January 22: Sub Meson Electronic Component, iPhone, Mediated Reality

Several dozen huge yellow chunky slablike somethings are about to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting Earth . . .

The only place they [the yellow chunky slablike somethings] registered at all was on a small black device called a Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic which winked away quietly to itself.  It nestled in the darkness inside a leather satchel which Ford Prefect wore habitually around his neck.  The contents of Ford Prefect's satchel were quite interesting in fact and would have made any Earth physicist's eyes pop out of his head, which is why he always concealed them by keeping a couple of dog-eared scripts for plays he pretended he was auditioning for stuffed in the top.  Besides the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic and the scripts he had an Electronic Thumb--a short squat black rod, smooth and matt with a couple of the switches and dials at one end; he also had a device which looked rather like a largish electronic calculator.  This had about a hundred tiny flat press buttons and a screen about four inches square on which any one of a million "pages" could be summoned at a moment's notice.  It looked insanely complicated, and this was one of the reasons why the snug plastic cover it fitted into had the words DON'T PANIC printed on it in large friendly letters.  The other reason was that this device was in fact that most remarkable of all books ever to come out of the great publishing corporations of Ursa Minor--The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.  The reason why it was published in the form of a micro sub meson electronic component is that if it were printed in normal book form, an interstellar hitchhiker would require several inconveniently large buildings to carry it around in.

Beneath that in Ford Prefect's satchel were a few ballpoints, a notepad and a largish bath towel from Marks and Spencer.

It may be just me, but the micro sub meson electronic component of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy sounds a little like an iPhone, which can access millions of pages, buildings and buildings of information and books.  Walking across a college campus, down a crowded street, you will encounter very few faces, because most people are staring down at their phones, texting or scrolling or listening or downloading.  The world has become a mediated reality.

I'm just as guilty as the next.  My phone is always with me, in my pocket or hand.  At home, it sits beside me on the couch, in case I receive a text or call.  As I type this blog post, I used a PDF of Hitchhiker's on my phone to transcribe the passage above.  As I read a book, I use my phone to look up words or facts with which I'm unfamiliar.  The iPhone is my Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

I just checked my e-mail on my iPhone and found out that my daughter doesn't have to play in the pep band tonight.  I called my daughter, who already knew about the cancellation, presumably because she received a text from one of her band mates.  She's at her dance studio.  I could have found that out by checking her location on my phone, as well.

This little device has revolutionized the way we live, in good and bad ways.  Of course, there are some things an iPhone cannot do.  It can't clean your house, which I just spent about two hours doing.  It can't make you healthy.  You need a doctor for that.  I am feeling about 65% better today, thanks to my physician.  It is 6 p.m., and I'm NOT ready to collapse today.  That is a vast improvement.  (Of course, I did say in my Sunday post that, according to my schedule, I was going to get better by Tuesday.)  And an iPhone can't correct quizzes or make lesson plans.  I will have to do that myself tonight, as well.

But my house is clean.  My daughter is dancing.  My son and wife are shoe shopping.  My cough is still with me, but my head is clearer.  And my iPhone is dormant.  No texts.  No e-mails.  No calls.  I have The Man Who Invented Christmas on my DVD player, and Charles Dickens has just published A Christmas Carol.

Saint Marty is so thankful for some quiet moments of unmediated peace.

January 3: Climaxes and Thrills, Big Ideas, Plans for 2017

As a trafficker in climaxes and thrills and characterization and wonderful dialogue and suspense and confrontations, I had outlined the Dresden story many times.  The best outline I ever made, or anyway the prettiest one, was on the back of a roll of wallpaper.  

 

I used my daughter's crayons, a different color for each main character. One end of the wallpaper was the beginning of the story, and the other end was the end, and then there was all that middle part, which was the middle. And the blue line met the red line and then the yellow line, and the yellow line stopped because the character represented by the yellow line was dead. And so on. The destruction of Dresden was represented by a vertical band of orange cross-hatching, and all the lines that were still alive passed through it, came out the other side.

Vonnegut spends a lot of time at the beginning of Slaughterhouse Five discussing the difficulties he's encountered writing a book about his war experiences.  He stops and starts, drunk calls war buddies and old girlfriends, and tries to map out a path from word number one to "The End."  This struggle goes on for years.

