February 1: Saddest Thing, Mythology, Why

Santiago remembers a sad moment . . . 

He remembered the time he had hooked one of a pair of marlin. The male fish always let the female fish feed first and the hooked fish, the female, made a wild, panic-stricken, despairing fight that soon exhausted her, and all the time the male had stayed with her, crossing the line and circling with her on the surface. He had stayed so close that the old man was afraid he would cut the line with his tail which was sharp as a scythe and almost of that size and shape. When the old man had gaffed her and clubbed her, holding the rapier bill with its sandpaper edge and clubbing her across the top of her head until her colour turned to a colour almost like the backing of mirrors, and then, with the boy's aid, hoisted her aboard, the male fish had stayed by the side of the boat. Then, while the old man was clearing the lines and preparing the harpoon, the male fish jumped high into the air beside the boat to see where the female was and then went down deep, his lavender wings, that were his pectoral fins, spread wide and all his wide lavender stripes showing. He was beautiful, the old man remembered, and he had stayed.

That was the saddest thing I ever saw with them, the old man thought. The boy was sad too and we begged her pardon and butchered her promptly.

The story of this pair of marlins is sad.  No getting around it.  In some ways, it's a love story, the male refusing to leave the female's side, even as she is dying.  Then, after the old man and boy haul her into the boat, that one final leap of the male, high above the waves, into the sky, as he tries to see what has happened to his mate.  

This passage lends itself to reflecting on grief and loss.  I returned to work today after my train wreck of a weekend.  I can honestly say that I wasn't sure I would last the entire day.  My body is sore, and I still feel a kind of exhaustion in my bones that, if I were a Russian consumptive, only three weeks of sleep and trip to a health spa in Badenweiler, Germany, would help.  However, I did last.  I count that as a victory.

There is something healing about doing mental or physical labor that takes your mind off what's troubling you.  For several hours today, I focused on library programming, a letter of recommendation for a student, more library programming, an afternoon meeting, and, at the end of the day, a virtual astronomy event.  Yesterday, I taught two classes, went home, and slept for several hours.  Today, it was good being around other people, not focusing on low blood sugars, car accidents, or my sister's death.  It was a day of planning.  Looking forward instead of back.

At the beginning of every semester when I teach mythology, I tell my students--especially the most jaded, cynical ones--that mythology/religion aren't antonyms.  They just attempt to answer different questions.  For scientists, the question they seek to answer is "how."  How did the universe form?  How do cancer cells work?  How long does it take for a meteor to circle the galaxy and return to our solar system?  

Mythology asks the question "why."  Why does suffering exist in the world?  Why are we here?  Why do fools fall in love?  Different mindset and approach.

I have been focusing a whole lot on "why" these last couple weeks.  Searching for meaning in seemingly meaningless situations.  Of course, I'm not really receiving many adequate answers.  And then anger and frustration and sadness and self-pity step in.

I'm a little like that male marlin in the passage above.  Jumping out of the ocean, scraping heaven, trying to find answers to my unanswerable questions.  I don't know what the rest of this week has in store for me.  Saturday morning, I will be sitting in church, honoring the life of my sister.  We will say a rosary, greet friends and relatives, sing songs, and celebrate a Mass.  In between now and then, I'm just going to take it slowly, moment by moment.

That's the best Saint Marty can do.

February 18: Some Peanuts, In Between Teaching, Parents' Night

Ford has saved Arthur's life, although Arthur does not know that yet . . .

He heard a slight groan.  By the light of the match he saw a heavy shape moving slightly on the floor.  Quickly he shook the match out, reached in his pocket, found what he was looking for and took it out.  He ripped it open and shook it.  He crouched on the floor.  The shape moved again.

Ford Prefect said, "I bought some peanuts."

Arthur Dent moved, and groaned again, muttering incoherently.

"Here, have some," urged Ford, shaking the packet again, "if you've never been through a matter transference beam before you've probably lost some salt and protein.  The beer you had should have cushioned your system a bit."

I sort of feel as though I've been through a matter transference beam right now.  I'm starving.  In need of some salt and protein.  In between classes at the moment, gulping down some dinner in my office at the university.  It's one of those nights where I simply don't have a whole lot of time to be thoughtful with my post.  I spent most of the day at the medical office sorting through patient charts, getting them ready for either storage or shredding.  This afternoon, it was mythology--hero myths.  Perseus.  Hercules.  Jason.  Ulysses.  Tonight, composition--poetry analysis papers, among other things.

