February 24: Notes from a D. P.

Flannery O'Connor wrote a short story called "The Displaced Person."  In her story, the D. P. (as she refers to him) is a refugee from Europe and the Holocaust.  It's not a pretty story.  Of course, O'Connor's stories are rarely pretty.  It doesn't end well for the D. P.  If my memory is accurate, the D. P. ends up crushed to death under a tractor.

I'm between my film class and my poetry workshop right now.  I have a headache behind my eyes.  It hurts to blink.  It's been a heck of a day, and I have a few more hours to go.  I'm done being a poet at 7:30 p.m., and my daughter gets done being a dancer at 8:35 p.m.

At the moment, I just want to crawl into bed and not come out for the next five or six years.  Maybe four years, if the winter isn't too bad.  The idea of facing the world again tomorrow is a little tiring.  I'm sure I'll be better in a few days.

Saint Marty simply has to adjust to the idea of being a refugee for a little while.

Flannery and a displaced peacock