I'm very much like Vonnegut when it comes to writing.  I have big ideas, but I'm not sure how to implement them.  Over the years, I've said that I'm working on a book about Catholic saints (still in progress); a collection of poems based on headlines from the Weekly World News (abandoned--somebody else had the same idea and beat me to publication); a collection of poems based on the Star Wars universe (on hold--can't let this one go just yet); a young adult series of books about Dante's nine circles of hell (plotted out and saved for later); and, most recently, a collection of Bigfoot poems (moving ahead). 

It's sort of what we all do at the beginning of a new year.  Vow to lose weight.  Exercise more.  Clean out the attic.  Learn how to oil paint.  Write a book.  Big ideas.  Big plans.  And then reality takes hold.  Work resumes.  School functions and dance recitals and birthday parties.  Throw into that mix unexpected events like car problems, health issues, deaths, Trump presidencies.  The locomotive of the new year quickly goes off the rails.

So, I have plans for 2017, but I am not going to broadcast them to the world.  That way, if I fail, I don't have to offer explanations.  I'll just curl up in the fetal position on December 31, 2017, suck my thumb, and mutter over and over, "I'll do it next year, I'll do it next year, next year, next year." 

Who knows what 2017 has in store for me and my family?  There will be great happinesses and great challenges.  I'm sure about that.  I may be named Poet Laureate of the U. P.  I may not.  I may get a promotion at work.  I may not.  My daughter may become captain of her high school quiz bowl team.  She may not.  My son may start eating fruits and vegetables.  He may not.  My wife may make the bed when she gets up in the morning.  She may not.  It's a new year.  Anything is possible.

However, I will make clear one small goal for myself this year.  Daily, I am going to name one thing for which I am grateful.  Starting now. 

This morning, Saint Marty is grateful for his sister who gave him an iPhone for Christmas.  He's grateful for her generous and loving spirit.

Me and my iPhone

December 20: Bewilderment, Facebooker, the Dark Side

I am no scientist.  I explore the neighborhood.  An infant who has not learned to hold his head up has a frank and forthright way of gazing about him in bewilderment.  He hasn't the faintest clue where he is, and he aims to learn . . .

I've been feeling that way since Sunday night.  Kind of discombobulated.  At sea.  Annie Dillard is talking about her surroundings, which are alien to her.  So, she sets out to explore Tinker Creek.  The banks and forest and distant mountain.  She wants to somehow gain some understanding of her world.

Me?  I joined Facebook on Sunday.  For years, friends and family have been pressuring me to become a Facebooker (don't know if that's a word, but I'm going to use it).  I have stubbornly held out.  My reason was simple:  my life is complicated enough without having to add social media into the mix.  The world at large doesn't need to know what I ate for breakfast or what kind of bowel movement I had this afternoon.

However, I have good friends who have recently moved a great distance away.  I don't want to lose touch with them.  Therefore, I gave in to Darth Zuckerberg, went to the Dark Side.  In the last two days, I've gotten friend requests from family, friends, and complete strangers.  I feel like the popular girl in high school, getting asked to the prom by every member of the football team.

I'm not really sure about how Facebook works yet.  But I'll figure it out.  As my Facebook profile says, I did study computer science as an undergrad.  Plus, I have a teenage daughter as my IT person.  I'm pretty much set.

Now, all I need is an iPhone, and I'll be part of the 21st century.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Martin Achatz):

Voting for next Poet Laureate of the U. P.

August 14: Cleaning, Order, Classic Saint Marty

Just spent an hour or so cleaning my wife's car.  I did the whole shebang:  collecting the detritus of about a year of use, vacuuming the floors, wiping down the upholstery.  It smells clean and looks clean, and my wife is really happy.

I like cleaning.  Putting things in order.  I think it possibly has to do with the normal chaos of my life.  With two jobs, plus a couple of side jobs as a church organist, I sometimes feel like I'm going to meet myself coming in or going out of a building.  With the fall semester fast approaching, I have returned to lugging around my daily planner.  (I spurn it  during the summer months out of principle.  I don't want to be tied to a schedule and "to do" lists.)  The planner gives my life a sense of order.

