November 5: "Delivery," Election Night, Compassion and Intelligence

Yes, it is election night.  Yes, I have been watching election returns since about 8 p.m.

No, I'm not going to comment on what's going on.  (I'm sure I will in the coming days, but not now.)  All I will say right now is that I'm still hoping compassion and intelligence prevails, not hatred and stupidity.  

Billy Collins wants his bad news to be gift-wrapped . . . 

Delivery

by: Billy Collins

Moon in the upper window,
shadow of my crooked pen on the page,
and I find myself wishing that the news of my death

might be delivered not by a dark truck
but by a child's attempt to draw that truck--
the long rectangular box of the trailer,

some lettering on the side,
then the protruding cab, the ovoid wheels,
maybe the inscrutable profile of a driver,

and puffs of white smoke
issuing from the tailpipe, drawn like flowers
and similar in their expressions to the clouds in the sky, only smaller.

Collins is sugar-coating death, making it wonderfully childlike, almost beautiful.

It has been raining all day long.  As I sit typing this post, I can still hear it coming down hard against the window behind me.  It's a pleasant, calming sound compared to what's being said on the television right now.  

That's all Saint Marty wants to say tonight.  If you are stressed, stop and listen to the rain. 

November 4: "Table Talk," Zeno's Paradoxes, Bigfoot

It has been one of those Mondays where it feels like I've done a lot but accomplished very little.  Lots of busy work that didn't seem to amount to a whole lot.  For me, my mind seems to be in a holding pattern until after tomorrow--when the election is in the rearview mirror and the future (however bright or dark) is clearer to me.

I'm not going to discuss my politics in this post.  (Most of my disciples already know where I stand on important issues, like electing a convicted felon to the Oval Office.)  I would just like to have a polite conversation over my cheeseburger and French fries about nothing earth-shattering.

Billy Collins orders seafood for dinner . . . 

Table Talk

by: Billy Collins

Not long after we had sat down to dinner
at a long table in a restaurant in Chicago
and were deeply engrossed in the heavy menus,
one of us—a bearded man with a colorful tie—
asked if any one of us had ever considered
applying the paradoxes of Zeno to the martyrdom of St. Sebastian.

The differences between these two figures
were much more striking than the differences
between the Cornish hen and the trout amandine
I was wavering between, so I looked up and closed my menu.

If, the man with the tie continued,
an object moving through space
will never reach its destination because it is always
limited to cutting the distance to its goal in half,

then it turns out that St. Sebastian did not die
from the wounds inflicted by the arrows:
the cause of death was fright at the spectacle of their approach.
St. Sebastian, according to Zeno, would have died of a heart attack.

I think I’ll have the trout, I told the waiter,
for it was now my turn to order,
but all through the elegant dinner
I kept thinking of the arrows forever nearing

the pale, quivering flesh of St. Sebastian,
a fleet of them perpetually halving the tiny distances
to his body, tied to a post with rope,
even after the archers had packed it in and gone home.

And I thought of the bullet never reaching
the wife of William Burroughs, an apple trembling on her head,
the tossed acid never getting to the face of that girl,
and the Oldsmobile never knocking my dog into a ditch.

The theories of Zeno floated above the table
like thought balloons from the 5th century before Christ,
yet my fork continued to arrive at my mouth
delivering morsels of asparagus and crusted fish,

and after we ate and lifted our glasses,
we left the restaurant and said goodbye on the street
then walked our separate ways in the world where things do arrive,

where people get where they are going—
where the train pulls into the station in a cloud of vapor,
where geese land with a splash on the surface of a pond,
and the one you love crosses the room and arrives in your arms—

and, yes, where sharp arrows will pierce a torso,
splattering blood on the groin and the feet of the saint,

that popular subject of European religious painting.
One hagiographer compared him to a hedgehog bristling with quills.

Please go grab yourself a snack from the cupboard.  I recommend the Cosmic Brownies or the leftover pizza in the fridge.  Whatever tickles your culinary fancy is fine.

What shall we talk about tonight?

I have no interest in talking about Zeno's paradoxes or Saint Sebastian being used for target practice.  Of course, politics is off the table, as well.

That leaves movies, art, poetry, the Lions, the Packers, the Nobel Prize in Literature, and Bigfoot.  I don't know a whole lot about football.  So I guess it's art or poetry or the Nobel or Bigfoot.  

In a couple days, I will be doing my book launch reading at the library.  It's still a little unreal that anybody, besides myself, is interested in my little collection of Bigfoot poems.  I've been working on it for so long that it almost seems like Zeno's paradox.  I kept writing poems over the years, getting closer and closer to the finish but never reaching the last page.  

And now, here I sit on the couch, my new book beside me, picking out my set list for Thursday night's reading.  Shit is getting real.  So many people have indulged me over the years about my hairy little project.  Some of those people are no longer with me--my parents, two sisters, a brother, and a dear friend.  Others are probably relieved that I'm no longer going to be torturing them with new Bigfoot poems.  

Do I believe in Bigfoot?  I've been asked that question many times.  Here is my usual answer:  I believe in the idea of Bigfoot because life without wonder would be pretty damn boring.  

Have I ever seen Bigfoot?  No, I haven't.  However, the big guy's been with me longer than my daughter, and she's turning 25 years old in December.  Bigfoot has been my muse and inspiration, and he's as real as honeycomb or dragonflies.  Late at night, I imagine him walking down my street, keeping watch for any skunk metaphors or racoon similes.  