Because of teaching tonight, I am going to miss something at my daughter's school--parents' night at the basketball game.  That's when the seniors of the basketball team and the pep band are recognized with their parents.  I have been attending parents' nights for three years, knowing that, some day, I would be standing down on the gym floor with my daughter.

As you can tell, I'm not going to be at the basketball game.  Won't be there for my daughter's last pep band performance.  Instead, I'm going to be in a classroom, trying to teach college students how not to plagiarize.  That kind of makes me sad.  I'm not much of an organized sports kind of guy.  Couldn't care less who wins the game tonight.  But I do love hearing and seeing my daughter play in the band.  I'm going to miss that when she graduates.

That's where my mind is tonight.  Not in this post.  Not in the classroom.  It's in the gymnasium at my daughter's school.  I've actually been saying a few prayers that something would happen to either cancel classes tonight at the university or postpone the basketball game.  It appears that neither of those things are going to be happening.

Saint Marty will just have to be satisfied with the knowledge that his daughter will be missing him greatly.  (There's sarcasm in that statement, if you can't tell.)

February 11: Government Spider, Long Night, Blue Funk

President Zaphod Beeblebrox is about to make a speech . . .

A government spider sidled up to him and attempted to press a copy of his prepared speech into his hands.  Pages three to seven of the original version were at the moment floating soggily on the Damogran Sea some five miles out from the bay.  Pages one and two had been salvaged by a Damogran Frond Crested Eagle and had already become incorporated into an extraordinary new form of nest which the eagle had invented.  It was constructed largely of papier-mache and it was virtually impossible for a newly hatched baby eagle to break out of it.  The Damogran Frond Crested Eagle had heard of the notion of survival of the species but wanted no truck with it.

Zaphod Beeblebrox would not be needing his set speech and he gently deflected the one being offered him by the spider.

"Hi," he said again.  

"Hi" is about all I have time for this evening, as well.  I'm in my office at the university, in between teaching classes.  Just finished up with mythology, heading toward second semester composition.  Three hours of writing and talking about writing to students who are only taking the class because it's required.  It's gonna be a long night.

So, hi.

I've been struggling with motivation all day.  At the medical office (which will be closing in a few weeks), I sat at my desk, thinking to myself, "What's the point?"  Of course, I eventually did get my work done, but that question echoed through my head all day long.  It's still with me, like some kind of apathy hangover.

I'm in a blue funk.  Have been since last Thursday.  I'm sorely in need of some kind of injection of goodness.  A good friend.  Good laugh.  Good book.  Good poems.  Good news.  Something to lift my spirits.  Won't be happening in the next 45 minutes, however.  I'll be heading into the classroom tonight with that question reverberating in my thoughts--"What's the point?"

So, hi.

I am going to read some Sharon Olds for a little while.  She's always good for some inspiration.

And a picture to lift Saint Marty's spirits spirits . . .

November 26: Exceedingly Laborious, Back to the Grind, Water Essay, Writing and Rewriting

When in the Southern Fishery a captured Sperm Whale, after long and weary toil, is brought alongside late at night, it is not, as a general thing at least, customary to proceed at once to the business of cutting him in. For that business is an exceedingly laborious one; is not very soon completed; and requires all hands to set about it.

Back to the grind.  If I were on the Pequod, I'd be cutting in the captured sperm whale.  Instead, I was at my desk at 6 a.m., working through a pile of faxes, answering e-mails, and writing.  After a four-day-weekend, I found myself profoundly unmotivated.  I missed seeing my wife and kids in the morning.  Missed the warmth of my house.  All I wanted to do was continue the Thanksgiving weekend.

That being said, I have been fairly productive today.  I finished one of the three writing projects that have been on my to-do list.  A little essay about water that a friend of mine asked me to write for a local publication.  It has been a month-long process.  Starts and stops.  Long stretches and dead ends.  It finally all came together this morning.  I typed it up and sent it off.  Now, I wait for my friend's feedback.  As Truman Capote once said, "Good writing is rewriting."

I'm actually not sure how my friend is going to respond to what I sent him.  It's a little weird.  A lyric essay with some linguistics thrown in for good measure.  It's the kind of stuff I like reading.  Half poetry.  Half prose.  Flights of images.  And Jesus walking on water.  What more could a person want?

I taught this afternoon, as well.  Mythology.  We're finishing up our section on Grimms fairy tales.  It's been a long half-semester, and I'm eyes-deep in piles of grading.  Papers and quizzes.  Pretty soon, final exams and more papers.