My two Constant Readers may think I'm a little too obsessed with planning and order.  However, I need it like a security blanket.  I know that I'm not really in control of much in my life.  I plan to get up tomorrow morning at 4:45 and go to work.  Tomorrow afternoon, I'm taking my daughter to the AT&T store to check into getting her a new phone.  Those are my plans for tomorrow.  God may have something else in mind for my tomorrow.  But, having my day mapped out on paper holds off the specter of imminent catastrophe for me.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty is sort of about this subject.  It first aired about a year ago, four days before my sister died.  That whole experience was a lesson in surrender to God's plan, even if that plan didn't match up with my plan (or my sister's).  Inscrutability is part of the divine plan for the universe, and railing against that inscrutability is part of the human condition sometimes.

My seven-year-old son thinks that owning an iPhone would be the best thing for him.  I know that would be a recipe for expensive disaster.  Father knows best.  I have to remind myself the same thing every once in a while.  Our Father knows best. 

August 15, 2015:  Fifteen Albums, Midst of Life, Michael David Madonick, "Stork"

One of the kids would say that Robert had showed up in generally good spirits around a quarter after four, a little late, and that they joked about the prospect of getting hired to record the theme song to a cartoon show about outer-space hounds from Japan in the new year, work that Ives had gotten them through a connection; that he walked in with a Sam Goody's shopping bag as well as another bag filled with different items, mainly paperback books.  Dressed too lightly for the cool day, he had worn a long black-hooded raincoat and a cap that he didn't like because it messed up his fine dark hair, brown penny loafers and galoshes, a Cardinal Spellman High School senior ring.  During the break he sat around with a couple of his friends in the choir room, showing them the 33rpm records he had bought as Christmas presents that afternoon, about fifteen albums in all.

Those are the details of Robert Ives' final afternoon of life.  Christmas is approaching.  He's a senior in high school.  Loaded down with presents, Robert has plans.  Practicing with the church choir.  Entering the seminary.  Recording a theme song for a TV show.  Robert is surrounded by the promise of the future, as most 17-year-old high school seniors are.  In an hour or so, he will be dead.

I think we're all a little like Robert.  When I get up in the morning, I think about breakfast and work and school.  As I go through the day, I read poems, write a blog post, sometimes clean a bathroom.  In the evening, I'm already thinking about the following day.  The future is always on my mind, and that future does not include death.

Yet, as the Book of Common Prayer says, "in the midst of life, we are in death."  A year ago, I'm sure, my sister was not thinking of death.  She was thinking about dinner and watching The Big Bang Theory.  Sure, she had a broken wrist and back pain, but she still was thinking of a future.  A long future.

My sister is doing well at home.  For the most part, she's peaceful, without pain.  For the first time in a while, she's munching on ice chips.  Opening her eyes every once in a while.  Around her, life is going on as normal.  My dad is sleeping through reruns of Gunsmoke.  My nephews and nieces are playing video games.  My son is having tantrums over bathing.  There's laughter and arguments.  Life.

Today is hot.  It's supposed to reach over 90 degrees.  My brother is taking my son on a fishing trip.  I'm planning on going for a run this afternoon.  A short one.  I'm also playing the pipe organ for the afternoon Mass.  And then we will order pizza like we always do on Saturday nights.  And my sister will be in the midst of all of this.

I'm still not convinced that bringing my sister to my parents' house was the best decision in the world.  However, at the moment, the prospect of my sister going gentle into that good night is not imminent.  She is surrounded by family and friends.  People who love her.  That is a good thing.

Saint Marty is not raging against the dying of the light.  Yet.

