December 31: Drama's Done, Balloons and Streamers, Old Acquaintance

The drama's done. Why then here does any one step forth?- Because one did survive the wreck.

It so chanced, that after the Parsee's disappearance, I was he whom the Fates ordained to take the place of Ahab's bowsman, when that bowsman assumed the vacant post; the same, who, when on the last day the three men were tossed from out of the rocking boat, was dropped astern. So, floating on the margin of the ensuing scene, and in full sight of it, when the halfspent suction of the sunk ship reached me, I was then, but slowly, drawn towards the closing vortex. When I reached it, it had subsided to a creamy pool. Round and round, then, and ever contracting towards the button-like black bubble at the axis of that slowly wheeling circle, like another Ixion I did revolve. Till, gaining that vital centre, the black bubble upward burst; and now, liberated by reason of its cunning spring, and, owing to its great buoyancy, rising with great force, the coffin life-buoy shot lengthwise from the sea, fell over, and floated by my side. Buoyed up by that coffin, for almost one whole day and night, I floated on a soft and dirgelike main. The unharming sharks, they glided by as if with padlocks on their mouths; the savage sea-hawks sailed with sheathed beaks. On the second day, a sail drew near, nearer, and picked me up at last. It was the devious-cruising Rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan. 

And we have come to the end of the year of Moby-Dick.  The drama's done, as Melville says.  I survived.

New Year's Eve.  Balloons are inflated.  Streamers are strung.  The homemade pizza is in the oven.  The crescent weenies are being eaten.  Punch is poured.  Wheat Thins and Easy Cheese on the table.  M&Ms, peanut butter and plain.  That's how we do it in my family.

I have to say that I'm not sad that 2018 is coming to a close.  It has been a year of struggles and successes, personally and professionally.  My father passed in February.  The last four months have been a guessing game about my place of employment--will the office remain open or not?  I've written poems and essays.  Became co-host of a syndicated radio show.  Raised money for flood relief and homeless shelters.

I'm a little tired from worry at the moment.  Last night was sleepless.  I woke up at about 3 a.m. and lay in bed, my mind racing through what ifs.  Never a good thing that early in the morning.  Got up and went to work, did some end-of-year stuff.  Put together my syllabi for next semester.  Finished editing a book manuscript for a friend.

On Wednesday, I will be boarding an airplane with my family.  Ten days of sunshine, warmth, Mickey Mouse, and Harry Potter.  I don't feel quite ready for that yet.  I have packing to do, loose ends to tie up, and e-mails to send.  My entire December has been a race--to Christmas, to New Year's Eve, to Florida.  I'm kind of tired of running.

Tomorrow, I will be introducing the new Book of the Year.  I've been knocking around a few ideas.  Cormac McCarthy's The Road.  Joseph Heller's Catch-22.  Toni Morrison's Beloved.  Willa Cather's My Antonia.  A couple days ago, I made my decision.  I think it's going to be a surprise for most of my disciples.  It surprised me.

It's approaching 8 p.m.  In four hours, my family will blow horns, sing "Auld Lang Syne," and raise some cups of punch, toasting possibilities and hopes.  I am determined to leave my worries behind.  That will be difficult for me.  I tend to keep a tight grip on anxiety and fear.

So, goodbye Moby-Dick.  Goodbye worries and fears.  Goodbye 2018.  Should old acquaintance be forgot.

Saint Marty wishes everyone blessings and happiness for the coming year.

January 22: Working My Butt Off, Night Class, Classic Saint Marty

So, I have been working my butt off for most of the weekend.  Yesterday, I was working on a project for church that took about four hours.  Then I cleaned my house.  Another three hours.  Played the pipe organ for Mass yesterday afternoon.

Today, it's school stuff.  Finalizing syllabi and writing assignments and diagnostic tests.  Plus, I had worship this morning.  I'm about done with work right now.  Once I'm done typing this post, my daughter is going to swoop in and take my laptop away.  She wants to game with some people.

