October 22: The Hat, Best Intentions, Success

And now that at the proper time and place, after so long and wide a preliminary cruise, Ahab,- all other whaling waters swept- seemed to have chased his foe into an oceanfold, to slay him the more securely there; now, that he found himself hard by the very latitude and longitude where his tormenting wound had been inflicted; now that a vessel had been spoken which on the very day preceding had actually encountered Moby Dick;- and now that all his successive meetings with various ships contrastingly concurred to show the demoniac indifference with which the white whale tore his hunters, whether sinning or sinned against; now it was that there lurked a something in the old man's eyes, which it was hardly sufferable for feeble souls to see. As the unsetting polar star, which through the livelong, arctic, six months' night sustains its piercing, steady, central gaze; so Ahab's purpose now fixedly gleamed down upon the constant midnight of the gloomy crew. It domineered above them so, that all their bodings, doubts, misgivings, fears, were fain to hide beneath their souls, and not sprout forth a single spear or leaf.

In this foreshadowing interval, too, all humor, forced or natural, vanished. Stubb no more strove to raise a smile; Starbuck no more strove to check one. Alike, joy and sorrow, hope and fear, seemed ground to finest dust, and powdered, for the time, in the clamped mortar of Ahab's iron soul. Like machines, they dumbly moved about the deck, ever conscious that the old man's despot eye was on them.

But did you deeply scan him in his more secret confidential hours when he thought no glance but one was on him; then you would have seen that even as Ahab's eyes so awed the crew's, the inscrutable Parsee's glance awed his; or somehow, at least, in some wild way, at times affected it. Such an added, gliding strangeness began to invest the thin Fedallah now; such ceaseless shudderings shook him; that the men looked dubious at him; half uncertain, as it seemed, whether indeed he were a mortal substance, or else a tremulous shadow cast upon the deck by some unseen being's body. And that shadow was always hovering there. For not by night, even, had Fedallah ever certainly been known to slumber, or go below. He would stand still for hours: but never sat or leaned; his wan but wondrous eves did plainly say- We two watchmen never rest.

Nor, at any time, by night or day could the mariners now step upon the deck, unless Ahab was before them; either standing in his pivot-hole, or exactly pacing the planks between two undeviating limits,- the main-mast and the mizen; or else they saw him standing in the cabin-scuttle,- his living foot advanced upon the deck, as if to step; his hat slouched heavily over his eyes; so that however motionless he stood, however the days and nights were added on, that he had not swung in his hammock; yet hidden beneath that slouching hat, they could never tell unerringly whether, for all this, his eyes were really closed at times; or whether he was still intently scanning them; no matter, though he stood so in the scuttle for a whole hour on the stretch, and the unheeded night-damp gathered in beads of dew upon that stone-carved coat and hat. The clothes that the night had wet, the next day's sunshine dried upon him; and so, day after day, and night after night; he went no more beneath the planks; whatever he wanted from the cabin that thing he sent for.

He ate in the same open air; that is, his two only meals,- breakfast and dinner: supper he never touched; nor reaped his beard; which darkly grew all gnarled, as unearthed roots of trees blown over, which still grow idly on at naked base, though perished in the upper verdure. But though his whole life was now become one watch on deck; and though the Parsee's mystic watch was without intermission as his own; yet these two never seemed to speak- one man to the other- unless at long intervals some passing unmomentous matter made it necessary. Though such a potent spell seemed secretly to join the twain; openly, and to the awe-struck crew, they seemed pole-like asunder. If by day they chanced to speak one word; by night, dumb men were both, so far as concerned the slightest verbal interchange. At times, for longest hours, without a single hail, they stood far parted in the starlight; Ahab in his scuttle, the Parsee by the main-mast; but still fixedly gazing upon each other; as if in the Parsee Ahab saw his forethrown shadow, in Ahab the Parsee his abandoned substance.
And yet, somehow, did Ahab- in his own proper self, as daily, hourly, and every instant, commandingly revealed to his subordinates,- Ahab seemed an independent lord; the Parsee but his slave. Still again both seemed yoked together, and an unseen tyrant driving them; the lean shade siding the solid rib. For be this Parsee what he may, all rib and keel was solid Ahab.

