July 21, 2026: “The Game,” Easily Distracted, “Someplace Happy”

Yes, it has been a hot minute since my last post.  I could flood you with excuses, talk about how busy life has been, list everything’s that’s happened.  Independence Day.  Heat waves.  Toxic wildfire smoke.  Performing in Calumet.  Two Republican senators meeting their ends.  (Sorry, Mitch isn’t sucking down margaritas at a cushy rehab facility.)  War crimes against Iran.  Billionaires getting richer.  Teaching my summer class for the university.  The pigeon lady from Home Alone 2 dying.  

I’m easily distracted these days.  I have good intentions to write blog posts, new poems, a novella.  Make a dent in the stack of books I want to read.  Finish art projects.  Grade student papers.  Edit my new poetry manuscript.  So many plans, so little time.  

Marie Howe writes about childhood games . . .

The Game

by: Marie Howe

And on certain nights,

maybe once or twice a year,

I’d carry the baby down

and all the kids would come

all nine of us together,

and we’d build a town in the basement

from boxes and blankets and overturned chairs.

And some lived under the pool table

or in the bathroom or the boiler room

or in the toy cupboard under the stairs,

and you could be a man or a woman 

a husband or a wife or a child, and we bustled around

like a day in the village until

one of us turned off the lights, switch

by switch, and slowly it became night

and the people slept.

Our parents were upstairs with company or

not fighting, and one of us—it was usually

a boy—became the Town Crier,

and he walked around our little sleeping

population and tolled the hours with his voice,

and this was the game.

Nine o’clock and all is well, he’d say,

walking like a constable we must have seen

in a movie.  And what we called an hour passed.

Ten o’clock and all is well.

And maybe somebody stirred in her sleep

or a grown up baby cried and was comforted.

Eleven o’clock and all is well.

Twelve o’clock.  One o’clock.  Two o’clock . . . 

and it went on like that through the night we made up

until we could pretend it was morning.

This poem has so much truth in it.  As kids, we dream of growing up—all those freedoms of adulthood.  As adults, we dream of times gone by—childhoods filled with water balloon fights and school crushes and eternal summer vacations.  The grass is always greener in someone else’s backyard.  Younger people don’t get this until they become older people.  (How many times have I heard young people in my life, after working their first full-time job, saying to me after a couple of weeks, “Man, being an adult sucks!”?)

Yes, human beings rarely enjoy the present.  We look ahead all the time.  Oh, if I can just finish this poem, I’ll be happy!  Oh, I can’t wait for my vacation in six months!  Oh, I live for weekends!  Oh, I’m going to start enjoying life once I retire!  It seems like the future is always better and brighter.  

On the flip side, adults always look back wistfully on their childhoods.  There’s a reason why books like Little House on the Prairie and movies like The Breakfast Club and A Christmas Story are so popular.  They tap into that current of nostalgia that runs through all our veins.  True or not, we believe things were simpler and easier in the past.

My mother, in the last years of her life, lived in the past.  Her eyesight was bad.  Her hearing wasn’t much better.  She couldn’t remember who I was sometimes, and other times she would tell me stories about her girlhood in Detroit.  After my father died, she frequently asked about his whereabouts.  If we reminded her that Dad had died, her face crumpled with confusion and sadness as she experienced his loss anew.  The past became Mom’s happy place, where grief didn’t exist and joy was just a trip to Dairy Queen away.

Of course, that’s all bullshit.  There was still racism and misogyny and homophobia and Ronald Reagan in the past.  And I think we (current residents of the United States) can vouch for that fact that the future holds no promises of sunshine or low gas prices or peace. All we really have is the present, in all its current fucked-upness.  Worrying about tomorrow is about as useful as a wildfire smoke tariff on Canada..  

Here are things I celebrate about today:  blue sky, dinner and drinks with friends, chocolate, a puppy kiss, and warm pajamas.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about his mother for tonight , , ,

Someplace Happy

by: Martin Achatz

after she lost    her         husband          she didn’t

     remember         kept asking

when he was coming    home    accused him

of staying out         late        drinking with his pals

     from the Elks club    or    even worse

holing up at hunting camp         while she

slaved at home         took care of their nine kids

     they are    all grown     now        two dead

one with Down’s syndrome & Alzheimer’s

why would         you draw someone         back from

     someplace happy        with all her loves

still around        and she can still         remember

how to make          the good         tapioca from the pearls

     without having to           con         sult         the box

why    why    why    why    would you           want

to lure Dorothy back         from Oz         or

     Max back         from           the wild rum         pus

with all         the wild things         isn’t it bet    ter

if she just         keeps         wearing         those ruby      shoes

    eating emer    ald macarons         know         ing

Auntie Em is          still         there         wait         ing for           her

August 11: "Evening Alone," Night Owl, Happy Place

I have very few moments during my days--morning, afternoon, or evening--when I am completely alone.  I think that's why I've always been a night owl.  After people go to bed, I get a few hours of solitude.