It's going to be a long day tomorrow, too.  Medical office.  Teaching.  I have a night class.  Won't be getting home until about 10 p.m.  It's bad when I'm already tired and the week hasn't even begun.

Three years ago, Mother Nature had other ideas about work and teaching . . .

January 22, 2013:  Horwitz, Mother Nature, Saint Timothy

..."Listen," he said.  "If you was a fish, Mother Nature'd take care of you, wouldn't she?  Right?  You don't think them fish just die when it gets to be winter, do ya?"

This little tidbit of wisdom comes from a cabdriver named Horwitz.  Holden asks Horwitz about the fate of the ducks in the lagoon in Central Park, and Horwitz replies with the story of the fish frozen solid in the water all winter long, absorbing nutrition through their open pores.  Mother Nature takes care of her children, according to the cabbie.

Speaking of winter and cold, it is frigid to the point of dangerous today in the Upper Peninsula.  All the schools are closed, including the university.  The wind chill this morning was -31 degrees.  Mother Nature might take care of her children, but she has the air conditioning set on high today.  Driving into work was pretty lonely.  There were only two or three other cars on the road.

Yes, I did go to work, despite a few trips to the bathroom last night.  I am feeling much better on this frozen Tuesday.  Mother Nature is taking care of me, or Saint Timothy.  Timothy's feast day is January 26, and he is the patron saint against stomach disorders.  Most of the information about Timothy is related to the Apostle Paul.  Timothy was a follower of Paul.  The Apostle sent the young man on many "difficult, confidential missions."  When Paul was thrown into prison in Rome, Timothy was with him.  Eventually, Timothy became the Bishop of Ephesus and was martyred in the winter of the year 97.

My book doesn't say why Timothy is the patron against stomach disorders, but Google gave me this answer:  "It may well be that Timothy had stomach ulcers or simply a weak stomach, and wine was considered to be a soothing remedy."  In a letter, Paul suggested that Timothy drink wine for his poor digestion.  (Paul sort of reminds me of Horwitz, dispensing wisdom to the young Timothy, no matter how misguided it is.)  Whatever the reason for Timothy's title, I could have used his help yesterday.  I spent so much time on the toilet that I think my ass is permanently shaped like an oval.  Even this morning, my stomach was not cooperating with me.  I had crackers and cheese for breakfast.  I had the same for lunch.  Things seem to be settling down now, thank God or Timothy or Mother Nature.

Maybe Saint Marty should pick up some wine for his next upset stomach.

Does he look old enough to drink?

January 15: Quiet Day, Syllabi, Classic Saint Marty

A very quiet day.  I just spent a couple hours putting together my syllabi for teaching.  Classes begin at the university this Tuesday.

Three years ago on this day, I wrote a post about gratitude.  Since I am trying to be more grateful this year, I thought it would be appropriate to revisit it. 

So, from the Year of Charlotte's Web . . .

January 15, 2014:  Beautiful Air, Gratitude, Peanuts

Wilbur burst into tears.  "I don't want to die," he moaned.  "I want to stay alive, right here in my comfortable manure pile with all my friends.  I want to breathe the beautiful air and lie in the beautiful sun."

Wilbur has just learned the fate of all young pigs on the farm.  The old sheep tells him that, as soon as the cold weather sets in, Wilbur will be turned into smoked bacon and ham.  As the sheep says, it's a regular conspiracy, involving every person in the Zuckerman family and employ.

Of course, Wilbur gets hysterical over all the things he'll miss if he's butchered:  the comfortable manure pile, the beautiful air, the beautiful sun.  All the things he normally takes for granted each day.

I think all of us go through life taking things for granted.  For example, I love Planters Dry Roasted Peanuts.  I usually have a huge container of them at home all the time.  When I'm in the kitchen, I'll sometimes grab a handful of them without even thinking about it.  I expect them to be there.

