April 10: "ENG 243: The History of Egotism," Accomplished People, Nobel Prize in Literature

Billy Collins gives a lesson on humility . . . 

ENG 243:  The History of Egotism

by:  Billy Colins

You will notice, class,

that Wordsworth did not write

"Edward, the butcher's son,

wandered lonely as a cloud."

I'm not a big fan of ego.  In fact, I find any person who suffers from an acute case of egotism kind of dull and annoying.  Unless you have a Nobel Prize or Oscar sitting on your bookshelf, don't try to impress me.  It ain't gonna work.

I deal with a lot of artists in my job at the library.  Musicians and writers and actors.  I've had conversations with two U. S. Poets Laureate and a Pulitzer Prize winner.  In New York once, I had a close encounter with Alex Baldwin.  I've taken a writing workshop with a novelist who won the National Book Award.  One of classmates from graduate school is a New York Times bestselling author. 

In my experience, very accomplished people don't have to brag about their achievements.  They don't want to be treated like celebrities or gods.  They crave normalcy, not adulation.  Sure, there are perks to a certain amount of celebrity--trips and money (sometimes) and kind words.  But there are also downsides--loss of privacy and constant scrutiny and the need to prove yourself (over and over and over).

I come from a family background that didn't really encourage pride.  Hard work was the name of the game.  If that hard work paid out in money or a certain amount of recognition, all the better.  However, I've never sought praise or attention.  Those things make me feel . . . uncomfortable, and I will often redirect the conversation or situation (when I can) if I find myself in the spotlight.

Don't get me wrong--I won't turn down a Pulitzer Prize or National Book Award or Nobel Prize.  (Heck, I won't turn down a free order of French fries from McDonald's).  But, given a choice, I will take my dog for a walk rather than talk about myself on TV or radio.

If, next October, Saint Marty gets a phone call from the Swedish Academy, naming him the first blogger/poet to win the Nobel Prize in Literature, you will probably find him on some trail in the woods, thanking the trees for their shade.

April 8: "Creché," Solar Eclipse, "Reflections on a Good Life Before a Solar Eclipse"

A moment of Christmas wonder with Billy Collins . . .

Creché

by:  Billy Collins

For a moment,

the ox and a sheep

looked over at each other,

then they turned away

and went back 

to adoring the Child.

It is difficult to maintain wonder for an extended period of time, even in the presence of the son of God.  Ask the ox and sheep.  Yes, there were angels singing, and, according to legend, talking doves and chickens (maybe) and a donkey (who probably just complained about how sore his hooves were after plodding across deserts and mountains).  However, as I said, wonder is hard to sustain.  It has a half life--eventually transmutating into awe and then surprise and then mild interest and then boredom.

Today, a total solar eclipse happened.  Not where I was, but in parts of the country.  My relatives in Detroit almost got totality, but some friends in Ohio experienced it all:  first contact to second contact to totality and back.  Me?  I got about 82.4%.  Still a pretty great show.

What amazed me most was the fact that everyone wasn't outside with proper eyewear to witness it.  I was working at the library, and, while the sun was being gobbled up by the moon's shadow, there people sat at the public computers, playing solitaire and researching genealogy and God knows what else.  All while one of the true miracles of the universe was happening above their heads.  Even the ox and sheep in Collins' poem eventually turn back to the Child.

I try hard not to become immune to wonder.  I've been married for almost 30 years to the same woman.  We've been through a lot together, some of it incredible and some of it terrible.  We are both human, and we both have made mistakes.  A lot of them.  Yet, we are still together and very much in love.  That is cause for wonder.  And we have two great kids who aren't meth addicts or sex workers or Republicans.  Another cause for wonder.  

I experienced something full of wonder this afternoon.  The sun almost completely disappeared for a little while from the heavens.  However, every day of my life, I experience something else full of wonder:  love.  As Bonnie Tyler sings--a total eclipse of the heart.

Here is a poem Saint Marty wrote last night in honor of today's wonder . . . 

Reflections on a Good Life Before a Solar Eclipse

by:  Martin Achatz

after Tracy K. Smith

The terrible thing about living

a good life is that you never

know you are living a good

life until it has become

memory, gilded in gold

leaf and bound in leather

on the bookshelf of the past.

Those newlywed days

when my wife waited 

every morning for calls

from schools desperate 

for warm bodies to fill

seats of missing teachers,

me writing after she left

until I had to report

to the book store where

I arranged porn mags,

recommended poetry

by Sharon Olds and sold

copies of John Grisham's

latest legal masterpiece,

those were good days, 

and when enough good days

are strung together, they become

a good life where, at night,

we pulled out the futon, 

got naked, covered ourselves

with a quilt, ate Oreos

as we read novels or watched

Seinfeld and laughed until

we were weak in each other's

arms.  Some nights, we slept

there, not bothering to stumble

to the bedroom, and we would

kiss and touch each other

until my body eclipsed hers

or her body eclipsed mine,

and we basked in the totality

of each other.

