January 22: Introspective, Consideration, Thinking of Myself

Independent-minded, [Annie Ives] divided the world into two categories of people:  those who were introspective and gave true thought and consideration to others and those who were not.  She considered Ives to be the rare case of a man in the first category and the men in her family in the latter.  She once told Ives, while they walked along the boardwalk of Coney Island, that, in her opinion the troubles in life were started by people who never looked into their own souls.  He walked along holding her hand and nodding.  He was astounded, a woman nearly as introspective as himself, who loved him.

Ives is a quiet man who really does care about others.  He doesn't harbor any illusions about himself.  A serviceable artist with some talent, Ives knows he is not a Picasso or Disney.  He uses that talent to support his family, help out his friends, and provide support to his church and community.  He is what would be called a pillar:  respected by all who know him.
 

I am not Ives.  I harbor illusions about myself.  I have entered a particular poetry contest every year for the last five years.  The prize in the contest is $10,000.  Every year, I convince myself that I stand a chance of winning that money (an amount that could really change anybody's life, but particularly a poet's life).  And every year, I have lost.  Even as I sit here typing this post, I am convinced it's only a matter of time until I inevitably am crowned the victor.  Illusions.

I spend a good deal of time thinking about myself, and I worry about what other people think about me.  Sure, I try to help out my family and friends as much as I can.  I volunteer at church (although I have scaled these activities back drastically due to church leadership decisions, among other things).  And, when I can, I provide community writing workshops and visit local school classrooms (although not as much as I would like).  But all of these things don't make me an Ives.  I am not a pillar.

At the moment, I am obsessed with the idea of being the next U. P. Poet Laureate.  I don't stand a chance, but, in the dark hours of early morning, I allow myself to imagine a scenario where it happens.  And it gives me no small amount of pleasure.  That makes me a little bit egotistical.  Maybe even prideful.  Regardless of who is named Poet Laureate instead of me, I will probably convince myself that he/she is of mediocre talent and probably paid for votes.  Like I said, I'm not Ives.

The other thing with which I'm obsessed are pageviews to this blog.  Currently, I'm averaging less that 50 a day.  I'm used to getting over a hundred daily.  It's bugging me a great deal.  I'm taking it personally.  Yes, I have missed posting a couple of nights.  Yes, it's January, and people are probably still trying to make good on their New Year's resolutions to go to the gym more to exercise and lose weight.  There are probably a million reasons why my readership is down, and none of them have to do with me.  That doesn't stop me from feeling like a loser every time I check the stats from this blog.

I take everything personally.  Unreturned e-mails and phone calls.  Rejections from editors of magazines.  My daughter's refusal to kiss me goodnight.  I could keep going.

Saint Marty is not Edward Ives.  Saint Marty is more like Miley Cyrus, twerking for anybody who will take notice.

I'm not the only one