June 23: "Medieval Photography," Cut That Shit Out, "Sea of Galilee"

Billy Collins believes a memory is worth a thousand pictures . . . 

Medieval Photography

by: Billy Collins

Nothing came out very well.

People thought sitting still was odd.

Black-and-white had yet to be conceived,

even though many days were grey

with low clouds and unpredictable rain.

You remembered someone by closing your eyes.

I miss the days when my kids were kids, before puberty and peer pressure and all the shit that goes along with growing up.  Life was a lot simpler before we had to navigate all the mine fields of angst and hormone-driven anger.  I close my eyes and remember those nights when my daughter was eight, holding her infant brother in her lap like he was the best birthday/Christmas present she'd ever received.

This weekend, I listened to four separate sermons on the Gospel story of Jesus and his disciples crossing the Sea of Galilee when I storm blows in.  You know what happens.  Jesus is napping, and the disciples wake him up because they're afraid the boat is going to founder and capsize, killing them all.  Jesus basically says, "Cut that shit out," and the wind and waves calm down.

The gist of all of the sermons was pretty simple--trust in God when you encounter storms in your life.  Easy to say.  Hard to do.  Yeah, I know that's what faith is all about--trust and belief, blah blah blah.  Yet, when a storm in screaming in your face and you think you're going to drown, it's pretty damn difficult to think, "Oh, no worries.  God's got my back."

So nostalgia kicks in, and you start rationalizing, "Wow, things were so much better five, six, seven, ten, or 20 years ago."  Of course, that's a load of crap, too.  Being a human being pretty much guarantees that life is going to be imperfect.  We're all fuckups, from the moment we enter crying to the moment we exit dying.  That means that all of our little boats are going to be tossed and swamped every day. 

If you're trying to read subtext in this post, forget it.  Yes, something shitty happened today.  No, I'm not going to discuss it.  You will just have to be satisfied knowing that I'm angry and sad tonight.  I'm trying to work through it, but the storm is still raging.  And I can't wake Jesus up to fix things miraculously.  (God hasn't worked like that for a long, long time.)

Instead, Saint Marty's just going to keep paddling and hoping he reaches the shore before his lungs fill with water.

Sea of Galilee

by: Martin Achatz

Sure, Jesus was napping

while the waves howled--

he remembered to take

his Dramamine.

February 7: First Edge of the Sun, Imagine the Future, Second Helpings

Santiago makes it through the night . . . 

He'll stay with me too, I suppose, the old man thought and he waited for it to be light. It was cold now in the time before daylight and he pushed against the wood to be warm. I can do it as long as he can, he thought. And in the first light the line extended out and down into the water. The boat moved steadily and when the first edge of the sun rose it was on the old man's right shoulder.

"He's headed north," the old man said. The current will have set us far to the eastward, he thought. I wish he would turn with the current. That would show that he was tiring.

When the sun had risen further the old man realized that the fish was not tiring. There was only one favorable sign. The slant of the line showed he was swimming at a lesser depth. That did not necessarily mean that he would jump. But he might.

Santiago doesn't know what the day has in store for him.  Doesn't know if or when the fish will show itself.  All he can do is sit in his little boat and wait to see what happens, which way the fish will pull him.  North.  South.  East.  West.  

It is difficult to imagine the future.  No matter how much you plan or prepare, the future pulls you in whatever direction it wants.  A month ago, my sister was alive.  My daughter's car was still on the road.  A year ago, my mother was still alive.  A year-and-a-half ago, I was working in a cardiology office.  A little over two years ago, the pandemic was a rumor, barely taking up enough space in the public consciousness to interrupt a nap.  

Now, here we are.  COVID-19.  Alpha.  Beta.  Gamma.  Delta.  Omicron.  Almost six million people dead of the virus.  My mother gone.  Sister gone.  I'm working for a library.  In the past year, I've spoken with two U. S. Poets Laureate and released two spoken-word CDs of my poetry.  

I never imagined, when I was sitting down to Christmas dinner with my family in 2019, that this is where I would be.  When my brother died eight years ago, I never thought that death would become such a familiar face at my dining room table.  Or that I would have the cell phone numbers of Natasha Trethewey and Joy Harjo in my iPhone contacts.  

I've lost some big fish these last few years, but I've landed some, as well.  And it seems as though I've been working through the stages of grief forever.  Here's the thing:  grief really isn't about stages.  You don't move from denial to anger like you're changing airplanes to get to your final destination.  Grief is more like a house you live in, moving from one room to another and back.  Some days, you sit on the couch in denial, and then spend the evening soaking in the anger bathtub before going to bed in the depression suite.  When you wake up in the morning, you go to the bargaining breakfast nook.  

That's the way grief is.  Wildly shuttling between all kinds of different emotions.  I think, about a week ago, I went through all five stages of grief in one morning and then went back for second helpings of each.  

I wish I knew exactly when the big fish of my life will show itself.  I don't.  Instead, I just sit in my little boat and watch the water. 

Saint Marty is getting a little seasick of this trip.