January 24: His Habits, Daydreams, Mary Ruefle, "Saga," New Cartoon

[Ives] had his habits.  In the office by eight-thirty, lunch at one, home (God willing) at six, though quitting time often varied.  Once a day, usually at four in the afternoon, he'd call his wife, careful not to disturb her between noon and three, when one of the next-door neighbors would watch his son, and Annie might do whatever she liked:  pursue her studies, go to a library, see old friends, or, if she liked, try some drawings herself.  He liked riding elevators up to his office on the tenth floor, and one morning had the fantasy that the elevator would continue onward like a Jules Verne/Wernher von Braun rocket to the stars.  Many daydreams.

I think the reason I love Mr. Ives' Christmas so much is that I identify so strongly with Ives.  Ives is a man of habit.  I am a man of habit.  Ives adores his wife and kids, would do anything for them.  Ditto me.  And Ives daydreams in a very Walter Mitty way at times.  Elevators turning into rockets to the stars.  I have similar fantasies, especially on particularly tedious work days.

My daydreams are a little less fantastic than Ives' daydreams.  I don't want my car to suddenly transform into a submarine so I can drive into Lake Superior and hunt for a giant lake sturgeon.  My fantasies are more grounded in some form of reality.  For instance, I once read a story about how the writer James Michener was working in a business office after the publication of his first book, Tales of the South Pacific.  A tedious, mind-deadening job.  Suddenly, the phone rings.  It's a call for Michener.  On the line is a reporter from a newspaper, informing him that he's just been awarded the Pulitzer Prize for fiction.  That was the last day of office work for Michener.  That's the kind of fantasy in which I indulge.  Sudden, surprising acclaim.  Something to lift me out of the everyday drudgery.

I love the freedom of weekends, when I can pretend I'm in charge of my life a little more.  I still have obligations, but they are obligations of my own choosing.  People don't tell me what to do.  I make and follow my own schedule.  Of course, there's still a little daydreaming going on.  For instance, sitting here, typing this post, I imagine suddenly receiving an e-mail from a literary agent, raving about my blog and begging to represent me.  I know, I know.  Delusions of grandeur.  But cut me some slack, please.  It's the weekend.  I'll be back to my structured existence in two days.  Until then, I can dream.

I have another poem from Best American Poetry 2014.  It's about life and time and eternity and repetition.  How we are all part of the same story, told over and over.

Saint Marty would choose to repeat James Michener's story tonight.  Or maybe Robert Frost's.

Saga

by:  Mary Ruefle

Everything that ever happened to me
is just hanging--crushed
and sparkling--in the air,
waiting to happen to you.
Everything that ever happened to me
happened to somebody else first.
I would give you an example
but they are all invisible.
Or off gallivanting around the globe.
Not here when I need them
now that I need them
if I ever did which I doubt.
Being particular has its problems.
In particular there is a rift through everything.
There is a rift running the length of Iceland
and so a rift runs through every family
and between families as a feud.
It's called a saga.  Rifts and sagas
fill the air, and beautiful old women
sing of them, so the air is filled with
music and the smell of berries and apples
and shouting when a gun goes off
and crying in closed rooms.
Faces, who needs them?
Eating the blood of oranges
I in my alcove could use one.
Abbas and ammas!
come out of your huts, travel
halfway around the world,
inspect my secret bank account of joy!
My face is a jar of honey
you can look through,
you can see everything
is muted, so terribly muted,
who could ever speak of it,
sealed and held up for all?

Confessions of Saint Marty