At the first faintest glimmering of the dawn, his iron voice was heard from aft,- "Man the mast-heads!"- and all through the day, till after sunset and after twilight, the same voice every hour, at the striking of the helmsman's bell, was heard- "What d'ye see?- sharp! sharp!"

But when three or four days had slided by, after meeting the children-seeking Rachel; and no spout had yet been seen; the monomaniac old man seemed distrustful of his crew's fidelity; at least, of nearly all except the Pagan harpooneers; he seemed to doubt, even, whether Stubb and Flask might not willingly overlook the sight he sought. But if these suspicions were really his, he sagaciously refrained from verbally expressing them, however his actions might seem to hint them.

"I will have the first sight of the whale myself,"- he said. "Aye! Ahab must have the doubloon! and with his own hands he rigged a nest of basketed bowlines; and sending a hand aloft, with a single sheaved block, to secure to the mainmast head, he received the two ends of the downwardreeved rope; and attaching one to his basket prepared, pin for the other end, in order to fasten it at the rail. This done, with that end yet in his hand and standing beside the pin, he looked round upon his crew, sweeping from one to the other; pausing his glance long upon Daggoo, Queequeg, Tashtego; but shunning Fedallah; and then settling his firm relying eye upon the chief mate, said,- "Take the rope, sir- I give it into thy hands, Starbuck." Then arranging his person in the basket, he gave the word for them to hoist him to his perch, Starbuck being the one who secured the rope at last; and afterwards stood near it. And thus, with one hand clinging round the royal mast, Ahab gazed abroad upon the sea for miles and miles,- ahead astern, this side, and that,- within the wide expanded circle commanded at so great a height.

When in working with his hands at some lofty almost isolated place in the rigging, which chances to afford no foothold, the sailor at sea is hoisted up to that spot, and sustained there by the rope; under these circumstances, its fastened end on deck is always given in strict charge to some one man who has the special watch of it. Because in such a wilderness of running rigging, whose various different relations aloft cannot always be infallibly discerned by what is seen of them at the deck; and when the deck-ends of these ropes are being every few minutes cast down from the fastenings, it would be but a natural fatality, if, unprovided with a constant watchman, the hoisted sailor should by some carelessness of the crew be cast adrift and fall all swooping to the sea. So Ahab's proceedings in this matter were not unusual; the only strange thing about them seemed to be, that Starbuck, almost the one only man who had ever ventured to oppose him with anything in the slightest degree approaching to decision- one of those too, whose faithfulness on the look-out he had seemed to doubt somewhat; it was strange, that this was the very man he should select for his watchman; freely giving his whole life into such an otherwise distrusted person's hands.

Now, the first time Ahab was perched aloft; ere he had been there ten minutes; one of those red-billed savage sea-hawks which so often fly incommodiously close round the manned mast-heads of whalemen in these latitudes; one of these birds came wheeling and screaming round his head in a maze of untrackably swift circlings. Then it darted a thousand feet straight up into the air; then spiralized downwards, and went eddying again round his head.

But with his gaze fixed upon the dim and distant horizon, Ahab seemed not to mark this wild bird; nor, indeed, would any one else have marked it much, it being no uncommon circumstance; only now almost the least heedful eye seemed to see some sort of cunning meaning in almost every sight.
"Your hat, your hat, sir!" suddenly cried the Sicilian seaman, who being posted at the mizen-mast-head, stood directly behind Ahab, though somewhat lower than his level, and with a deep gulf of air dividing them.

But already the sable wing was before the old man's eyes; the long hooked bill at his head: with a scream, the black hawk darted away with his prize.

