mingeless badgers

venerate

 

The asses of the

winter trees

rock on fat asses

as you please

 

Be jumpy

or unhinged

with joy

enlightened

fry cakes

Staten hoy.

August 7: Grading, Exhausted, Classic Saint Marty

Another day of grading.  By this time tomorrow night, I hope to be done with everything.  I have only my students' final exams to complete.  That's six essay questions for 22 students.  If you're doing the math, that means 132 short answer essays stand between me and peace of mind.  That may seem like a lot.  It's not, compared to what I was facing at the beginning of the weekend.

I am brain dead at the moment.  I need to go to bed.  Still have to work tomorrow morning.  Plus a dentist appointment.  And then a meeting at the university in the evening.

About a year ago, I had a completely different worry.

August 6, 2015:  Fragility of Life, Absolutely Go to Heaven, Sharon Olds, "My Father's Eyes"

I've been thinking a lot about the fragility of life.  Yesterday, as I was hiking up from the base of a waterfall, I nearly slipped off the edge of the hill into the valley below.  Lots of rocks.  It would have been a very hard landing.  In the space of a few seconds, my life could have changed forever.

Of course, that's always the case with anybody.  Things happen.  You walk into a party and meet your future spouse.  You have a romantic evening, and suddenly you're a parent.  You go to see your doctor, and she tells you that there's a mass in your abdomen. You wake up in the morning with a pain in your side, and in the evening, you're in an operating room, having your appendix removed.  Fragility.

I have plans.  Syllabi to put together.  Poems to write.  An attic to clean out.  These things are all on my to-do list.  I make lists.  All the time.  Those lists help me feel in control.  Notice I used the word "feel."  In reality, I know that I'm not in control.  But the illusion of control is important for my peace of mind.

My sister, the one at the University of Michigan Hospital, was always in charge, at work and at home.  People depended on her level-headed, no-nonsense approach.  This time, last year, she was going to movies and out to eat.  Visiting with her nieces and nephews.  She was happy.  In control.  At least, that's what she believed.  Yet, right now, she is beyond making decisions, telling people what to do.

At one point in Mr. Ives' Christmas, Ives' son, Robert, asks Ives:

"Do you think that if you die just after receiving communion you will absolutely go to heaven?"

Robert is young, impressionable, full of faith in God's goodness.  Ives answers him, "Yes.  Without a doubt."  Robert is looking for comfort and assurance, and Ives provides it.

I will be traveling to Ann Arbor tomorrow to see my sister.  I'm going with one of my best friends (and one of my sister's best friends).  My friend offered to drive me, and I accepted.  I know that I'm not in control of my life or my sister's life.  I have to give her over to God.  I am simply going to provide comfort and love and support, like Ives gives to Robert.  I won't be posting again until Saturday.  Maybe Sunday.

Life is fragile, but God's love isn't.  Hopefully, I'll be able to help my sisters who are down there, making the decisions, understand that.  It's time to hand over the reins to the Big Guy in the Sky.

Saint Marty hopes he's doing the right thing.

My Father's Eyes

by:  Sharon Olds

The day before my father died
he lay there all day with his eyes open,
staring with a weary dogged look.
His irises had turned hazel in places
as if his nature had changed, bits
of water or sky set into his mineral solids.
Every time he blinked, the powerful
wave of the blink moved through my body
as if God had blinked,
a world unmade in the jump of an eyelid.
They said he was probably not seeing anything,
the material sphere of his eye simply
open to the stuff of the world.
But toward evening he would seem to move
his eyes toward my voice or his wife's voice.
And once, when he got agitated,
reaching out, I leaned down
and he swerved his blurred iris toward me and with-
in it for a moment his pupil narrowed and
took me in, it was my father
looking at me.  This lasted just
a second, like the sudden flash
of sex that jumps between two people.
Then his vision sank back down
and left only the globe of the eye, and the
next day the soul went out
and left just my father there
and I thought of that last glint, glint without
warmth or hope, his glint of recognition.

April 3: Snowing All Day, My Choice, Classic Saint Marty

It has been freakin' snowing all day long.  From sunrise to sunset.  About six to eight fresh inches.  I have shoveled two or three times since last night.  I am tired and sore.  And tomorrow morning, another work week begins.  A long, tiring week.