On top of all that, I'm still waiting to hear whether I will have a job after December 31st.  There's an air of fatalism that seems to be hanging over the medical office where I work.  Everybody has already decided that the end times are upon us.  Now, I'm not wearing blinders.  I've got contingency plans.  Not really appealing contingency plans, but they will get me through until I find something better.

Work.  Writing,  Teaching.  Worry.  That has been my day.  I'm kind of exhausted.

Saint Marty isn't ready to rewrite his life anymore tonight.

November 19: "Carol" Dip Monday, Classes for Next Semester, Hope

I have to make a phone call to the head of the English Department at the university this morning.  He sent me an e-mail about classes for next semester.  I'm hoping for another two sections of Introduction to Film.  However, I am a pessimist.  So, I am preparing for the worst.  I'm not exactly sure what the worst would be.  Perhaps Technical and Report Writing.  That is not an exciting class.  It's a good class.  Very useful.  It may even be the most useful writing class offered by the English Department.  However, having taught it many semesters in a row, I have burned out a little on resumes and cover letters and progress reports and proposals.

Plus, I've been a little spoiled the last few semesters.  Introduction to Mythology.  Good Books.  Introduction to Film.  I have had it good.  I can't remember the last time I've had to grade a paper.  I understand why the full-time professors avoid composition classes like herpes.  They are simply no fun compared to sexier subjects like film and poetry and fiction.

My question for Carol Dip Monday should be pretty obvious:

Will I be offered Good Books or Mythology or Film classes to teach next semester?

And the answer from Chuck Dickens is:

When he roused himself from his thoughtful quest, he fancied from the turn of the hand, and its situation in reference to himself, that the Unseen Eyes were looking at him keenly.  It made him shudder, and feel very cold.

Wow, that's not a very hopeful answer.  In fact, there is no hope in that little passage at all.  Unseen Eyes.  Shuddering.  Coldness.  That pretty much describes teaching Tech Writing.

Saint Marty better dust off his red pen.

I hope it hasn't dried up

February 8: Heroes, Kids, Mythology

Today, I tried to get my mythology students to talk a little bit about heroes.  We're wrapping up our reading of Ovid's Metamorphoses, and I wanted to get into a discussion of heroes, ancient and contemporary.

"Who are your heroes?" I said.

Blank stares.

"Who do you look up to?"  I said.

Blank stares.

"Why are you in college, studying the subject you're studying?"  I said.  "Who inspired you?"

Blank stares.

"Are you all in college just so you can get a degree and make a lot of money?"  I said.

Blank stares and some nodding.

I stood there staring at these kids. 

Finally, a guy in the back row said, "Isn't that why you're here?"

I thought for a few moments, choosing my words.  "Yes," I finally said, "that's exactly why I choose to be a part-time adjunct instructor in the English Department."  I looked around at each kid in the class.  "I'm in it for the money."  I let that sink in for a couple of seconds.  Then I said, "If the only reason you're here is to get a degree that will get you a job that will allow you to make a great deal of money, I really feel sorry for all of you."

Blank stares.

Saint Marty lost a little hope for the future this afternoon.

January 16: Martin Luther King Day, School, Some Upon This Earth

"There are some upon this earth of yours," returned the Spirit, "who lay claim to know us, and who do their deeds of passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness in our name, who are as strange to us and all our kith and kin, as if they had never lived.  Remember that, and charge their doings on themselves, not us."

This speech, given by th Christmas Present, is not very well known.  Scrooge accuses the Spirit of depriving the poor of nourishment every seventh day (the Sabbath).  Scrooge says, by having grocers and bakers and butchers and other businesses close on Sundays (and, by extension, Christmas), the Spirit deprives the needy of possible sources of food and charity.  The Ghost's angry reply to Scrooge places the blame for hunger and poverty and injustice directly at the feet of all the Scrooges, the "some upon this earth"--those people whose passion, pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness have created most of the social ills of the world.

I choose this passage from A Christmas Carol on Martin Luther King Day.  A day meant to honor a man who dedicated his life to eradicating all of the human failings the Ghost of Christmas Present lists in the passage above.  Scrooge, at his mean-spirited and greedy worst, embodies everything King fought against.  Really, Martin Luther King's dream was a world without pride, ill-will, hatred, envy, bigotry, and selfishness.  It was a dream where, in some ways, the Spirit of Christmas--of charity, mercy, forbearance, and benevolance, to paraphrase Jacob Marley--guides all of us, every day.