An eagle flew thrice round Tarquin's head, removing his cap to replace it, and thereupon Tanaquil, his wife, declared that Tarquin would be king of Rome. But only by the replacing of the cap was that omen accounted good. Ahab's hat was never restored; the wild hawk flew on and on with it; far in advance of the prow: and at last disappeared; while from the point of that disappearance, a minute black spot was dimly discerned, falling from that vast height into the sea.

Six chapters from the end of the book.  Ahab is closer to the white whale than he's been in over 600-plus pages.  He's not sleeping much.  Believes most of his crew has turned against him (which they have).  All of Ahab's layers have worn away.  Now, he's pure obsession, blind to everything but an albino hump, a snowy fluke, on the horizon.

Welcome to Monday evening.  I woke up this morning with the best intentions.  Grading papers.  Putting together medical charts.  Grading more papers.  Creating a brilliant lesson plan.  Posting something on Facebook that would go viral.  Then, the rough draft of a new poem before bed.  With any extra time, maybe going for a long walk.  Three miles at least.

All of that quickly went out the window when I couldn't find my car keys at 5:20 a.m., followed by a frantic 15-minute search.  When I got to work, five minutes late, I had a pile of work sitting on my desk that I hadn't anticipated.  Two hours later, I was already three hours behind in my best intentions list.  I never recovered.

So much for my Ahab-like monomaniacal focus.  As of 6:45 this evening, I have eight more papers to grade.  My lesson plan was mediocre, at best.  I've spent a few minutes simply "liking" other people's Facebook posts, and I'm in sweat pants with just enough energy to walk to the refrigerator for a bottle of water.  Monday-1, Best Intentions-0. 

Perhaps I'll get the rest of those papers graded.  If I do, I'll count that as a victory.  I'll probably also fantasize for a few minutes about winning the $1.6 billion Mega Millions jackpot.  Aside from that, my mind is pretty much oatmeal.

It's sad that I measure my daily success by work completed or not completed.  I'm a daily list-maker, but those daily lists frequently accomplish only one thing--making me feel like a failure.  I need to come up with a better measure for success.  Like, I played chess with my son for two hours tonight.  My daughter sent me a text this morning, out of the blue, that simply said, "I love you."  I had a great salted caramel this afternoon that made me believe in God again.

That's going to be my new obsession:  redefining what success is.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for a cold glass of water and maybe another salted caramel.

February 28: X Mark, Being Queequeg, Past Life

As we were walking down the end of the wharf towards the ship, Queequeg carrying his harpoon, Captain Peleg in his gruff voice loudly hailed us from his wigwam, saying he had not suspected my friend was a cannibal, and furthermore announcing that he let no cannibals on board that craft, unless they previously produced their papers. "What do you mean by that, Captain Peleg?" said I, now jumping on the bulwarks, and leaving my comrade standing on the wharf.

"I mean," he replied, "he must show his papers."

"Yes," said Captain Bildad in his hollow voice, sticking his head from behind Peleg's, out of the wigwam. "He must show that he's converted. Son of darkness," he added, turning to Queequeg, "art thou at present in communion with any Christian church?"

"Why," said I, "he's a member of the first Congregational Church." Here be it said, that many tattooed savages sailing in Nantucket ships at last come to be converted into the churches.

"First Congregational Church," cried Bildad, "what! that worships in Deacon Deuteronomy Coleman's meeting-house?" and so saying, taking out his spectacles, he rubbed them with his great yellow bandana handkerchief, and putting them on very carefully, came out of the wigwam, and leaning stiffly over the bulwarks, took a good long look at Queequeg.

"How long hath he been a member?" he then said, turning to me; "not very long, I rather guess, young man."

"No," said Peleg, "and he hasn't been baptized right either, or it would have washed some of that devil's blue off his face."

"Do tell, now," cried Bildad, "is this Philistine a regular member of Deacon Deuteronomy's meeting? I never saw him going there, and I pass it every Lord's day."