Which came first, Bigfoot or Saint Marty?  You be the judge of that on Thursday evening.  

In the meantime, please pass the salt and pepper.

November 3: "Hangover," Addictions, Be Kind

I don't drink much.  Once a week, my wife and I meet friends for dinner and a beer or two.  That's about it.  I'm very aware of my hereditary predisposition to addiction, so I try not to overindulge in anything, except maybe chocolate and poetry.  

I do host a podcast called Lit for Christmas in which my cohost and I drink a little to excess and discuss Christmas literature.  Had to put that show on pause last March for a little while.  I was working on edits for my new collection of poems and a lot of shit was going on in my life.  I'll be starting LFC up again this month now that things have sort of settled down.  

For some people, however, things never settle down, and that crutch of alcohol or pills or whatever becomes an anchor that pulls them down to the bottom of the Marianas Trench, and they simply . . . vanish.  I've seen it happen more than once.

Billy Collins has a rough morning after . . . 

Hangover

by: Billy Collins

If I were crowned emperor this morning,
every child who is playing Marco Polo
in the swimming pool of this motel,
shouting the name Marco Polo back and forth

Marco          Polo          Marco          Polo

would be required to read a biography
of Marco Polo--a long one with fine print--
as well as a history of China and of Venice,
the birthplace of the venerated explorer

Marco          Polo          Marco          Polo

after which each child would be quizzed
by me then executed by drowning
regardless how much they managed
to retain about the glorious life and times of

Marco          Polo          Marco          Polo

I'm not going to talk about my loved ones who suffer/have suffered from addictions.  That's not my story to tell.  But you all know that addiction comes in many forms.  Sure, there's gin and opioids and nicotine and cannabis and meth.  But there's also gambling and pornography and sex and the internet.  It's all about dopamine being released in the brain in smaller and larger amounts and the pleasure, however brief or intense, it brings.

In the past, I have succumbed to certain addictions.  The one thing I learned during those dark times is that addiction can alleviate pain or loneliness or stress or sadness for a little while, but all those negative emotions come roaring back with a vengeance.  It's a pretty vicious cycle.  Feel shitty.  Indulge in addiction.  Feel better.  Crash.  Feel shitty again.  Indulge even more.  Feel better.  Crash even harder.  Feel even shittier.  Repeat.  Over and over and over.

It's like a game of Marco Polo in the swimming pool, but you never find Marco Polo.  You just flail around blindly.

Don't worry.  This post is not some coded confession that I've started taking heroin or doing crystal meth.  I'm in a good place in my life.  (Not that being in a bad place gives me a free pass to start indulging in my past addictions.)  I'm fine.  But the holidays are upon us, and, for many people, it's not an easy time of year.  (No to mention that other thing that's happening in two days' time.)

Be kind in the upcoming days and weeks and months.  You never know other people's struggles.  

Saint Marty can tell you that, after the darkest nights, there's always a beautiful sunrise.

November 2: "My Unborn Children," Piano Lessons, Regrets

Several hours of all my weekends are spent rehearsing and playing for church services.  In my almost four decades as a liturgical musician, I've worked Catholic, Methodist, Lutheran, and Episcopalian places of worship.  I started out as a fill-in organist, thinking I'd only be playing for a few weeks.  Currently, I'm the full-time accompanist at a Catholic parish and Lutheran parish.  Plus, several local pastors and priests have my phone number in case of organist emergencies.

When I was taking piano lessons as a middle schooler, I never thought I'd have a whole musical career.  Just like I never thought I'd be the father of two children, one on her way to becoming a physician, the other on his way to becoming a college student next semester.

Everyone makes choices every day that affect their lives in big and small ways.  Some choices lead to careers as a worship musician or college professor or writer.  Other choices lead to marriage or poetry or children.

Billy Collins ponders some of his choices . . . 

My Unborn Children

by: Billy Collins

          . . . of all your children

          only those who were born.

          --- Wislawa Szymborska

I have so many of them I sometimes lose track,

several hundred last time I counted

but that was years ago.

I remember one was made of marble

and another looked like a goose

some days and on other days a white flower.

Many of them appeared only in dreams

or while I was writing a poem

with freezing fingers in the house of a miser.

Others were more like me,

looking out the window in a worn shirt

then later staring into the dark.

None of them ever made the lacrosse team,

but they all made me as proud

as I was on the day they failed to be born.

There is no telling--

maybe tonight or later in the week

another one of my children will not be born.

I see this next one as a baby

lying naked below a ceiling pasted with stars

but only for a little while,

then I see him as a monk in a gray robe

walking back and forth

in the gravel yard of an imaginary monastery,

his head bowed, wondering where I am.

It's late Saturday night.  I've played one church service for the weekend, with two more to play tomorrow.  My daughter is living her best life with her significant other in a city 20 miles east of me.  My son is up in his room, gaming online and swearing at his friends.  My wife is putting together a grocery list.

This life I lead is the result of choices I made a long time ago--to take piano lessons, fall in love (is love a choice?), get married, have children.  Sure, I think about my un-choices, too.  To not teach full-time at a university.  Not have a third or fourth or fifth child.  Not get a degree in computer science.  Not work in the healthcare industry anymore.

I'm not haunted by the ghosts of my un-choices like Collins is haunted by his unborn children.  Regrets are useless.  I can't change the past, and I don't know what tomorrow holds.  All I can do is be present in this moment.  And then the next.  And next.

Tonight, Saint Marty is going to be present in setting his clock back one hour and getting some extra sleep.