February 16: Cheshire Cat's Grin, Principle of Indeterminacy, Quincy Trouple, "The Other Night"

But in 1927 Werner Heisenberg pulled out the rug, and our whole understanding of the universe toppled and collapsed. For some reason it has not yet trickled down to the man on the street that some physicists now are a bunch of wild-eyed, raving mystics.  For they have perfected their instruments and methods just enough to whisk away the crucial veil, and what stands revealed is the Cheshire cat's grin.

Of course, what Dillard is writing about is the Principle of Indeterminacy, which basically says that it is impossible to know an atomic particle's velocity and position.  It's all about the unpredictability of nature.  Dillard goes on to describe an electron as a muskrat, a creature that cannot be tracked with any accuracy.  The universe is a constant surprise.

Recently, I think my life has been an experiment of indeterminacy.  Nothing I think should or will happen comes to pass.  I think that my sister will survive her cancer diagnosis, and she dies of lymphoma of the brain.  I think that it's not going to snow, and I wake up to five inches of fresh powder in the morning.  I think that Donald Trump will be the punchline of the entire presidential election, and he wins the New Hampshire primary.  Unpredictability.

As many of you already know, I am not a big fan of surprises.  I read the endings of books first.  I read spoilers for movies.  If I could, I would live in a world of complete and utter determinacy.  That's right.  When I wake up in the morning, I want to know what I'm having for dinner.  When I go to bed tonight, I want to know when I'm going to bed tomorrow night.  I embrace sameness.  Predictability.

Now, you probably know what I'm going to do at this point in my post.  That's right--I'm going to provide a poem by the Poet of the Week.  Quincy Troupe.  Troupe is not predictable.  In fact, his poems constantly surprise me, and that's a good thing.

Saint Marty can live with poetic surprise.  As long as he knows about it beforehand.

The Other Night

by:  Quincy Troupe

the other brandy
sweetened night we was
kissin so hard & good
you sucked my tongue
right on out
my tremblin mouth
& eye had to
sew it back in
in order to tell
you about it

 Nothing predictable about Pi . . .

March 20: Another Poem, Andrea Scarpino, "Detritus"

It's late, but I wanted to give you another poem from Andrea Scarpino.

Saint Marty is going to bed now.

Detritus

by:  Andrea Scarpino

The teeth you removed to brush,
pennies you scratched across
lottery games.  Paper cups
you filled with grapes.  Cheerios.
Bolts and nails sorted by size.
Tie clips, cuff links, miniature
American flags you pushed
into button holes.  Jelly jars full
of sand, pieces of Hadrian's Wall,
Parisian cobblestone.  Vitamins,
pills for thinning blood, vials
of insulin, gauze bandages.
Old address books, notepads,
outdated stamps.  Piece by piece,
a life reduced to garbage bags
that could belong to anyone.

August 29: Bonfire, Julianna Baggott, "Discussing Sorrow with Jesus"

I just returned from a bonfire.  Actually, it was a really small fire, but it was billed as a bonfire.  A colleague from the English Department hosted a gathering of grad students and faculty at her home.  Lots of drinking imported beer.  Lots of smoking cigarettes.  Lots of talking about bullshit irony in Juneau, Alaska.

I made an appearance, only to be seen, to have my name known or remembered by people.  It was important to do this.  It's the only way I can be a presence in the English Department.  The smoke and smokers nearly killed me.  I was coughing like Mimi at the end of La boheme.  I'm still coughing as I type this post.

Being sick makes me contemplate a lot of things.  Tonight, however, all I'm thinking about is going to bed.  However, I have a great poem to share.  It's about suffering and sacrifice.  It's about pain and healing.  It's about birth and death.

Saint Marty needs to take some cold medicine now.

Discussing Sorrow with Jesus

by:  Julianna Baggott

The blood blurs his vision
                   so he's always winking
like a diner waitress, eye-teared
by her cigarette's smoke,
                    and I ask to take his hat
--thorns, really==but no, he says, I'm fine.
It's so like him,
               to suffer openly,
and I tell him,
               It's too much,
the way your whittled shape
                    still dangles
from gold chains and rearview mirrors
tangled in wedding garters,
                     hung forever
on the back wall of Verbitski's fish shop.
You said that we would forget
                    the sorrow
after your resurrection, like a woman forgets labor
once the child is born.
               But we haven't forgotten.
And it's a poor metaphor,
because women do not forget
                    our bodies ripped open,
the knowledge that life simply passes through,
that the child isn't born
                    but taken
and we had thought it a gift.
No, each time, a woman resigns herself to joy,
like choosing
          the bruised and bitten fruit
because the bin is almost empty.
But I've gone too far, he's embarrassed now,
slouching, arms crossed
               to hide the wound
in his side, his hands' nail holesl
and legs crossed to cover
                    his soft penis.
Tired now,
          he lies down on the sofa.
Only to rest his eyes, he says,
and I cover him
               with a white sheet
that I know he will stain as he sleeps
                         like a young girl
who bleeds without knowing, and I watch as the blood inches
like brilliant red night-crawling spores,
covering the white until it is not his body,
                         but his image,
a perfect blood-stiffened cast of our Lord
and beneath it his shallow breathing.

Shroud of Turin

July 12: Fireworks Hangover

Hey, guys.  I'm not going to post too much tonight.  It has been a killer day.

I was up at 7 a.m. to run a race with my daughter.  (She took first place in her age group.  I took fourth place.)  By the way, my calves have not yet recovered.

Then I took my kids to a parade.  Two hours in the sun, scrambling for Tootsie Rolls and bubblegum.

Cleaned my parents' house.  Watered a friend's flowers.  Played the organ for church.

Finally, fireworks.  Kettle corn.  Bratwurst.  Sparklers.  And rain.  Lots of rain.  My underwear is still damp.

Got home about half an hour ago.  I don't have the energy to draw a new cartoon or search for an appropriate image to accompany this post.  So imagine a really funny or inappropriate picture.

Saint Marty is going to bed.

November 25: Poetry--Here I Come

I'm in a poetry mood right now.  After spending almost four weeks working on a creative nonfiction essay, I want to work on a new poem.  I have no idea what I'm going to write.  I need to start my Christmas poem soon.  Perhaps that's my next project.

I'm tired.  I'm sitting on my new couch, feet up, reclining.  Not a good position to be in at almost ten o'clock at night.  In between each of my sentences, there is literally a two minute pause.  Pretty soon, I won't be able to even finish a sentence.

Saint Marty needs to go to...Saint Marty is so...Saint Marty needs to...Screw it.  Saint Marty is going to bed.

I know what he feels like...

June 26: Reading Tonight

Tomorrow night, the members of my book club descend on my house for our monthly get-together.  I spent the evening reading this month's selection, Will Schwalbe's The End of Your Life Book Club.  I didn't have a hole lot of time for anything else.  I did work on my revision of "Apology," which I will share tomorrow night.

It's late, and severe thunderstorms have been rolling through the Upper Peninsula all night long.  Power has been flickering in and out all night long.  I'm pooped.

Saint Marty's going to bed.

Will Schwalbe--the guy I spent the evening with