I'm like Wilbur.  Wilbur doesn't think about what he loves most until he's faced with the prospect of losing it.  Then, the manure pile becomes the pig-version of Citizen Kane's Rosebud. It's the warmth of summer mornings, the chuckle of the goose, the buzz of flies in Charlotte's web.

I've decided to do away with Worry Wednesdays.  From now on, every Wednesday I will write about something I take for granted.    Big things.  Small things.  Quiet things.  Loud things.  I want to cultivate more gratitude in my life.

So, this Wednesday, Saint Marty gives thanks for Planters Dry Roasted Peanuts.

Nothing comes between me and my nuts (yes, I went there)

August 21: Syllabi, Best Man, Classic Saint Marty

I am prepared for teaching.  My syllabi are finished, and my first writing assignments are prepared. 
It depresses me a little bit to sit down with a calendar and plan out my life from today until the second week of December.  Basically the rest of the year is contained in the two documents I created this afternoon. 

Not only that, but I took a trip to my kids' dance studio and signed them up for their dance classes for the entire year.  That's a commitment of six days a week for nine months.  Of course, all I have to do is drop off my son and daughter at the studio.  They do all the hard work.  I just have to somehow pay for it. 

There is a bright spot this Sunday.  One of my oldest friends is in town.  Brian was the best man at my wedding.  I've known him for close to thirty years.  We used to direct plays together at a local community theater.  We were so close that most people thought we were partners.  Not in the business sense.  Can't really blame anyone who came to that conclusion.  We were always together.  We directed plays and loved show tunes.  Yes, I know all of these things are cliches, but, if the cliche fits...

Brian teaches at a university in California, but he's led the kind of life that most people only dream about.  He went to school in Hawaii and New Zealand.  In Waikiki, he lived in an aquarium, taking care of the exhibits, feeding the seals and stuff.  He got his doctorate in oceanography in New Zealand and has dual citizenship.  He's a Kiwi and a Yankee. 

That's my friend Brian.  I haven't seen him for a couple of years, not since his recent move to California from The Shire.  Yet, when my sister passed away last year, he was one of the first people who contacted me.  Offered anything he could.  Told me that I could come to California for a vacation.  (He did the same thing when my wife was struggling with bipolar and sexual addiction.  That time, he wanted me to pack up my daughter and move to New Zealand for a while.  I thought about it.)

I'm sure, when I finally see Brian, that there will be questions about my sister.  He knew her well.  This weekend, however, has not been as difficult as I anticipated, and talking with Brian about my sister's death will feel right, like grieving with a brother.

August 22, 2015:  Sunglasses, Maggie Nelson, Invisible Horse, Confessions of Saint Marty

Walking down the street, Ives could not look into anyone's eyes very long without his inward pain bringing tears to his eyes.  He found himself wearing sunglasses all the time, night and day, and oddly, despite the darkness of his spirit, he wore a large crucifix given him by Carmen Ramirez and let it hang on his chest, visible to all.  He remembered sitting for hours inconsolably in his son's room the night after he had died.  He'd sat there examining a Revell model of a man that his son had kept on a shelf, the outer plastic shell transparent, the organs inside visible.  He remembered when his boy, then twelve and wondering if he might one day become a doctor, had asked him to buy that model kit for Christmas.  And when that Christmas had passed, Ives would find his son lying on his stomach in the living room, with a biology textbook open before him, dipping a brush into one or another small jar of airplane-model paint, trying to capture accurately the colors of the organs.  He saw the miniature liver, kidneys, stomach, intestines, and all the rest set into place, and thought about his son.

Ives finds it difficult being around people immediately following his son's death.  Even the smallest gestures or looks from friends or acquaintances or complete strangers bring him to tears.  He tries to build a wall around his heart, but it doesn't take much for that wall to crumble.  His son is with him always, in people, sounds, objects, toys.

