March 12: Counterpoint the Surrealism, Took a Nap, Treading Water

Arthur and Ford are currently being poetically tortured by a Vogon . . .

He [the Vogon captain] threw himself backward into a huge leathery bat-shaped seat and watched them.  He did the smile again.

Ford was rasping for breath.  He rolled his dusty tongue around his parched mouth and moaned.

Arthur said brightly, "Actually, I quite liked it."

Ford turned and gaped.  Here was an approach that had quite simply not occurred to him.

The Vogon raised a surprised eyebrow that effectively obscured his nose and was therefore no bad thing.

"Oh good . . " he whirred in considerable astonishment.

"Oh yes," said Arthur.  "I thought that some of the metaphysical imagery was really particularly effective."

Ford continued to stare at him, slowly organizing his thoughts around this totally new concept.  Were they really going to be able to bareface their way out of this?

"Yes, do continue . . ." invited the Vogon.

"Oh . . . and, er . . . interesting rhythmic devices too," continued Arthur, "which seemed to counterpoint the . . . er . . . er . . ." he floundered.

Ford leaped to his rescue, hazarding, ". . . counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor of the . . . er . . ."  He floundered too, but Arthur was ready again.

" . . . humanity of the . . ."

"Vogonity," Ford hissed at him.

"Ah, yes, Vogonity--sorry--of the poet's compassionate soul"--Arthur felt he was on a homestretch now--"which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other"--he was reaching a triumphant crescendo--"and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into . . . into . . .er . . ." (which suddenly gave out on him).  Ford leaped in with the coup de grace:

"Into whatever it was the poem was about!" he yelled.  Out of the corner of his mouth:  "Well done, Arthur, that was very good."

There you go.  An explication of Vogon poetry, which, I must remind you, is the third worst poetry in the Universe.  Arthur and Ford do a pretty good job of saying a lot and absolutely nothing at the same time.  In fact, their remarks remind me of some student essays that I've graded in the past.

Poetry can be a pretty lonely avocation at times.  You work for hours by yourself on a piece.  You write.  Rewrite.  Write some more.  Revise some more.  Eventually, you throw your journal across the room, roll into a fetal position in the corner, and contemplate the state of your worthless life.  And that's on a good day!  (On the upside, you can do all of this without having to change out of your sweats and tee shirt from the night before, so small victories.)

This afternoon, when I got home from work, I had every intention to sit down and revise I poem that I wrote this past weekend.  Didn't do it.  Took a nap instead.  I was exhausted.  These last two weeks have been very strange.  Although my work load has been considerably lighter in my new office space, I've found myself more tired than I've been in a really long time.  Every day.

Of course, I am not a big fan of change.  Change kind of saps my energy.  Plus, I've been worrying quite a bit about my future job situation.  I have one job that I know I could walk into right now--but it would require me to get up even earlier than I currently do, and I'm pretty sure it would mean a reduction in salary.  I have another job prospect that I've been promised (for a higher salary at a place I've worked in the past), but the posting for this job is still nonexistent.  And then there's a third job that sounds really exciting, but I'm not sure of the wage or benefits.

As you can tell, everything is a little . . . unsettled in my world.  And that is why I took a nap this afternoon.  I needed a break from the chaos.  I wish I were back at Walt Disney World . . . or Calumet . . . or strapped to a Vogon Poetry Appreciation chair.

I did, once I got out of bed, accomplish quite a bit of work.  I answered some e-mails.  Set up a poetry reading at the university library for the month of April, sent out some reminders about a reading that I'm doing this Thursday, and made my son Ramen noodles.  (Don't criticize me.  It's what he asked for!)  Tonight, I plan on revising that poem from last weekend.

If I sound a little down on myself, I apologize.  I've been struggling with some depression again.  Pushing through mud some days.  I'm trying to see my way through this tunnel I'm in at the moment, but it's a little difficult.  But, hey, I'm in good poetic company--Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, Robert Lowell, Dylan Thomas, Theodore Roethke.  (Ignore the fact that most of these people died of alcoholism or suicide.)

Tomorrow will be better.  I know this turmoil is temporary.  It's just a little difficult to see the shore when I'm treading water.

And Saint Marty didn't really do that well in swimming in high school.