"I don't know anything about Deacon Deuteronomy or his meeting," said I; "all I know is, that Queequeg here is a born member of the First Congregational Church. He is a deacon himself, Queequeg is."

"Young man," said Bildad sternly, "thou art skylarking with me- explain thyself, thou young Hittite. What church dost thee mean? answer me."

Finding myself thus hard pushed, I replied, "I mean, sir, the same ancient Catholic Church to which you and I, and Captain Peleg there, and Queequeg here, and all of us, and every mother's son and soul of us belong; the great and everlasting First Congregation of this whole worshipping world; we all belong to that; only some of us cherish some crotchets no ways touching the grand belief; in that we all join hands."

"Splice, thou mean'st splice hands," cried Peleg, drawing nearer. "Young man, you'd better ship for a missionary, instead of a fore-mast hand; I never heard a better sermon. Deacon Deuteronomy- why Father Mapple himself couldn't beat it, and he's reckoned something. Come aboard, come aboard: never mind about the papers. I say, tell Quohog there- what's that you call him? tell Quohog to step along. By the great anchor, what a harpoon he's got there! looks like good stuff that; and he handles it about right. I say, Quohog, or whatever your name is, did you ever stand in the head of a whale-boat? did you ever strike a fish?"

Without saying a word, Queequeg, in his wild sort of way, jumped upon the bulwarks, from thence into the bows of one of the whale-boats hanging to the side; and then bracing his left knee, and poising his harpoon, cried out in some such way as this:-

"Cap'ain, you see him small drop tar on water dere? You see him? well, spose him one whale eye, well, den!" and taking sharp aim at it, he darted the iron right over old Bildad's broad brim, clean across the ship's decks, and struck the glistening tar spot out of sight.

"Now," said Queequeg, quietly, hauling in the line, "spos-ee him whale-e eye; why, dad whale dead."

"Quick, Bildad," said Peleg, his partner, who, aghast at the close vicinity of the flying harpoon, had retreated towards the cabin gangway. "Quick, I say, you Bildad, and get the ship's papers. We must have Hedgehog there, I mean Quohog, in one of our boats. Look ye, Quohog, we'll give ye the ninetieth lay, and that's more than ever was given a harpooneer yet out of Nantucket."

So down we went into the cabin, and to my great joy Queequeg was soon enrolled among the same ship's company to which I myself belonged.

When all preliminaries were over and Peleg had got everything ready for signing, he turned to me and said, "I guess, Quohog there don't know how to write, does he? I say, Quohog, blast ye! dost thou sign thy name or make thy mark?

But at this question, Queequeg, who had twice or thrice before taken part in similar ceremonies, looked no ways abashed; but taking the offered pen, copied upon the paper, in the proper place, an exact counterpart of a queer round figure which was tattooed upon his arm; so that through Captain Peleg's obstinate mistake touching his appellative, it stood something like this:-

Quohog.

his X mark.

Melville is indulging in some comedy here again, mostly at the expense of Peleg and Bildad.  The two captains hold Queequeg suspect because of his tattoos and color of his skin.  They must somehow be assured that Queequeg has abandoned his pagan ways and converted to Christianity.  I suppose they want to be confident that they don't hire a cannibal who is going to (one-by-one) consume the other members of the ship's crew.  Of course, the fact that Peleg can't even get Queequeg's name right ("Quohog" is very near to the "quahog," which is, according to Dictionary.com, a "large, rounded edible clam of the Atlantic coast of North America").

The biggest joke of the passage is that Queequeg is a very experienced whaler, and the two owners of the Pequod fall all over themselves trying to hire him, even offering him a larger stake in the profits of the voyage.  Christianity goes right out the window when it comes to money.

I suppose it's all about judging a person by appearance.  Queeqeug is dark-skinned with pointed teeth.  He's covered in tattoos from head to foot.  He carries a harpoon wherever he goes and sells shrunken human heads.  Not to mention the little wooden idol that he worships.  All these things mark him as questionable.  In the United States today, Queequeg would have been picked up and deported by the FBI a long time ago.  He wouldn't have lasted one week in Trump America.