I find myself in a similar situation when I go out in public.  If a friend or colleague gives me a hug or says "I'm so sorry," I can feel my walls breaking down.  It's a strange phenomenon.  I can be walking along, confident and strong, and, in the next moment, I'm an open wound.

I'm sure most of you are tired of me writing about this subject.  But I'm trying to understand grief on many levels.  I'm fascinated how I can switch from incredible sorrow to happiness to anger and back to happiness in the space of a few minutes.  It's as if the wires of my brain have been stripped of their rubber sheaths, and now those wires are pulsing and flashing with energy.

I'm sitting at McDonald's right now, a place my sister came to every Saturday morning before she got sick.  Most of the managers knew my sister.  One manager in particular, whose daughter is in the same grade as my son, came out to give all of us hugs.  And the wires snapped and popped and sparked in my head.  I could feel a flood of emotion rising.

Given time, I know these moments will happen less frequently.  I don't think it will ever disappear completely.  As long as I'm working at the medical center, going to places frequented by my sister, I will find her, in the surroundings and people.  I can't avoid it.  My sister is still a part of my life and always will be.  (When I'm working in the medical office, I still hear her voice in my head, telling me how to do things.)

I don't want people to ignore my loss.  There are a few people at work who have done this, and it feels even more alien to me, like watching the Titanic sinking and saying to a friend, "Isn't it a beautiful night?"  I prefer an acknowledgement, however small or uncomfortable.  Somehow, I find some comfort in those tiny exchanges, as if I'm not alone in my loss for a few seconds.  It's how my sister would have wanted it.

And that's Saint Marty's lesson in the anatomy of grief for today.

100 from Bluets

by:  Maggie Nelson

It often happens that we count our days, as if the act of measurement made us some kind of promise.  But really this is like hoisting a harness onto an invisible horse.  "There is simply no way that a year from now you're going to feel the way you feel today," a different therapist said to me last year at this time.  But though I have learned to act as if I feel differently, the truth is that my feelings haven't really changed.

Confessions of Saint Marty

August 18: Feel the Now, ER Visit, Classic Saint Marty

What else is going on right this minute while ground water creeps under my feet?  The galaxy is careening in a slow, muffled widening.  If a million solar systems are born every hour, then surely hundreds burst into being as I shift my weight to the other elbow.  The sun's surface is now exploding; other stars implode and vanish, heavy and black, out of sight.  Meteorites are arcing to earth invisibly all day long.  On the planet the winds are blowing:  the polar easterlies, the westerlies, the northeast and southeast trades.  Somewhere, someone under full sail is becalmed, in the horse latitudes, in the doldrums; in the northland, a trapper is maddened, crazed, by the eerie scent of the chinook, the snow-eater, a wind that can melt two feet of snow in a day.  The pampero blows, and the tramontane, and the Boro, sirocco, levanter, mistral.  Lick the finger:  feel the now.

Dillard is talking about living in the present, because so much is going on at once.  Galaxies being born,  meteorites fizzing through the atmosphere to darkness.  Winds changing the landscape of the entire planet--melting snows, moving dunes.  All in the now.

Right here and now, I am sitting in my living room, recently returned from a trip to the local ER with my daughter.  She's been battling a severe infection in her left eye for a couple of weeks now.  She's already been through one round of antibiotic eye drops.  Now, she is on different antibiotic eye drops.

Also now, I have a tiny bit of panic building inside me:  I don't have my syllabi done for the classes I'm teaching next week.  I've started them, but I am far from being ready.  Was planning on getting them done this evening, but my daughter's eye problem changed my now.  Basically, a chinook came in and blew me in a different direction.

I tend to focus on the future quite a bit.  For instance, all I can think about right now is tomorrow morning.  The weekend.  The beginning of the fall semester.  The end of summer.  That's what's on my mind.  Not the cool cup of water I'm drinking or the air being pushed around by the ceiling fan.

