September 16: But That's Crazy, Bullies, Donald Trump

WARNING:  Do not read this post if you are a Donald Trump supporter.  It may offend you and make you feel really bad about yourself.  Or it may incense you and make you hate me.  Proceed with caution!

Bullies will be bullies, even if they're interstellar cops . . .

"Now, listen to this, Beeblebrox, and you better listen good!"

"Why?" shouted back Zaphod.

"Because," shouted the cop, "it's going to be very intelligent, and quite interesting and humane!  Now--either you all give yourselves up now and let us beat you up a bit, though not very much of course because we are firmly opposed to needless violence, or we blow up this entire planet and possibly one or two others we noticed on our way out here!"

"But that's crazy!" cried Trillian.  "You wouldn't do that!"

"Oh yes, we would," shouted the cop, "wouldn't we?" he asked the other one.

"Oh yes, we'd have to, no question," the other one called back.

"But why?" demanded Trillian.

"Because there are some things you have to do even if you are an enlightened liberal cop who knows all about sensitivity and everything!"

"I just don't believe these guys," muttered Ford, shaking his head.

One cop shouted to the other, "Shall we shoot them again for a bit?"

"Yeah, why not?"

They let fly another electric barrage.

The heat and noise was quite fantastic.  Slowly, the computer bank was beginning to disintegrate.  The front had almost all melted away, and thick rivulets of molten metal were winding their way back toward where they were squatting.  They huddled farther back and waited for the end.

Bullies come in all shapes and sizes.  Sometimes, they're Kill-O-Zap toting space cops.  Other times, they're classmates.  Occasionally, they can be brothers or sisters.  And, of course, they can be the people we love the most.  Spouses.  Significant others.  Boyfriends.  Girlfriends.

Currently, I live in a country where bullying has become acceptable.  The man currently residing in the Oval Office is responsible for that.  While his wife has supposedly made the fight against cyberbullying her main issue, Donald Trump has made bullying and cyberbullying his primary means of getting what he wants. 

Now, I'm not saying this because I'm looking for an argument.  I am simply stating a fact.  Donald Trump has been a privileged bully his entire life, and he has raised his children to be the same.  If you don't believe this, read his daily Twitter feed.  Watch him interact with members of Congress.  Listen to his campaign rally speeches.  He attacks.  He whines.  He blames other people for his failures.  He takes credit for successes that weren't his.  In short, he is a narcissistic bully.

What I have just said in the above paragraph is nothing new.  It is a rehash of everything that has been printed about Donald Trump since he became the Republican candidate for President of the United States over three years ago.  During his campaign, I remember travelling through downstate Michigan and seeing an advertisement at a huge shopping complex stating that Donald Trump would be holding a rally there in a few weeks.  At the time, the idea of Trump being President of the United States was a joke.  (It still is, actually.)  And I said to my wife as we drove by the sign, "Want to come back to see him?"  She shook her head, and we laughed.

Here we are, over three years later, with Donald Trump thinking of going to war with Iran and having the power to do so.  We have put the safety of this country into the hands of a man who has no foreign policy experience and whose election was solidified by agents of the Russian government.  (If you don't believe me, read the Mueller report.  Actually read the whole thing.  Don't read the Trump Cliff Notes version written by Attorney General William Barr.  It's pretty clear that the only reason Mueller did not pursue legal action against Donald Trump is because he lacked the official power to do so.  That power resides with Congress.  By the way, Mueller is a Republican.)

I am tired of listening to the news every day and hearing about bullies.  Gun-toting bullies.  Elected bullies.  Swastika-ed bullies.  Homophobic bullies.  Xenophobic bullies.  These people, who have crawled out of the shadows since Donald Trump became President of the United States, need to return to those shadows. 

We fought a World War to defeat bullies.  To insure that this kind of hatred would never cause the deaths of millions of people again.  Yet, here we sit in 2019, watching history repeat itself, and it's terrifying.  Donald Trump idolizes bloodthirsty dictators.  He took the word of Vladimir Putin about Russian tampering in the 2016 Presidential election OVER THE UNITED STATES INTELLIGENCE COMMUNITY.  He met with Kim Jong-un to talk about disarming North Korea and didn't disarm anything.  He just legitimized Kim Jong-un's bloodthirsty regime.