I've been thinking about otherness quite a bit today.  I think we all have a little bit of Queequeg in us.  I know I do.  In my family, I pretty much stand out like Dorothy in the Land of Oz.  I teach at a university and write poetry.  I'm very liberal-minded in a family of conservatives.  I think my dad voted for a Democrat for President just once in his life--John F. Kennedy.  I'm a musician and performer.  Directed a few musicals in my years, as well.  Totally comfortable in a crowd of theater geeks and artists.

If there are such things as past lives, I think I could have been Charles Dickens.  I've always been drawn to his writing and life.  I have a 1200-page biography of Dickens on my bookshelf.  Every year or so, I reread it.  I stopped counting how many times I've made my way through its pages.  Well over eight or nine times.  Dickens was an actor and writer.  He had a huge family, but he didn't really "fit in."  Had a complicated relationship with his dad.  Was passionate and driven in everything he did.  He existed on the fringe of normal, but he was well-loved by everyone who knew him.

Charles Dickens was a Queequeg.  Tonight, after I'm done with these blog posts, I have to finalize my plans for a poetry workshop that I'm leading tomorrow night.  After that, I think I may work on a new poem.  Tomorrow afternoon, I'm meeting someone from the university where I teach.  We are planning a poetry reading for the month of April.  Poet Laureate stuff.

It's not so bad being a little Queequeg-ish.  As a matter of fact, it allows me quite a bit of freedom.  I don't have to live up to anyone's expectations.  Instead, I create my own expectations.  Success for other people may be a large bank account.  Vacations twice a year.  A nice car.  Nice house.  Right now, I'd say that my idea of success would be publishing a collection of Bigfoot poems.

Different expectations, yet I will put my X mark on the world.  Just like Queequeg.

Saint Marty is thankful this evening for everything that makes him different.

September 27: Second Birthday Party, Contentment, Classic Saint Marty, Confessions of Saint Marty

The last day of Pope Francis' visit to the United States.  Also the day of my son's second birthday party, with my wife's family.

I find myself very reflective this afternoon.  My son is in second grade, my daughter in high school.  The days of being the parent of a young child are behind me.  I am at an age where people start seriously thinking about their retirement plans and 401Ks.  I have not been able to set aside money for a trip to Green Bay, let alone my kids' college educations.  That makes me feel a little bit like a failure.

Of course, I know that I've been successful in a lot of other ways.  I'm a published poet.  I'm a college professor (part-time, so I guess that means I'm really happy with my work life part-time).  I have a great family.  I married into a great family.  My kids are loved greatly.  I have a home with a new roof, two cars, and leftover pizza in the refrigerator.  Success, success, success. 

Yet, I'm not feeling very successful today.  I'm feeling a little disappointed, and I don't know why.  I want to feel happier, more content.  I think I'm basing my contentment on pretty superficial things.  Like, if only I had a full-time teaching job at the university, I'd be perfectly content.  Or, if only I could publish that new collection of poems I've finished, I'd be perfectly content.  How about, if only I had a ten-thousand dollar nest egg in the bank, I'd be perfectly content.

Contentment is really not a matter of money or professional success.  It's a matter of looking around and realizing that you have a pretty good life, just as it is.  It's an attitude more than anything else.  So, I'm going to try to practice that attitude for the rest of the day.  I'm going to be content if it kills me.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired a year ago, on my son's sixth birthday.

September 26, 2014:  My Son Again, Terry Godbey, "Eight Years Old"

I promise this will be the last post about my son.  You're all probably getting tired of my sentimental musings.  When birthdays and weddings and anniversaries come around, it gets me all maudlin and reflective.  Can't help it.