The only thing that tethers me to the present are my kids.  They're young.  The future is not on their radars yet.  At seven and thirteen, they have no concept of the passage of time.  For the most part, it's all instant gratification.  I want pizza NOW.  I want the new Galaxy phone NOW.  I want my own laptop NOW.  If anybody lives in the now, it's a young person.

This time last year, I was pretty much focused on the present, though.  I know that I usually save episodes of Classic Saint Marty for Sundays, but I wanted to share the following post this evening:

August 18, 2015:  Terrible Darkness, Maggie Nelson, Divine Darkness, Adventures of Stickman

As they happily walked to the subway, they were looking forward to spending a lot of time together at home during the holiday, in the company of family and friends.  Ives and Annie had stopped to peer into a window display of French linen when, just like that, a terrible darkness entered them, and they could not move and stood looking at one another stupidly, on the crowded and busy sidewalk.

Yes, I have used this passage just recently.  It describes the moments before Annie and Ives learn that their son has been murdered.  The implication is that, at the instant that the "terrible darkness" enters them, Robert has passed into eternal life.  It hints at the enormity of the tragedy about to overtake their lives.  Annie and Ives have no idea what the darkness means, but it is powerfully sad, draining away their Christmas joy.

Darkness has always been used to describe moments of profound grief and loss and ignorance.  There's a reason why the Dark Ages was followed by the Age of Enlightenment.  The first period calls to mind a world full of suppression and rigidity, blind faith and blinder reason.  The second period, on the other hand, is the time of Bach and Mozart, Descartes and Voltaire.  Free thought and freer spirit.  Darkness=bad.  Enlightenment=good.

In the Biblical accounts, the birth of Christ is heralded by an immense star in the heavens.  Blinding angel choirs singing "Glory to God!"  Jesus is the bringer of light into a world of sin and darkness.  Again, darkness gets a metaphorical bad rap.

I'm not so sure that darkness is all that bad.  When the sun slips below the horizon, I am more at ease.  My day is over, and I'm able to relax, kick back, watch some mindless television.  For me, I am more myself in darkness.  Able to do what I want.  Read.  Write.  Nap.  Fart.  Whatever.  Darkness is a gift.

Maggie Nelson talks about Divine Darkness in Bluets.  Her description of darkness is comforting.  It's a state beyond sun and seeing, beyond knowledge and wisdom.  It's a place where trust exists.  And faith.  There is something in Divine Darkness that transcends comprehension.  I think that you can either fight it--and go through a "dark night of the soul"--or throw yourself into it--take that leap into God's open palm.

I know that's way too deep for a Tuesday night.  But that's what I'm thinking about.  Comforting darkness.

Saint Marty is going to go see his sister now.  Pray for her.  Let her know that she doesn't need to be afraid of the dark.

159 from Bluets

by:  Maggie Nelson

A good many have figured God as light, but a good many have also figured him as darkness.  Dionysius the Areopagite, a Syrian monk whose work and identity are themselves shrouded in obscurity, would seem to be one of the first serious Christian advocates of the idea of a "Divine Darkness."  The idea is a complicated one, as the burden falls to us to differentiate this Divine Darkness from other kinds of darknesses--that of a "dark night of the soul," the darkness of sin, and so on.  "We pray that we may come unto this Darkness which is beyond light, and, without seeing and without knowing, to see and to know that which is above vision and knowledge through the realization that by not-seeing and unknowing we attain to true vision and knowledge," Dionysius wrote, as if clarifying the matter.

August 13: School Days, Oliver de la Paz, "School Years"

Very soon, school is going to be starting up again.  That's one of the things that accompanies the dog days of summer--that vein of sadness from young people who know their sunny time of freedom is about to come to an end.  I have been forbidden by my daughter to mention school in my house at the moment.

This weekend, I will probably put together my syllabi for the fall semester.  I can't avoid it any longer.  In two weeks, I will be teaching again.  I'm excited and sad.  The days are definitely getting shorter.  The weather is getting cooler.  Leaves will be turning mustard and cinnamon colored.  Winter is on the way.