Today is the first day of a new semester.  I enter the classroom with a sense of renewal and hope.  I hope to teach my mythology students something about the human condition and spirit.  I hope, by the end of the winter semester, my students are somehow changed, have somehow become better people.  I don't want to crank out a classroom full of human beings who are part of the Spirit's "some upon this earth."  I want to teach people the qualities of acceptance, love, generosity, and charity.  That was Martin Luther King's dream.  That's my dream, too.

Scrooges need not enroll in Saint Marty's mythology classes.

January 12: More Snow, More Wilder, More Mythology

Not quite this bad

It's been storming all day long.  Each team I've walked by a window, it was like a scene from the movie Alive, less the plane crash, soccer team, and cannibalism.  However, I just spoke with my wife on the phone, and it isn't snowing in the town where I live, about 20 miles away.  All I can say is, "Hallelujah!"

Today at work has just been more of the same:  catch up from vacation.  I'm happy to say that I have now almost caught up in one area of my job.  Now I just have to tackle the other areas where I'm still two weeks behind.

I know you're probably wondering, "What happened to The Wilder Life?  Why hasn't he posted about it recently?"  Well, the fact is, when I got back to work, I sort of stalled in my reading.  I have every intention of finishing it up in the next day or so.  I will give you my opinion about the entire book when I have completed it.

Tonight, I have to work on my syllabus for my mythology classes since the winter semester starts on Monday.  I'm streamlining the entire course.  Cutting out response papers and reading journals.  Increasing the pointage for the mid-term and final.  Putting more emphasis on classroom discussion and quizzes.  It's a whole different class, baby.

Saint Marty is kickin' mythological butt and takin' names.

December 21: You'll Get Your Wings



Heaven according to Capra

 "Clarence, you do a good job with George Bailey and you'll get your wings."

At the beginning of It's A Wonderful Life, we are privy to a conversation between God, an angel named Joseph, and another angel name Clarence.  God and Joseph are speaking about George Bailey, who is about to commit suicide.  God is going to send an angel down to Earth to help George.  Clarence is an angel, second class.  He's been passed up for his wings for close to 300 years.  According to Clarence, the other angels are beginning to talk about him.  The angels and God take the forms of celestial balls of light.  Clarence asks God if he will finally get his wings if he performs well on his assignment.  God's reply is the above quote.

I realize my last couple of posts have been a bit depressing, so I decided to write about some good news I got this afternoon.  I checked my university e-mail around 2:30 p.m., and my classroom evaluations were in my inbox.  I opened the documents with more than a little apprehension.

You see, this past semester was the first time I ever taught Mythology, and I think I really didn't do the greatest of jobs.  I prepared for class, knew the material, read extra sources, and delivered the lectures.  However, I wasn't really confident in my abilities or my knowledge.  I felt like Clarence when the other angels whisper behind his back.

The evaluations, however, were glowing.  I didn't have a single negative comment or score from anybody.  And I'm stunned.  My evaluations for Mythology were actually better than my evaluations for Good Books (and I did a great job with that class this past semester).  I felt truly validated.  Someone actually does think I'm worth more than a pile of donkey dung.  Now I know I shouldn't base my self-worth on the opinion's of others.  That just leads to therapy.

But today, because of those evalutions, Saint Marty earned his wings.

November 17: Classes, Disappointed, More Mythology

Well, I spoke to the English Department Head this morning.  He offered my two Good Books classes.  Unfortunately, they were both in mid- to late-morning.  Now that I don't have a coworker to cover for me in the morning, I can't take those classes.  So, it looks like I'm going to be teaching two afternoon sections of mythology next winter semester.  Obviously, it isn't my first choice.  It's not a schedule I can get really excited about right now, partly because  I don't think my mythology class is really working as well as I thought it would this semester.

Thus, I'm a little disappointed this afternoon.  I'm happy that I'm getting two courses to teach.  If I were only teaching one class next winter, I don't think I would have been able to pay my bills.  I should be grateful to God for those two classes.

I think the reason I'm struggling right now with mythology is the amount of history and geography in the textbook I'm using.  I've never been a great student of either of those subjects.  I know of one mythology professor who simply taught The Odyssey  for half a semester and the The Iliad for the other half.  It's a decent way of approaching Greek mythology since much of what we know comes from those two works.  I just don't know how much enthusiasm I can work up for an entire semester of Homer.

Perhaps, having only to concentrate on mythology will be easier.  I can hope.  I'm not sure what else I can do to make the class better.

Saint Marty needs some good news soon.

Don't know if I can take a whole semester of this guy!