Sometimes I make good use of that solitude, reading or writing or revising or eating chocolate.  Other times, I allow my mind to rest.  I watch a movie I've seen dozens of times or a television program that requires little in the way of active attention.  I drift and wander lonely as a cloud.

That's what Billy Collin is doing in today's poem . . . 

Evening Alone

by: Billy Collins

Last of the strong sun

on white tiles, stack of white towels, 

faint piano melody from downstairs, 

and the downpour of hot water on my shoulders. 

I lift my face to the nozzle, close my eyes

and see mountains folded 

over mountains, smoke rising from a woodcutter’s hut,

 and in the distance, billowing pastel clouds. 

It must be China I am beholding 

on this early summer evening— 

the great sway of rivers, 

thousands of birds rising on the wing, 

the jade and mulberries of China, 

plum blossoms—now the cry of a pheasant. 

It is a vision that drains me of desire, 

and leaves me wanting nothing 

but to be here 

in this hot steamy room 

washing my neck, rubbing my sides, 

the soap slithering down the chest and stomach, 

eyes still shut, 

while in China, 

a light boat crosses a lake, 

and in a wooden house on the shore 

a young woman in a tight-fitting silk dress 

lifts a cup of cinnamon tea 

to her painted, slightly parted lips.

I'm not sure if Billy Collins is calling up a distant memory or completely imagining this scene.  But he is drifting and wandering in his mind to a place that gives him peace and pleasure.  It really doesn't matter whether it's real or not.

We all have happy places.  The Eiffel Tower.  Loch Ness.  Lake Superior.  A couch.  My happy place?  I'm kind of a homebody.  The only place where I really relax and set aside all my masks is at home.  I don't have to do anything but be myself.  That's a great gift.  I can be Marty the poet.  Marty the blogger.  Marty the Christmas fanatic.  Marty the Bigfoot guy.  Or I can just be Marty the guy who watches Portrait Artist of the Year fanatically, over and over.  

Saint Marty's favorite place tonight was his backyard, standing under the sun, noticing how leaves are already changing color.

September 14: "Singapore," Rules for Poetry, Subaru Impreza

Mary Oliver writes a poem about birds and trees and rivers . . . 

Singapore

by Mary Oliver

In Singapore, in the airport,

a darkness was ripped from my eyes.

In the women's restroom, one compartment stood open.

A woman knelt there, washing something

     in the white bowl.

Disgust argued in my stomach

and I felt, in my pocket, for my ticket.

A poem should always have birds in it.

Kingfishers, say, with their bold eyes and gaudy wings.

Rivers are pleasant, and of course trees.

A waterfall, or if that's not possible, a fountain

     rising and falling.

A person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.

When that woman turned I could not answer her face.

Her beauty and her embarrassment struggled together, and

     neither could win.

She smiled and I smiled.  What kind of nonsense is this?

Everybody needs a job.

Yes, a person wants to stand in a happy place, in a poem.

But first we much watch her as she stares down at her labor,

     which is dull enough.

She is washing the tops of the airport ashtrays, as big as 

     hubcaps, with a blue rag.

Her small hands turn the metal, scrubbing, and rinsing.

She does not work slowly, nor quickly, but like a river.

Her dark hair is like the wing of a bird.

I don't doubt for a moment that she loves her life.

And I want her to rise up from the crust and the slop

     and fly down to the river.

This probably won't happen.

But maybe it will.

If the world were only pain and logic, who would want it?

Of course, it isn't.

Neither do I mean anything miraculous, but only

the light that can shine out of life.  I mean

the way she unfolded and refolded the blue cloth,

the way her smile was only for my sake; I mean

the way this poem is filled with trees, and birds.

I love this poem for many reasons.  However, my favorite part of it is Oliver's "rules for poetry."  She basically describes the perfect Mary Oliver poem.

According to Oliver, a poem . . . 

