He took hold of the line carefully so that it did not fit into any of the fresh line cuts and shifted his weight so that he could put his left hand into the sea on the other side of the skiff.
"You did not do so badly for something worthless," he said to his left hand. "But there was a moment when I could not find you."
Why was I not born with two good hands? he thought. Perhaps it was my fault in not training that one properly. But God knows he has had enough chances to learn. He did not do so badly in the night, though, and he has only cramped once. If he cramps again let the line cut him off.
When he thought that he knew that he was not being clear-headed and he thought he should chew some more of the dolphin. But I can't, he told himself. It is better to be light-headed than to lose your strength from nausea. And I know I cannot keep it if I eat it since my face was in it. I will keep it for an emergency until it goes bad. But it is too late to try for strength now through nourishment. You're stupid, he told himself. Eat the other flying fish.
It was there, cleaned and ready, and he picked it up with his left hand and ate it chewing the bones carefully and eating all of it down to the tail.
It has more nourishment than almost any fish, he thought. At least the kind of strength that I need. Now I have done what I can, he thought. Let him begin to circle and let the fight come.
Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. As a diabetic, I am constantly aware of the body's need for food. Like Santiago, I know food is necessary, even when I'm not hungry. There are mornings when I get to my office, get busy, and realize that, three hours later, my body is running on empty.
I sometimes go all day, moving from one near hypoglycemic reaction after another. I work like crazy, get sweaty-clammy hungry, eat, work like crazy some more, get sweaty-clammy hungry again, eat . . . You get the idea.
Today, I dealt with a situation regarding my son at school. Part One was yesterday. Today, Part Two. I won't go into the details, but all I can say is that middle school sucks. And middle schoolers can be some of the cruelest people on the face of the planet. I would never want to go back to that hormone-driven stage of life when everything is sprouting hair and glands are working overtime. When everyone becomes acutely aware of their perceived flaws, and those flaws become the stars of a movie titled My Life as a Mutant Misfit with Acne.
So, because of this drama, I forgot to eat this morning, and, by 11 a.m., I was a sweaty-clammy mess. Having been a diabetic since I was 13, I should know better. But life doesn't always work that way. Sometimes, you find yourself adrift on a boat, focused on what lies beneath, and you neglect your needs. Don't realize you're tired or hungry or ready to pass out.
At the setting of the sun, my son is doing well in the haze of middle school nastiness. I finally ate my breakfast around 11:30 this morning without embarrassing myself too badly. (In my younger days, I have been known to hold student conferences while suffering a low blood sugar. The students were happy, but I couldn't recall a damn thing I said.) So, in the end, I'd put this rat-trap of a day in the "win" column. Nobody died or ended up in jail.
Saint Marty has very low standards when it comes to success.
And a Lenten poem . . .
by: Martin Achatz
According to a Gallup poll,
The happiest person in America
Is tall, not Jimmy Stewart tall,
But not Tom Cruise short. He
(Of course a man, women need
Not apply) is Asian-American,
To insure aptitude for math,
Science, I suppose. He must
Be an observant Jew, Christians
Tending to be too Republican,
Therefore humorless, Muslims
Raising eyebrow threat levels
On airplanes too much to allow
For vacations in Europe, Fiji,
Greece. No, a Jew, enlightened
Enough to appreciate the writing
Of E. L. Doctorow, but strict
Enough to take Yom Kippur off work.
He should be 65 years of age
At least, ready to collect
Social Security for a few years
Before the money runs out.
Married with children.
His wife should be up
For kosher late night dinners,
Skinny-dips, Tony Bennett songs.
His children, graduates of Brown,
UCLA, make trips home for
Radish and salt at Passover.
He lives in Hawaii, snorkels
Coral reefs in Huaname Bay,
Stops at roadside fruit stands
To buy fresh-cut pineapple.
He has his own business, something
Non-stressful like surf blogger,
Hot air balloon captain, pastry chef,
Earns more than $120,000 a year,
Not enough to attract the attention
Of relatives, but enough to pay
For botox, liposuction, Kindles.
This man is happiest. Satisfied.
Wakes at dawn to sit lotus,
Watch the Pacific surf, kiss
His wife of forty years before
She goes for her morning jog.
Statistic perfection, as unattainable
As Liz Taylor’s violet eyes,
As peace between Israel, Palestine,
As John Lennon’s no Heaven, no Hell,
One Gallup world, living as one.
No comments:
Post a Comment