October 18: "The Future," Global Pandemic, Wet Dream

I've lived through several events that will probably be in history books for future generations:  The Challenger explosion.  September 11.  Columbine.  The burning of Notre Dame.  Barack Obama being elected President of the United States, twice.  The death of Queen Elizabeth II.

Who knows how people in the future will interpret these moments?  They may get it right, or they may fuck it up mightily.

Billy Collins contemplates being history . . . 

The Future

by: Billy Collins

When I finally arrive there—
And it will take many days and nights—
I would like to believe others will be waiting
and might even want to know how it was.

So I will reminisce about a particular sky
or a woman in a white bathrobe
or the time I visited a narrow strait
where a famous naval battle had taken place.

Then I will spread out on a table
a large map of my world
and explain to the people of the future
in their pale garments what it was like—

how mountains rose between the valleys
and this was called geography,
how boats loaded with cargo plied the rivers
and this was known as commerce,

how the people from this pink area
crossed over into this light-green area
and set fires and killed whoever they found
and this was called history—

and they will listen, mild-eyed and silent,
as more of them arrive to join the circle,
like ripples moving toward,
not away from, a stone tossed into a pond.

I don't think future generations will understand what it was like to live through the global pandemic.  Sure, there will be books and poems and movies and music and songs written about COVID-19.  They will all talk about mental health; makeshift morgues outside of hospitals; and politics.  However, unless you actually lived through it, you won't really get it.

This may sound strange, but I didn't mind the forced isolation.  In fact, I kind of enjoyed having to stay at home, away from people.  The long walks with my dog where everyone kept their distance.  Nobody knocking on my front door.  The holidays without 500 worship services to attend and five houses to visit.  Zoom church.  Zoom school.  Zoom business meetings.  It was an introvert's wet dream.

I'd never felt so close to my wife and kids.  Sure, it was forced bonding time, but it was still wonderful.  Family game nights and movie nights.  Curbside pickup at Walmart.  Knowing exactly where my kids were at all times.  And all the newest movies on streaming services.

Yes, bad shit happened.  Hundreds of thousands of people died because of President Felon.  People politicized science.  Anti-maskers marched on the state capital in Lansing, schemed to kidnap and kill Governor Whitmer.  Toilet paper just vanished from store shelves.  

During most of the pandemic, my wife and I cleaned and disinfected two churches.  We never ran into anyone.  It was kind of lovely to see the candles burning in the darkness of an empty sanctuary.  Yes, I know that religion is a communal thing.  We're all one, big, happy Christian family.  But there are some family members you just don't want to run into, even at reunions or Thanksgivings or birthdays.

Saint Marty isn't saying he misses the pandemic.  However, he does have a ton of really cool facemasks that he will never have reason to wear again.

July 24: Wet Dream, Going for a Run, Transitions

In time, Montana came to love and trust Billy Pilgrim.  He did not touch her until she made it clear that she wanted him to.  After she had been on Tralfamadore for what would have been an Earthling week, she asked him shyly if he wouldn't sleep with her.  Which he did.  It was heavenly.

And Billy traveled in time from that delightful bed to a bed in 1968.  It was his bed in Ilium, and the electric blanket was turned up high.  He was drenched in sweat, remembered groggily that his daughter had put him to bed, had told him to stay there until the oil burner was repaired.

Somebody was knocking on his bedroom door.

"Yes?" said Billy.

"Oil-burner man."

"Yes?"

"It's running good now.  Heat's coming up."

"Good."

"Mouse ate through a wire from the thermostat."

"I'll be darned."

Billy sniffled.  His hot bed smelled like a mushroom cellar.  He had had a wet dream about Montana Wildhack.

You may be wondering where I'm going to go with this post.  There are many possibilities.  I could write about my first sexual experience, since this passage is about the first time Billy and Montana have sex.  I could write about wet dreams, since Billy has had one.  Or I could write about sexual violence against women, since Montana has been kidnapped and brought to Tralfamadore for the purpose of mating with Billy.  So many possibilities.

