This blog is called Saint Marty. Obviously, I am not a saint. Anyone who's been reading my posts for any length of time knows this. That striving for perfection, that's what this blog is all about. It's also about the failure of achieving that perfection. Failure is inevitable if perfection is the goal.
Through words, however, I can reach out and almost touch a little piece of sainthood. It's all about the well-crafted thought, the beautiful image, the witty saying. Words help me understand my place in the world. That's why I write every day--to understand. Maybe to improve, too, just a little.
Saint Marty is trying to climb his way to heaven, one sentence at a time. Move over, Saint Peter.
Speech
by: Kazim Ali
How struck I was by that face, years ago, in the church mural:
Eve, being led by Christ through the broken gates of Hell.
She's been nominated for the position of Featured Saint
on the Icon of Belief, up against the dark horse candidate—
me: fever-ridden and delirious, a child in Vellore, unfolding
the packet around my neck that I was ordered not to open.
Inside, a folk cure, painted delicately in saffron.
Letters that I could not read.
Why I feel qualified for the position
based on letters I could not read amounts to this:
Neither you nor I can pronounce the difference
between the broken gates and the forbidden letters.
So what reason do we need to believe in icons or saints?
How might we otherwise remember—
without an image to fasten in that lonely place—
the rock on which a Prophet flung himself into fever?
Without an icon or church, spell "gates of Hell."
Spell "those years ago unfolding."
Recite to me please all the letters you are not able to read.
Spell "fling yourself skyward."
Spell "fever."
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