If any of these actions seem legitimate to you, then you are probably a bully, too, and I don't really worry if I've offended you.  Go out and book your trip to the nearest Trump 2020 MAGA rally, because I am done with teaching my son that bullying is wrong while the leader of the United States sits on his toilet in the middle of the night, tweeting out hate.

Saint Marty thinks Donald Trump should serve a long in-school detention, where he should write on the chalkboard, over and over, "I will not be an asshole."

September 15: Sabbath, Rest, Writing

Welcome to the end of my Sunday.

Usually, one of the first things I do on this day, after I go to church, is sit down and pound out a sabbath post, because I usually have so much to do on Sunday to get ready for the coming week.  Instead, I did my day in reverse.  I got all of my class prep/work prep done first.  Now, at 8:20 in the evening, I'm sitting down to pound out my sabbath post.  Don't hold any high expectations for what you are about to read.

Generally, I don't get a whole lot of rest on the sabbath.  I move from one task to another, without too much of a break.  In fact, most of my days are like that.  Mondays, I work and teach and write and plan.  Tuesdays, I work and plan and clean my church (that's my fourth job, if you're counting).  Wednesdays are the longest for me.  I work and teach and office hour and teach.  It's usually about a 15 to 16 hour day.  Thursdays are my lightest days, usually.  I work and then go home, unless I have some poetry thing in the evening (which has been happening for the last couple months).  Fridays, I work and then clean.  My weekend doesn't usually begin until about 7:30 at night.  Saturdays, I do my house cleaning.  Plus, I pick out church music and play the 4 p.m. Mass.  Sundays, as I said, are reserved for getting ready for the upcoming week.  Church in the morning.  Classwork and work/work in the afternoon.  In the evening, I'm brain dead.  Which brings us back to Monday.

Put the above paragraph on repeat, and you have a little idea of what my life is like.  If you saw any actual sabbath rest time in there, let me know.  I haven't been able to squeeze that in yet.  I have to think that the ancient Israelites didn't really follow the whole resting of the sabbath, either.  I mean, they had crops to tend, sheep to shepherd, cheese to make.  If they took a day off, people didn't eat, livestock died, and feta spoiled. 

I guess "rest" is a relative thing.  For example, typing this blog post is not a chore for me.  That's why I decided to do it last.  It's my reward for doing about five hours of lesson planning and grading and e-mailing.  Some people would think of writing as a chore.  I don't.  For me, writing fills me with joy, unless I'm so tired that I can barely focus, which is the state I'm approaching right now.

In the best of worlds, I would write these blog posts in the morning, when my mind is fresh and unclogged from the day's worries and trials.  That would be ideal.  I find I write better in the morning.  However, I do not live an ideal life.  I work.  A lot.

So, right now is my sabbath.  About two hours of relaxing writing before bed.  It may be one hour tonight.

Saint Marty is fading fast. 

September 14: Fusillade, Icebergs, Finding Joy

The Heart of Gold crew are still under attack from some overly sensitive space cops . . .

Ford's eyes popped halfway out of their sockets.  "Who are these guys?" he said.

"Dunno," said Zaphod, "I think I preferred it when they were shooting."

"So are you going to come quietly," shouted one of the cops again, "or are you going to let us blast you out?"

"Which would you prefer?" shouted Ford.

A millisecond later the air about them started to fry again, as bolt after bolt of Kill-O-Zap hurled itself into the computer bank in front of them.

The fusillade continued for several seconds at unbearable intensity.

When it stopped, there were a few seconds of near-quietness as the echoes died away.

"You still there?" called one of the cops.

"Yes," they called back.

"We didn't enjoy doing that at all," shouted the other cop.

"We could tell," shouted Ford.

Life seems to throw things at you like a fusillade of Kill-O-Zap bolts sometimes.  In my experience, I've have long periods of wonderful status quo followed by bolt after bolt of change and chaos and heartbreak.  (Don't worry, I'm not launching into one of my posts that require large dosages of anti-depressants at the end.  Keep reading.)  I'm sure I'm not alone in this cycle of happiness/calm followed by upheaval/struggle followed by happiness/calm.  That's sort of the way the universe works.  For example, we had eight good years of steady, strong leadership in the United States, followed by three years of Trump.  Yes, I went there.

