September 4: Episodes of "Girls," Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Hurrahing in Harvest"

So, I recently acquired the ability to watch HBO on my iPad.  My sister subscribed to the premium channels, and she kindly gave me her password.  Therefore, I have been binge-watching season three of Girls.  Yes, I am not ashamed to admit that I love that series, and I have two episodes left.

I will certainly be a little depressed when I'm done with the season.  However, I have plans to watch the entire series of Breaking Bad.  Granted, it doesn't have Lena Dunham or Adam Driver, but it does have a shitload of Emmy Awards.  It is certainly a little darker than Girls, but I am not averse to darkness.

I don't like things ending.  TV series.  Jobs.  Good books.  Good movies.  Good chocolate.  I'm still getting used to the end of summer.  Not really enjoying autumn so far.  Long days of work.  Long days of teaching.  Acute bronchitis.  Short weekends.  I'm sure, in a few weeks, I'll be used to my new life.  At the moment, allow me some time to mourn.

The poem I have from G. M. Hopkins sort of celebrates the conclusion of summer.  I'm trying to get excited.  Tomorrow, I will start the countdown to Saint Marty's Day, that annual holiday of everything me.

Saint Marty will have to go up to his attic and get his Saint Marty's Day decorations down soon.

Hurrahing in Harvest

by:  Gerard Manley Hopkins

Summer ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks rise
     Around; up shove, what wind-walks! what lovely behaviour
     Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier
Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies?

I will, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes,
     Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our Saviour;
     And, eyes, heart, what looks, what lips yet gave you a
Rapturous love's greeting of realer, of rounder replies?

And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder
     Majestic--as a stallion stalwart, very-violet-sweet!--
These things, these things were here and but the beholder
     Wanting; which two when they once meet,
The heart rears wings bold and bolder
     And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet.

Admit it!  You watch, too.

September 4: Hard to Sleep, Coughing, Book Bag

The night seemed long.  Wilbur's stomach was empty and his mind was full.  And when your stomach is empty and your mind is full, it's always hard to sleep.

Wilbur is excited.  A voice has promised to be his friend, and the voice said she would introduce herself in the morning.  Therefore, Wilbur is unable to sleep.  He waits and waits for the first rays of sun in the sky.  For his new friend.

I use this paragraph as an introduction because I have been having great difficulty sleeping this past week.  Not because of some disembodied voice.  Not because I'm hungry.  And not because my mind is full.  It's because I spend most of the night coughing up a lung.

I caved this afternoon and made an appointment with a doctor.  The doctor told me I have acute bronchitis, exacerbated by possible asthma.  Basically, the cold I had last week has settled in my lungs and is now turning my nights into tuberculosis time.

I have not had the energy to read a whole lot this past week.  I recently started the book Struck by Genius by Jason Padgett.  It's about Padgett's traumatic brain injury and onset of acquired savant syndrome.  Basically, Padgett went from being a shiftless, partying 30-year-old boy to a mathematical genius.  So far, the book is brilliant.  More to come on that.

That's my book bag at the moment.  My thoughts are clouded, and my lungs hurt.

That's all Saint Marty's got.

A portrait of last night

September 3: Steven Sotloff, Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Peace"

A good portion of the news reports today focused on the execution of journalist Steven Sotloff by Sunni militants.  It's a horrible story.  Sotloff's mother recently begged for her son's life in a videotaped message to his captors.  To no avail.  Steven was beheaded by a masked killer.

It's a depressing time internationally.  Innocent people are being brutally murdered.  Bombs are flying.  Armies are invading.  The very idea of peace seems unfathomable.  It's a fairy tale told by parents to help their kids sleep at night.  The first war was fought five or six thousand years ago, in regions like Sumer and Ur.  Hostility is a part of our DNA, it seems.

Tonight, I want to give you a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins that isn't about war.  It's a psalm about the death of war.

Saint Marty is praying for Steven Sotloff's family tonight.

Peace

by:  Gerard Manley Hopkins

When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,
Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?
When, when, Peace, will you, Peace?  I'll not play hypocrite
To own my heart:  I yield you do come sometimes; but
That piecemeal peace is poor peace.  What pure peace allows
Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?

Oh surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu
Some good!  And so he does leave Patience exquisite,
That plumes to peace thereafter.  And when Peace here does house
He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,
                 He comes to brood and sit.

Give it a chance

September 3: My Masterpiece, Languishing, Headache

"I'll tell you in the morning," she said.  "When the first light comes into the sky and the sparrows stir and the stars fade, when early cars whisper along the highway, you look up here and I'll show you something.  I will show you my masterpiece."

Charlotte is not referring to another word woven into her web here.  She is at the end of her life, has done everything that she can do to save her friend's porcine life.  But really, her masterpiece is about the continuation of life, as well.  Charlotte is referring to her egg sac, which will, in due time, produce her 514 children.


Really, nothing Charlotte has done can compare to the accomplishment of bringing 514 new lives into the world, even though she will not be around to witness it.  Charlotte does not want to tell Wilbur that she is dying, although she is "languishing" to tell him the truth.  That's the real beauty of E. B. White's little book.  It is full of promise, even though that promise may come at a dear price:  Charlotte's death.

I know that I will never do anything greater in my life than raise my son and daughter.  At the end of my time on this planet, they will be my masterpieces.  Sure, I obsess about poetry and writing and publishing and teaching and jobs and money.  I'm human, with that human drive for success.  But success is such a relative thing.

I have to teach tonight.  I've been up since 4 a.m., and my head is pounding from lack of sleep.  From 6 p.m. to approximately 9:30 p.m., I will be in a classroom, pretending I know something about the art of film.  I will try to appear wise and successful.  If I do it right, I will leave the classroom with a sense of fulfillment.  Accomplishment even.

Do you want to know what the best part of the night is going to be?  Getting home and listening to my daughter tell me about her day at school.  Going into my son's bedroom and watching him sleep for a few seconds, listening to his deep breaths.  That will be my reward for this long day of toil.  For a few blessed minutes, I will be happy.

That is my magnum opus this evening.  My great work.

Saint Marty's headache is feeling a little better.  Time to teach.

Magnum opuses come in all sizes