But I'm not complaining.  That's my life.  I choose to live in the Upper Peninsula, and there's lots of snow in the U. P.  I have two jobs.  I work a lot.  I never get to bed much before 11 p.m. or later.  That's my choice, too.  I worked about six or seven hours this afternoon, grading quizzes and tests, creating lesson plans.  My choice.  I love teaching.  My choice.

That doesn't change the fact that I am exhausted.  And the fact that, five years ago, it was snowing, too:

April 3, 2011:  Paying Bills, Psalm 26, More Snow

I think this psalm pretty much speaks for itself today.  I don't have a lot of time to type this evening.  I have bills to pay, a baby to bathe, papers to grade.  Just read the poem.  You'll understand.  I'm feeling a little overburdened today, have been since this morning.  I didn't accomplish half the stuff I wanted to accomplish this weekend.  As always.  And it's snowing again.  A lot.  I'm ready for spring, summer.  I'm ready for this semester to be over.

Saint Marty is feeling stressed.  Really stressed.  He's trying to find his happy place.  He really is.

Psalm 26:  Take My Burdens

Take my burdens, Lord.
Take my mortgage payment, water bill.
Car insurance due two days ago.
You can pay it online.  I'm sure
You have WiFi.  Take the essays
I have to grade.  They're about Dante's
The Inferno.  You probably have more
Insight than I about hell, anyway.
Just watch for comma splices, plagiarism.
My attic needs to be emptied out, Lord.
Old clothes, toys to Vincent de Paul,
The store not the saint.  Let's talk about
Painting my kitchen, too.  Strip wallpaper,
Tear out wood panelling.  You may have
To drywall a little.  I'd prefer a color
That reminds me of summer, light green,
Oak and maple leaves at dawn.
You know the shade.  I trust You.
Take my burdens, Lord.
If You could drive tomorrow morning
That would be great.  Snow's coming, patches
Of black ice, snow plows and sanders
In pitch dark.  Your eyes are better,
Plus You can keep deer out of our way.
Or You could just hold off on snow,
Take those clouds, overstuffed
Laundry bags, send them to cleaners
In a different place, New York or Ontario,
Bermuda or Cuba, if it wouldn't screw up
Things too much, global warming, ozone
Depletion, all that.  You know what's best.
Take my burdens, Lord.
I suppose I should say something
About Afghanistan, Libya, Iraq, ask
For peace in the world, people of all
Colors and religions to exist together
In harmony, really close harmony.
Peter, Paul, and Mary, Kingston Trio
Harmony, where you can't tell one voice
From the other, like some Tibetan monks
Can vibrate their vocal chords, create
Two voices in their throats at the same time.
Take all my burdens, Lord.
I'll leave them piled on my front step, the way
My grandmother left milk bottles
On her stoop in the old days
For the milkman she never saw. 

Take my burdens, milkman

November 17: Big Party, Classroom Observations, Issa, Two Haiku, Off the Top of My Head

On December 29, 1982, there had been a big party in the boardroom, and it was attended by many of the old-timers like Ives himself--Crane, Silverman, Schamberg--and Mr. Mannis, having survived his third open-heart operation, made a speech.  They had given Ives a watch--a gold Swiss pocket watch from the 1920s, engraved with his name on the back (to go into a drawer along with the watch he had intended to give his son long ago at Christmas)--and a plaque.

Ives is a respected advertising executive.  Over the years, he has fostered the work of younger artists and Spanish-speaking employees.  By the time he retires, Ives' hair has turned white, and he feels outdated.  Tired.  Ives knows that he isn't Norman Rockwell or Andy Warhol.  Yet, in his own small way, he has changed the world.  For that, he is proud.

This morning, a full-time professor came to my Good Books class to observe me.  I have been teaching at the university for 23 years now.  That's a lot of hours standing in front of classrooms over the past two decades.  I shouldn't get nervous.  Yet, I didn't sleep well last night, and I could barely think straight when I finally climbed out of bed at 4 a.m. for work.

That being said, the classroom observation went really well.  My students participated, asked questions, pretended to be interested.  The full-timer who observed me seemed impressed.  As he was leaving, he said that he was going to use one of my teaching techniques in his own class next semester.  I think that bodes well for my written evaluation.

So, I am thankful this evening that my classroom observation is over.  I am thankful that it went well, and that my evaluator responded to my lesson plan.

Saint Marty is also exhausted.  Too little sleep.  Too much worry.