1) should always have birds in it

2) is made better by the presence of rivers

3) and trees

4) and a waterfall (or a fountain rising and falling if a waterfall isn't possible)

These are elements that belong in Oliver's "happy place," and Oliver believes that a poem should let a person stand in a happy place.  So, even though Oliver is standing in an airport bathroom, watching a woman scrub ashtrays in a toilet bowl.  Oliver finds birds and rivers and trees.

Of course, my happy place is very different from Oliver's, and your happy place, dear disciple, is probably very different from mine.  Happiness is subjective, and, while chocolate makes me happy, it may give you a migraine.

I think the point is that a poem is a respite, a deep breath in the middle of the chaos of life.  I've always had very visceral reactions to poems.  This first time I read "To Christ Our Lord," I remember just sitting in my seat, stunned by the beauty of Galway Kinnell's words into a ten-minute moment of poetic nirvana.  (By the way, there are quite a few birds in that poem, so Oliver would have been very happy with it.)

So, as I write the final paragraph of this post, let me try to employ Oliver's rules of poetry.

Monday morning, as I was driving to work, I watched the sun rise over Lake Superior.  It was a golden green day, the leaves of some of the maples along U. S. 41 already being chewed up by autumn.  (There's the trees.)  I didn't drive slowly or quickly, but like a river.  With purpose toward another week of work and school.  (There's the river.)  I had no idea how things were going to change for me.   This afternoon, I purchased a new car, ending four days of uncertainty and worry.  It's a 2024 Subaru Impreza the color of goose wings.  (There's the bird.)

Now the waterfall:  Saint Marty feels as if he's just ridden in a barrel over Niagara and is bobbing safely in the foam at the bottom of the falls, gazing around in wonder at where he started and where he ended up. 

June 19: Phone Frustration, Doctors, Nurses, Poetry

I'm a man on the edge

First, let me begin by saying I am not one of those people who complain.  Much.  I don't like getting on the phone and being nasty to the person on the other end.  In my job at the medical office, I am often on the receiving end of phone calls like that, and I don't like passing along that kind of karma.

That being said, I have had a day of phone frustration.  I have been on the horn with doctors' offices, nurses, medical records clerks, and medical equipment suppliers.  I'm sick of people shifting blame and not doing anything to help me solve my dilemma.  The last person I spoke to on the phone yet again told me it was somebody else's fault that I'm having trouble getting supplies for my insulin pump.  (Yes, I am an insulin pump diabetic.)  I wanted to tell "Kim" that I really didn't give a shit whose fault it was.  I simply wanted the problem resolved.  I did, however, stop short of profanity.

Now, I'm waiting for yet another phone call, and I have a sinking feeling it's not going to come before I have to leave for my dinner with Donald Hall and company.  I'm looking forward to my night of poetry, sitting in a room with one of my favorite writers.  This game of phone dodge ball has begun to sour my mood.

If the phone call I'm expecting doesn't come, I'm going to try to put the whole thing out of my head until tomorrow morning, when I will take up my quest for the Holy Grail yet again.  I want to enjoy my evening.  I do not want to spend dinner with Don brooding about the inadequacy of the medical establishment in this country.  Believe me, I could go on for a while on that subject.

Saint Marty is seeking his happy place, where chicken cordon bleu and poetry roams.

May 11: Friday Night, Cleaning House, Meltdowns

Guess where I am

It's Friday night.  My daughter is at the dance studio.  I have about an hour to kill.  Guess where we are?  (I know the picture kind of gives it away.)

My wife and I just finished our Wal-Mart run for the week.  It was not a pleasant shopping experience.  My three-year-old son has gotten used to getting a new toy car every time he steps foot in a store.  However, my son's taste in cars tends toward the five- and ten-dollar price range.  Our budget this week, however, was more in the 89-cent Matchbox range.  My son had a meltdown in the middle of the toy car aisle.  Then he had a meltdown on the way to the parking lot.  Then he had a meltdown as I was buckling in his car seat.  Then he had another meltdown on the way to McDonald's.  It was an afternoon of meltdowns, and I have a headache now.

I didn't get a chance to do any cleaning this afternoon, so, instead of relaxing when I get home, I will be scrubbing toilets, vacuuming, sweeping, and dusting.  Cleaning house.  I wish I could say "screw it" tonight, but I didn't clean last weekend due to our trip to Howell, Michigan.  The house is a D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R, and I use the capital letters intentionally.  I don't think I could relax in the living room unless I closed my eyes and thought of my happy place (Stockholm, in December, accepting the Nobel Prize for Literature--or taking a nap).

Saint Marty has a long night ahead of him, and he's doesn't have to use the few words of Swedish he knows.