I'm also pretty darn tired.  It's been a very long week.  And, when I'm this tired, I'm prone to watching movies like It's a Wonderful Life or Stand By Me and crying like a schoolgirl.  I'll snap out of it in a day or so.  But, for tonight, I'm going to wallow a little bit.

Terry Godbey knows what I'm talking about.  The poems she writes about her son are full of the surprise and ache of parenting.  One day, your child is small, weak, and beautiful.  Before you know it, your child is tall, independent, and beautiful.  It happens so fast.

Saint Marty just wants things to slow down a little.

Eight Years Old

by:  Terry Godbey

Even in winter, my son refuses to wear
a pajama top.  When he comes near,
I lean close and brush his skin
or stroke it outright
like bolts of wedding satin,
and something catches in my throat
like undissolved chocolate
in a cup of cocoa.  He is lush,
toes pink and curled
as the pearly hearts of seashells,
voice lifting and plunging,
a heron diving for fish,
his pogo-stick stride,
arms like clock hands gone wild,
the balloons of his cheeks when he grins,
and on his restless legs, faint hairs
pointing in all directions
as if ruffled by wind,
a great storm on the way.

Confessions of Saint Marty

Septmeber 4: Some Difficulty, School Worry, Son

"If I'm not mistaken,I believe you also had some difficulty at the Whooton School and at Elkton Hills."  He didn't say it just sarcastic, but sort of nasty, too.

Holden's teacher, old Spencer, is reminding him of the string of schools he's flunked out of.  Pencey Prep is simply the latest in a long line of academic failures.  The problem is that Holden simply doesn't care.  He's got other things on his mind.  His brother's death.  His dysfunctional family.  His love, Jane.  His sister, Phoebe.


My wife got a phone call from my son's kindergarten teacher this afternoon.  She told my wife she's "at a loss" with my son.  He's not listening, not behaving, not following directions.  Mind you, it's only the second day she's had my son in class, and she's already at a loss.  She's not sure if my son has the "maturity" for kindergarten.

He's been going to school for two years already.  He was a leader in class last year.  My son's former teacher told us he was "more than ready" for kindergarten this year.

I have been a teacher for over 20 years at the university level.  I've had my share of difficult students.  I  can't think of a single time in my entire teaching career that I've written off a student on the second day of class.  In fact, I go out of my way to insure that my students succeed.  That's what good teachers are supposed to do, preschool through grad school.

I'm trying not to be defensive.  I'm trying to give my son's teacher the benefit of the doubt.  I'm not doing a good job at either.  I told my wife that I'm going to give this situation about a week.  If we get another phone call like the one we received this afternoon, I'm going to make some phone calls myself.

If you can't tell, I'm a little worried about this situation.  I allowed my daughter to go through a year of elementary school with a teacher who was difficult, to put it nicely.  That was a mistake.  I will not make the same mistake again.

Saint Marty has his son's back.

At a loss

September 12: A Piece of My Mind, Feast Upon, Tiger Mother

"The Founder of the Feast indeed!" cried Mrs. Cratchit, reddening.  "I wish I had him here.  I'd give him a piece of my mind to feast upon, and I hope he'd have a good appetite for it."

God bless Mrs. Cratchit.  Bob is trying to toast Scrooge as the benefactor of the Cratchit family's meager Christmas celebration, and his wife is having no part of it.  She's pissed and ready to unload a little of her anger on Bob.  In defense of Mrs. Cratchit, she has been cooking all day for her family.  She's probably tired and cranky.

Last night, my entire family was tired and cranky.  My wife is still adjusting to her new job.  My daughter had dance classes for four hours in the evening.  I was at my office on campus until almost 8 p.m.  Those are the ingredients for a pretty rotten night.  We were sniping and yelling at each other.  My daughter was crying because her feet hurt and she didn't want to take a shower.  By bedtime, I found myself making this declaration:  "Nobody talk to anybody for the rest of the night!"