If I met you today, and you told me that your life has been perfect forever, that you've never experienced a day of struggle and pain, I would call you a liar.  We're all in the same boat here.  At times, that boat is taking on water and you have to put on your life vest.  Other times, that boat is anchored in a coral bay of white sand, and there's an open buffet on the lido deck.  That's the way life works.

How you deal with the crises that come your way is what differentiates one person from the other.  When the iceberg shows up, are you going to get in the lifeboat line, run around screaming, or sit and listen to the musicians play "Nearer My God to Thee" as the ship goes down?  When the ocean is calm, temperatures warm, sky cloudless, are you going to count your blessings, look for a better ship with better parties, or stand lookout for icebergs on the horizon?  It's all a matter of choice.

I can honestly say that, at times, I've done all of those things.  I've sat in lifeboats, and I've stuffed myself at the buffet.  I've run around screaming like Chicken Little, and I've counted my blessings.  I've abandoned ship in the morning, and sat down and played "Nearer My God to Thee" in the evening.  It all depends on the day, my state of mind, and the circumstances.

I don't think that it's healthy simply to go through life preparing for the next iceberg.  Doing that ensures that you will never be happy.  Your life will just be a series of Titanics.  On the other hand, simply stuffing free crab cakes into your mouth and dancing to the Abba tribute band every day is not a good choice, either.  Life isn't always a series of parties.

I am the result of hundreds of hours of therapy.  I say that flippantly, but it is true.  In my life, I have done my fair share of time on couches, talking to counselors and psychologists.  It's what has kept me afloat in my life storms.  One of the biggest lessons I've learned is this:  one day at a time.  It doesn't help to constantly rehash old pains and hurts, unless it's to understand present pains and hurts.  And it doesn't help to worry about future pains and hurts, because they will overshadow your present life.

So, I take things one day at a time.  I try to not worry about what's going to happen tomorrow, and I try to let go of yesterday.  Now, I'm not saying that you should go out and spend all the money in your retirement account on that Corvette you've always dreamed of owning.  No.  That would be foolish.  However, making yourself (and everybody else around you) miserable because, in five years, you may be diagnosed with some kind of expensively catastrophic illness is foolish, as well.  You will never experience joy.  Ever.

It's Saturday.  I didn't have to rush off to work at 5 a.m.  I haven't received any death threats from bill collectors.  Nobody has kidnapped my kids.  My wife is unwell, but she has medication that will, hopefully, help her to feel better.  I'm on a diet that is making me feel better about myself.  That is my list of today's joys.

Saint Marty hopes everyone has joy today in their lives.

September 12: Some Truth, Jim Henson, "Silent Night"

Because I don't want the day to end without posting something . . .

I led a poetry workshop at the Joy Center this evening.  The theme of the workshop was "The Spirit of Jim Henson," in honor of what would have been his 83rd birthday on September 24.  For me, it was something that cracked me open and let some light spill in.

I'm not sure if this is a poem.  It's raw, pretty much unedited.  But it contains some truth.

Saint Marty wants to thank everyone who showed up tonight.  You are all amazing.

Silent Night

by:  Martin Achatz

A middle-of-the-night moment.  My wife, in the midst of postpartum depression that later morphed into bipolar, asleep beside me.  Our daughter, wailing in the darkness.  I got out of bed, stumbled to the bassinet, swaddled in new-father-I-don't-know-what-the-hell-I'm-doing fear.  There was this alien thing in the room, ember-faced, quivering like a bubble ready to pop.  I hesitated, then reached down, placed my hand on her chest, began to sing the only song I could think of.  Silent Night.  Holy night.  My voice was thick with sleep.  All is calm.  All is bright.  Slowly my daughter calmed, calmed, stopped screaming, stopped quaking.  Sleep in heavenly pe-eace.  She grabbed my thumb, pulled it to her mouth, started sucking on it.  Sle-ep in heavenly peace.  She fell asleep, the nail of my thumb pressed against her sparrow tongue.  I stood there for over an hour, until my hand and arm numbed, prickled, not wanting to end the moment:  my daughter, reaching out, taking hold of me, turning me into something she needed.