February 21: Unaccountably Good Mood, Leftover Paczkis

Right now, I'm in an unaccountably good mood.  I've wracked and wracked my brain, trying to figure out why I should feel so...well, good.  I haven't come up with any reasons.  I had an easy day of teaching.  I just showed the Harry Hamlin version of Clash of the Titans, which beats the new Clash hands-down.  I've only eaten two-and-a-half paczkis (lemon, blueberry, and half a raspberry).  If that seems like a lot, I'll have you know that I can polish off a good half dozen of those bastards on Fat Tuesday.  Work wasn't too bad, either.

I don't know.  It's a mystery.

Tonight, my wife and I are going to a therapy appointment together.  We've been seeing this therapist since the last time my wife relapsed with her sexual addiction.  I really like this doctor, but I'm never sure what direction each session will take.  If I haven't mentioned it before, I'm not a big fan of surprise.  These sessions frequently surprise me.  In good ways, usually.

That's all I got.  I don't think I can chalk up my good mood to a marriage counseling session.  Therefore, as I said, it's a mystery.

I'm not going to complain about being happy.  I'm just going to accept it and give thanks.  And eat some leftover paczkis.

Saint Marty has gone to his happy place, even if he doesn't know how he got there.

Don't ask me for directions

December 1: Babbysitters Needed, Eggs and Cheese, New Month

Welcome to December.  Yes, it is the first day of a new month.  The snow is falling outside at the moment, making everything look fresh and white and new.  It's a month of beginnings and endings.  Whenever I enter a new calendar month, I have a sense of renewal and promise.  With December, I feel this promise especially because of the upcoming holidays, the approach of a brand new year.  Anything seems possible as the world goes to sleep and gestates during the winter months.  The seeds planted in the past year get ready for their spring journey toward the sun.

Yes, I'm intentionally trying to be positive and optimistic instead of cranky and exhausted.  My worries have not evaporated.  I didn't suddenly inherit a small fortune from a distant, rich relative.  I didn't get a six-figure advance from a publisher on my next book.  Everything, pretty much, is the same as it was yesterday.  The only thing that has changed is my determination to be positive, at least for the length of this post.

That being said, does anybody have the number of a reliable babysitter?  My wife and I are having a terrible time right now trying to find babysitters.  Last night, we had choir practice at church.  My sister used to come over every Wednesday to watch our kids for the hour we needed to be gone.  She no longer does this favor for us.  (She's dealing with some issues of her own.)  Our niece was babysitting for us on a fairly regular basis for a while, but now she doesn't seem to be getting our phone messages.  I'm starting to think that my children are possessed or something.

We took our children to the church with us for choir practice yesterday evening.  It was hideous.  My son does not like to be trapped in a Sunday School room watching a movie.  He wants to run and create havoc.  I spent half of the choir practice chasing him through the church and dragging him back to the Sunday School room.  We eventually left choir practice early with my son screaming and my daughter crying.

Things didn't improve much when we got home.  Everyone was in a bad mood.  After getting my son to bed, I sat in my chair, put my earbuds in my ears, and listened to Christmas music.  I needed to find my happy place.

A little slice of heaven

It's a little sad when you realize your happy place is being asleep in your chair in the living room.  However, that's when all the noise ceases and I'm able to relax.  When the alarm went off this morning, one of my first thoughts was actually, "In about 17 or 18 hours, I can go back to sleep."

I'm really hungry now.  I have scrambled eggs and cheese waiting for me.  For the next eight or nine hours of my life, I'm going to try to focus on renewal and rejuvenation.

We'll see how that works out for Saint Marty.

November 30: I Got Nothin'

When I teach writing workshops, which is not very often these days, I have the participants write many journal entries.  I provide topics for some of these journal entries, but, for many of them, I leave it open.  If anyone in the workshop says, "I don't know what to write about," I usually tell the person to write about not having anything to write about. 

This morning, I got nothin', folks.  After last afternoon's little post about worries, I feel a little cleaned out.  Not in a good, cathartic way, though.  More in a what-else-can-I-say way.  It's terrible to be plagued by worries all day.  I'm not sure if my constant worry is a symptom of something more serious, something that needs serious medication.  However, it is a constant drain on my energy.

Now, I hear the ghost voice of Wonder Twin in my head, telling me that my blog is becoming too negative.  Lighten up, I hear her saying.  So I will tell you one of my favorite jokes:  So this dyslexic walks into a bra...

Trying to lighten things up...

That's the best I can do this morning.

Saint Marty needs to find his happy place.  Soon.