Granted, my solution was probably not the most constructive way of dealing with the general cloud of grumpiness pervading the house, but it did the trick.  The shouting and screaming stopped, and all that was heard for the rest of the night were quiet sobs.  I was able to fall asleep.

Of course, I'm not a big believer in the use of verbal abuse.  Sometimes, however, venting your frustrations can be a very freeing act.  Ask Mrs. Cratchit.  There was a book published last year, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, in which the author, Amy Chua, made this statement:  "The solution to substandard performance is always to excoriate, punish, and shame the child."  Chua literally bullied her daughters into success.

I'm sure not too many child rearing experts would agree with Chua's methods.  However, you can't argue with Chua's results:  her older daughter, Sophia, was accepted by Yale and Harvard and is currently attending Harvard.  Results.  I'm not saying I'm going to start calling my daughter a piece of garbage because she can't play Mozart on the piano, but I think there's something to be said for strict parenting.  My mother and father were fairly strict, and I ended up with two advanced college degrees (a Master's in fiction and an MFA in poetry).  Of course, I can't do anything with those degrees except cook hamburgers and chicken strips, but I have a first-rate education.

Maybe tiger women like Amy Chua and Mrs. Cratchit got it right.  I mean, Tigress Cratchit is just trying to give Bob a little backbone to stand up to his boss.  So what if a few tears are shed in the process.  Or self-esteem takes a few blows.  Or therapy is needed.

If Saint Marty's daughter ends up winning a Nobel Prize in medicine or economics, it will all be worth it.

Just call me Tiger Father

July 25: Power of Positive Thinking

I read several devotionals every day.  Sometimes, the daily devotions speak to me, and sometimes they leave me pretty cold.  This morning, one of the devotions I read was about the power of positive thinking.  If I may sum up its message, it said that as long as you believe in something hard enough, or want something strongly enough, you will have success.  It's just the power of positive thinking.

I'm not sure I agree with that sentiment.  I have wanted to be a publishing writer since I can remember, and so far, I've only published a few poems in some literary journals and one collection of poetry.  I wouldn't necessarily label that a roaring success.  Years ago, I honestly believed, by the time I reached my current age, I would have published at least three or four books and won the National Book Award or Pulitzer Prize.  That, obviously, has not happened.  Yet.  Instead, I'm working two jobs to support my family.  I'm tired all the time, and money is a constant struggle.  So much for the power of positive thought.

Perhaps devotional writers should be a little more realistic.  Instead of saying you can achieve anything you want with positive thinking, devotional writers should provide more achievable goals like this:

Don't ever stop dreaming.  It is the dreams that keep you alive and moving.  If you don't have a dream, you won't have a goal.  If you don't have a goal, you won't want to get out of bed.  If you don't get out of bed, blood will pool in your leg.  If blood pools in your leg, you will develop a deep vein thrombosis.  If you develop a deep vein thrombosis, you will probably die.  So keep dreaming.

There's definite wisdom I can get behind in that little devotion.

So Saint Marty will keep dreaming.

Think positive:  I DO look like Goerge Clooney!

January 28: Saint Thomas Aquinas

Last night, I hosted the monthly meeting of my book club.  The fourth Thursday of every month is one of my favorite evenings.  My friends and some family come over, sit around, eat really good food, and talk about a really good book.  I try to keep a handle on the club's literary selections; I can't stand being forced to read a book in which I have little to no interest.  One time, I made the mistake of going to the bathroom in the middle of one of our get-togethers.  When I came back, my club members had selected the books for the next six moths.  (I know I have written about this occurrence before, but I still suffer flashbacks to Edith's Story, a dreadful Holocaust memoir that I endured one November.  I take literature quite personally, and I hate wasting my reading time on books for which innocent trees are murdered for no good reason.  If I sound like a book snob, I am.)