Two Haiku

by:  Issa

     Napped half the day;
no one
     punished me!


     The toad!  It looks like
it could belch
     a cloud.

Off the Top of My Head

October 10: Wondrous Example, Perfect Family, Wisconsin Dells

Ives and Annie seemed to epitomize, with their well-behaved children, a wondrous example of what a family should be like, especially in that neighborhood, where many of the kids where rough and got into trouble...

Yes, Ives seems to have the perfect family.  Beautiful wife.  Two smart children.  Good job.  Nice, rent-controlled apartment.  Ives is living the American dream.  Of course, Ives' dream is soon studded with tragedy, most significantly, the murder of his teenage son.

I do not have a poem for you guys today.  Or a new cartoon.  I have been sitting in convention rooms at the Kalahari Resort in the Wisconsin Dells, watching young people learn dance routines.  That may sound relaxing, but my daughter is 14 years old.  Nothing about her is relaxing, including this dance convention.

Tomorrow morning, I have to wake her up at 7 a,m..  She will growl and complain, say she's not hungry, and probably sulk for half a day.

Another day in paradise for this would-be Saint.,

Saint Martyis going to need a vacation to recover from this vacation.,

August 30: Sister's Funeral, Eulogy, New Poem, "Strawberry Picking"

My sister's funeral was this afternoon.  It was not without its share of family drama.  In the end, no blood was shed, and everybody was well-fed and happy at the end.  You will forgive me if I am not witty or profound this afternoon.  I was up until about 2 a.m. finishing my eulogy and poem.  It is now after 7 p.m., and I am practically comatose.  The only blessing is that I don't have to work tomorrow.  Or the next day.  Or the next.  For the next five days, all I have to do is create lesson plans and teach.  Basically, I'll be living the life of a tenured full-timer.  No jumping jobs in the middle of the day.  No late nights at the medical office.  Basically, I will have a normal existence for the next week.

The funeral was beautiful.  My sister's best friend, Lydia, gave a moving eulogy with a Nightingale tribute.  My sister was a nurse for 32 years. And then I gave my eulogy and recited my poem.  My friends sang the "Pie Jesu" by Andrew Lloyd Webber and "I Have a Dream" by ABBA.  At the end of the Mass, I turned to Lydia and said, "I think Sal would have been happy."  Lydia hugged me and said, "Sal is happy."

So, I am exhausted.  When I got to the church, I cried.  When Lydia showed up, I cried.  When I gave my eulogy, I cried.  When my friends sang, I cried.  When I ate my stuffed shells, I cried (they were really hot).  When I got home and saw the rum my wife's cousin dropped off for me, I cried.

Saint Marty misses his sister a lot.  Or he's pregnant.

Strawberry Picking

for Sally

You took me strawberry picking
once, drove out to a farm
where we paid to squat in green
beds laced with tongues of red.
I could feel my ears and neck
tighten under the punishing
sun as we filled Morning Glory
ice cream buckets with our
harvest, each berry looking to me
like some vital body part,
an organ or muscle necessary
for life.  You sat on your haunches,
fingers staining red, as if you
were some battlefield surgeon
patching up the fallen with only
your hands.  Every now and then,
you would lift a berry to your lips,
eat it in a hummingbird moment,
smiling the smile of the freshly
healed at Lourdes, where miracles
are common as empty wheelchairs
or dandelions in a July field.

The days since you've been gone,
I see strawberries everywhere,
in a welt of blood on my lip
after shaving, a stop sign,
a friend's dyed hair,
my son's sunburned shoulders,
oxygen in the gills of a perch.
Last night, I stood outside, under
ribbons of borealis, watched
them glide between the stars
like garter snakes in a midnight
Eden.  The Bible says that, in the cool
of the day, Adam and Eve heard
God taking a stroll through
the garden.  There were probably
peacocks nesting in the pines,
a stream talking with moss and stone,
the scurry of mole and spider
in the ferns.

That's what I believe you heard
in your last moments of breath.
You heard peafowl screams,
brook trout leaps.  Grasshopper wing
and corn silk.  And you heard
His divine toes in the grass, walking
along.  When He came to you,
He couldn't resist.  He reached down,
plucked you from the stem.  You were
ripe.  Sweet.  Ready.  He put you
in His Morning Glory bucket, continued
on into the dew and sunlight.