Oliver de la Paz has a poem about school that captures these feelings.

Saint Marty is forbidden to read this poem to his daughter.

School Years

by:  Oliver de la Paz

They last long for Fidelito, who is not of this earth.  With its alphabets and loose-leaf, sheets of construction paper, oranges, blues, lunch boxes, crepe paper, papier-mache, the teacher talk and rasp of chalk, long division, multiplication, pronunciation, spelling and quelled hungers at lunch hour, the recesses of chase the girl/boys catch-as-catch-can, freeze tag, war with rubber balls and big red welts the size of baseballs, war with a deck of cards, war of pencil breaking, or tether ball, kick ball, being goof balls in back near the coat racks, learning to cuss and whistle at the same time, saying Jesus, Mary, Joseph, holy, holy, holy . . . Lord, the girls who dare each other to kiss Fidelito, as he sits in the corner, dazed, watching birds in the frozen light.

I'm not allowed to show this picture to my daughter, either

January 8: Getting Some Work Done

In the second week of my vacation, I can't quite relax the way I did in my first week.  I have work I need to get done.  I finished a good portion of it this evening.  I put together my syllabi for this semester.  They are printed, hole-punched, and filed in my binder.  It took me a little longer than I anticipated.  It wasn't just a matter of changing dates from last semester's Intro to Film class.  Because of Spring Break, I had one less week to work with.  Therefore, I changed one movie and eliminated one movie.  We are not going to watch Annie Hall or It's a Wonderful Life.  Instead, the last film of the semester is going to be Stranger than Fiction.  My reasoning is simple:  I love the movie.

It took me about three hours to get my crap together.  Now, with the copying complete and the rest of the night stretching out before me, I will once again return to Stephen King land.  I didn't get much reading done this afternoon, so I have to play catch-tup.  My goal of having 11/22/63 finished before I return to work next week is becoming less and less realistic.  I'm hoping, with my school prep done, I'll be able to concentrate a little more on pleasure reading.  (Is it really pleasure reading if I've given myself a deadline and a daily assignment of pages to complete?  Sounds more like SK 101:  Introduction to Stephen King.)

My daughter is through with dance class in about an hour.  That allows me to read about fifty or so pages.  Or I may just sit at my desk and stare off into space.  My mind is beginning to implode a little.

To paraphrase Stephen King, all work and no play make Saint Marty really, really tired.

...and Saint Marty, too

August 19: Ready for the Weekend, Thunderstorms, Hardee's

Well, I put together my syllabus for my Good Books class.  It only took me a few hours to figure out the schedule and make the appropriate changes to my existing syllabus.  Basically, I'm all set for the beginning of the semester.  It feels good to have that work done.

Since I posted this morning, thunderstorms have descended on the Upper Peninsula.  My coworker was going to go to the U. P. State Fair this afternoon with her family.  She is now reconsidering her plans.  I don't mind the bad weather.  Most of the activities I have planned for today are for indoors--cleaning the house, finishing my reading of Catching Fire.

At noon, I'm meeting my wife and sisters for lunch at Hardee's, which is one of my daughter's favorite places to eat.  She called me yesterday when she was travelling downstate with my sister and asked my to find the nearest Hardee's for her.  I was surprised to find out that Hardee's isn't a really big chain in Michigan.  In the U. P., there are about five or six different restaurants.  In the lower peninsula, there are about two.  I have no idea why I'm telling you this fact.  Most of my international readers probably have no idea what Hardee's is.  (Think McDonald's, but with curly fries.)

After lunch, I'm probably going grocery shopping.  Among other items, I need to purchase some supplies for my Book Club gettogether next week.  The book for this month is Hunger Games, and I have already finished it.  I haven't been this ahead of the Book Club game for some time.  My goal is to have all three books in the series finished by next Thursday.  It may not happen.

Well, time for Saint Marty to get some curly fries.

I know you're jealous!