Last night's book was worth the slaughter of a forest.  It was Emma Donoghue's Room, and it ranks as one of my favorite reads of the last twelve months.  It's based on the real-life story of Jaycee Dugard, a woman who was snatched off the street by a man when she was 11-years-old.  The man held her captive in his backyard for eighteen years, raping her on a frequent basis.  During her captivity, she gave birth to and raised two children.  Donoghue uses the basic elements of this news account for her novel.  It's about an imprisoned woman who raises her young son in an 11' by 11' room for the first five years of his life.  The novel is narrated by the five-year-old son, Jack.  Donoghue manages to turn a story premise that has the potential to be incredibly depressing and grim into a heartbreaking, coming-of-age tale.  Room reminds me of some of my favorite novels--Catcher in the Rye, To Kill a Mockingbird, and The Lovely Bones.  It's all about narrative voice.  Donoghue's Jack reminds me of Scout and Holden and Susie.  His point of view transforms his prison into a universe of mother-son love.

Everything outside the parameters of that universe becomes a threatening Wonderland, and Jack must learn to navigate this space.  His perception of the real world is that of an alien, a creature without even the normal vocabulary for "grass" or "wind" or "sun."  That's what is so engaging about the entire book.  Donoghue manages to hold up a mirror to our world and reveal its ugliness, absurdity, and beauty.

Okay, I know this blog is starting to sound like an Amazon.com customer review, but when I read a good piece of literature, I generally become a little obsessed with getting other people to share my experience.  Therefore, for the time being, I'm going to be a cheerleader for Emma Donoghue.  Even my incredible ego won't get in the way.  Much.  I'll admit, when I finished reading Room, I sat back and thought, "Damn, I wish I'd written that."  If you're one of my few constant readers (shout out to my five followers!), you know I have a problem with jealousy.  I admire the work of other writers, but I prefer to keep the literary spotlight amongst my close friends and associates firmly focused on myself.  (Yes, I did write "amongst."  I trying to sound like a serious critic.)  If that means I have to make snarky and mean-spirited comments about other authors, so be it.  Room has had incredible success since its publication.  It got glowing reviews, hit the bestseller lists, and, I assume, will be nominated for all kinds of awards.  It's got that literary-awards cachet.  Usually, for me, that trinity of good fortune kicks my envy machine into overdrive.  In this case, I can't do it.

When a little-known writer comes out of nowhere with a really wonderful book that receives all kinds of recognition and popular/monetary rewards, it gives me hope.  If it can happen to Emma Donoghue, my mind reasons, it can happen to me.  That's why I won't say that Room becomes a little long-in-the-tooth near its conclusion.  That's why I won't say that the novel lacks a polish of craft that could make it truly great.  That's why I won't say that Donoghue lapses into melodrama and stereotype at points--with suicide attempts, a cold and insensitive father, and an exploitative TV interviewer.  I won't say any of that, because it would make me sound small and petty.

Today's saint is Thomas Aquinas.  Thomas was a remarkable guy.  He knew from a very young age that he wanted to enter the religious life, even though his family was titled and wealthy.  But, of course, he gave it all up, because that's just what saints-in-training do.  Aside from being holy and devout, Thomas was a brilliant philosopher, theologian, and writer, even though he was nicknamed the "Dumb Ox" by his fellow students because of his "silent ways and huge size."  Thomas' writings fill twenty volumes, including the classic Summa Theologica.  His work  is "characterized by brilliance of thought and lucidity of language."  If I had been a student with Thomas, I would have hated him because all the teachers would have been "Thomas did this" and "Thomas did that" and "Thomas said this" and "Did you read the paper Thomas wrote?"  Despite the fact that he turned down every "ecclesiastical dignity" offered to him, including Archbishop of Naples, Thomas was still famous in his own lifetime.  And humble.  Killer combo for sainthood.

There you go.  A saint and a bestselling author.  I appreciate good writing, admire brilliant thinking.  I've already said that.  Go and read Room and the Summa Theologica.  You won't be disappointed.  I don't begrudge Emma Donoghue and Saint Dumb Ox their success and glory.  I'm a bigger person than that.  Really, I am.