April 6: "Koan in the Rain," Eternity, Memories

Billy Collins imparts wisdom . . .

Koan in the Rain

by:  Billy Collins

You want to know

the sound of one hand clapping?

It is the same

as the sound of the other hand

holding the umbrella,

only slightly louder.

For those of you who know nothing about Zen Buddhism, a koan is a riddle/anecdote used to demonstrate the failings of logical thought and also to provide some kind of enlightenment.  So, for example, Collins answers the question "What does one hand clapping sound like?" with the image of the other hand "holding the umbrella, / only slightly louder."  It's not a logical response, but somehow it feels right.  Appropriate.

So the koan for this blog post is:  What is eternity?

It is Saturday, and I've been alone with my dog for most of the day.  The memory of the blizzard from the past week is melting away outside (I can hear watery fingers drumming on the roof and sidewalks).  I haven't accomplished a whole lot--a load of laundry, a long walk with my puppy, and quite a bit of heavy self-reflection.

Recently, in a therapy session, I found myself talking about memories that I haven't allowed myself to think about for a very long time.  I'm not going to delve into the details of these recollections, but they were quite painful, physically and mentally.  Things that happened over the course of many, many years.  (I apologize if you find my reticence to provide a fuller explanation frustrating.  Perhaps, in the future, I will be ready to open up.  Not today.)

What I will say is that I've been crying today.  A lot.  (I'm not telling you this to elicit sympathy,  I'm telling you this in order to answer the koan about eternity,)  Opening the door to these memories and feelings was like punching a hole in a dike.  The hole just keeps getting bigger and bigger, and more and more details from the past keep flooding through.

It's a little like being in a bad horror film where there are ghosts around every corner.  Each ghost is trying to talk to me or hand me something or take over my body.  I've been ignoring these ghosts for so long that they're a little pissed, and, now that I've let my defenses down, they're unleashing on me.  And that's not a bad thing.  It's time for some exorcisms.

As most of my faithful disciples know, I struggle with sadness at times.  And free-floating anxiety.  I wouldn't say these emotions are crippling.  I've become very used to them and have developed ways of coping that allow me to function every day.  Most of my acquaintances would probably describe me as funny, upbeat, positive.  That is true.  I love my friends and family.  However, when I'm alone, I often find myself mired in self-criticism, self-doubt, and low self-esteem.  (That admission may shock more than a few of you.)  I can't remember a time in my life when I haven't felt like this.

Don't worry.  I'm not going to harm myself.  Been down that road before, not going down it again.  The last few days have just been . . . long.  Filled with painful recollections, some panic, and barely-controlled weeping.

The world is thawing.  Water is flowing,  Everywhere.

That's Saint Marty's definition of eternity.

April 3: "The First Straw," Blizzard Warning, Yellow Snow

Billy Collins doesn't break camels' backs . . . 

The First Straw

by:  Billy Collins

The camel felt nothing

as it stood outside the tent,

its nose lifted in the desert air.

It has been a camel's back-breaking kind of day.  

I woke this morning to snow.  A lot of it.  And wind.  A lot of it.  And school closings (including the university).  A lot of them.  It wasn't a surprise.  The National Weather Service had given ample warning (from Winter Storm Watch to Winter Storm Warning to Blizzard Warning), so it's not like I was standing outside my house, nose lifted in the winter air, oblivious to the oncoming apocalypse. 

But yesterday, there was yellow-to-green grass all over, and spring seemed not a distant hope but a distinct possibility.  I could smell mud.  Always a good sign.  Now I'm staring at piles of plowed snow as tall as myself, and my body is sore from six or seven rounds with my shovel.  In short, I feel as if warmth and blossoms have flown to Walt Disney World for an extended vacation, and I'm left behind to clean things up.

That in itself feels like a last-straw moment, not a first-straw.

Spent the day working from home, answering emails, writing scripts, scheduling and rescheduling events.  All that in between taking my puppy out to bark at snow blowers and sniff around for those places where she's pissed.  (Don't eat yellow snow.)

It is almost 7 p.m. now.  The snow is still snowing, wind is still winding, and the National Weather Service has amended its predictions, calling for another nine inches of white by 8 a.m. tomorrow morning.  (I'm a little exhausted and am tempted to stand outside and go all ape-shit at the next plow that blasts by my driveway.)

Saint Marty's well of wisdom is dry tonight.  Snow in April just plain S-U-C-K-S.