Vonnegut was a science fiction writer.  He wrote speculative fiction and literary fiction.  If you can't tell, there is always a underpinning of social commentary, as well.  Slaughterhouse is about aliens and time travel.  But it's also about war and human tragedy and politics and death.  Vonnegut, like any great writer, is working on many levels.

I just went for a run.  I haven't been running much this summer at all.  I got out of the habit.  It's so much easier, when I get home, to simply sit down on the couch and close my eyes versus putting on my running clothes and shoes and heading back out the door.  I know myself.  If I don't exercise as soon as I get home, I'm not going to exercise at all.  This afternoon, I decided to find out how out-of-shape I really am.

Answer:  not as bad as I thought.

One of the benefits of running is that it clears my head.  Shakes out all of the cobwebs from my workday.  Now, sitting here, reflecting on this little passage from Vonnegut, I'm able to think a little more clearly.  I'm not worrying about the work I've done the past eight hours, or the work I have to do tomorrow.  It's all about the work that's in front of me right now.  Writing this blog post.

That's sort of what Billy does through this whole book.  As he becomes unstuck in time, over and over, he has to shake off one present as he enters another present.  He leaves Montana behind for his bed in Ilium.  Trades one kind of heat for another kind of heat.  One kind of sexual experience for another.  Billy masters the ability to adjust quickly to his alternating realities.

Me?  I need a little time.  I ran for about a half hour this afternoon.  Now, after I'm done typing this post, I'll probably put my head back for a little while and take a nap.  Maybe read a book.  I haven't decided yet.  Maybe I'll time travel back to when I first met my wife or to our wedding night or to the mornings my daughter or son were born.  It's not difficult.  Just a matter of dredging up some specific, concrete detail from those moments.  A smell or sound.  A word or song.

This post is working on many levels, if you haven't noticed.  I have successfully avoided writing about anything potentially embarrassing, although I'm not opposed to those kinds of disclosures.  I have shifted subjects pretty quickly from sexual encounters and wet dreams to running and work and time travel.  I'm not quite as skillful as Vonnegut at these kinds of transitions.  So it goes.

Tonight, Saint Marty is thankful that he didn't injure himself running.

January 26: Bull Bat, Soup Potluck, Book Club

Weary told Billy Pilgrim about the Iron Maiden, about the drain in her bottom--and what that was for.  He talked to Billy about dum-dums.  He told him about his father's Derringer pistol, which could be carried in a vest pocket, which was yet capable of making a hole in a man "which a bull bat could fly through without touching either wing." 

Weary likes to brag, to tell Billy stories, to try to prove how naive and stupid Billy is.  As with all stories, there's a certain amount of exaggeration that's included in the telling.  A mixture of reals facts and alternative facts (to borrow Kellyanne Conway's Orwellian nomenclature).

Tonight, my book club meets at my house.  We'll sit around, eat, and discuss Emma Cline's The Girls.  It's a great story, better than Roland Weary's little tales about the Iron Maiden of Nuremberg and his dad's Derringer.  Cline's book is a fictional retelling of the Charles Manson killings from the point of view of a 14-year-old girl.  It's a brilliant novel.

Because it's January, we are having a soup potluck this evening, to stave off the cold night.  Every person is supposed to bring a different kind of soup.  We made Wisconsin cheese and beer.  My sister made chicken noodle.  I think that there's a potato soup and a chicken dumpling soup making an appearance, as well.  Throw in some chocolate, a big caramel apple, and some crackers, and you have the makings of a book lover's wet dream.

There's something very comforting about book club nights for me.  I think it's because I'm surrounded by like-minded people.  Readers who get excited about the idea of talking about a novel.  It doesn't hurt that most of the members also share my political leanings, too.  With the food and literature, book club discussions take many digressions.  I'm sure our new Commander-in-Chief will come up a few times this evening.

So, Saint Marty is looking forward to a night of good stories and good soup, with some homemade biscuits thrown in for good measure.