Stork
          for my father, Carl, who died October 5th, 1998
          and for his great-granddaughter, Anna, born October 5th, 1998

by:  Michael David Madonick

What bird brings grief?  The crow, the raven, some multitude of starlings
rapturing their madness in an oak?  Or is it that simple bird, a sing sparrow

chilled and pouting up against the dawn?  I wonder, when they passed

through the darkness, toward their different light, how my father might
have talked with her, holding her hand, a hand already formed at some

perfect age, at ten or twelve, and his, at thirty or thereabout.  In our time,

it wasn't long, five hours, maybe six.  But time enough, I think, for a walk
along the boardwalk near Rockaway, for something to eat, time for my

father to tell his great-granddaughter how he never liked walking

on sand, particularly on hot days, such as this, but that she should try it,
not keep back from the waves where they both could see some ghostly

sooty gulls trace their wings across the phosphorescence of breaking

sea.  And Anna, with her perfect mouth, might thank my father
for the chocolate milkshake she had no idea she loved.  He would

have spoiled her like that, in that short time, but not without warning,

not without the undertow, the jellyfish, the lost hooks that even there
good fishermen lose to things beyond their dreams.  He'd have warned her

until he left, disappeared from Ft. Lauderdale, in the chimney smoke

of the crematorium's Monday afternoon, where like a painting, a painting
assembling itself against the unframed canvas of sky, a large bird would

form, tall and strong, no flimsy phoenix, he wouldn't have that, not even

in dream, he'd make a more useful bird, something of his smoke, that
could carry the practical, the precious, across the confusing distance

of the in-between.  It could carry six pounds, almost seven, and when

it landed nearly breathless in Vermont, against my daughter's breast,
she'd be happy, scared and warned.  Such is that early crying, that distance

from the beach.  Such is that bird that did my father's work.  It is made

of grief.  In a year or maybe twelve, I'll bring her chocolate by some
beach, she'll look at me, and me at her, as if at something both of us

repeat.

June 3: Peace Corps, Daughter's Graduation, Joshua Mehigan, "On the Way to Church School"

For her part, in the spirit of the times and not wanting the life of her mother, Caroline [Ives' daughter] thought she should see some thing of the world and signed up for the Peace Corps, which sent her off to Nepal.  One of Ives' happier times took place during a four-month period before she left for the Peace Corps, when she came to work at the agency, in the "international" division (one executive and a clerk).  Regarding his smart daughter with great pride every time he ran into her, which was daily, he would eavesdrop on her speaking her Italian or French or Spanish on the phone. . . . And he loved the fact that Mannis had come into his office one day to say, "Nice job you did raising your daughter, Ives."  He'd gotten so used to riding the subway with her in the mornings and seeing her on a regular basis that when she gave notice he fell into a deep funk again.

Ives and Caroline have a few months of father-daughter bonding before she heads out into the world after her college graduation.  Ives loves his time with her, takes immense satisfaction in her accomplishments.  She's successful, smart, and pretty.  Everything that a father would wish for his little girl.

This evening, I went to my daughter's eighth grade graduation.  She looked beautiful in her dress, hair curled by her cousin.  She didn't want to go, complained about clothes shopping, and sulked a good deal about the whole event.  Once she got to the school, however, my daughter changed her demeanor.  She was smiling, waving at us from the gym floor. 

The chorus sang (my daughter's in the chorus).  The band played (my daughter's in the band).  There were speeches and a slide show (my daughter hated her slide).  And then the principal started announcing the awards.  History.  Science.  Language Arts.  Math.  Science.  Band.  Chorus.  My daughter was given the Art Award.  I was so proud of her.  When her name was announced, I looked over at her.  She gave us a big smile and then stood up to collect her certificate.

It was a really lovely evening.  I couldn't stop thinking to myself, "I can't believe this is my baby girl."  She's a gorgeous young lady.  Now she wants to be a gorgeous young lady with an iPhone.

Saint Marty got her earrings instead.  Nice ones.

On the Way to Church School

by:  Joshua Mehigan

The girls and boys
that stammer by
at one o'clock
stretch half a block.
Clouds follow them,
also, the steeple.

The tallest and others
waiting to see
what the tallest will do
tie parkas of blue,
yellow, or red
around their waists.

Already lost,
one boy had tied
a parka of red
around his head.
That boy now lies
shoved on the grass.

Ms. Bell, who ably
shepherds them
and Mrs. Stack,
in the way-back,
coolly chide
but do not holler.

The smallest pause
with giant eyes.
The sidewalk glints
at the innocents
so like people
only smaller.

So proud of my little girl