July 13: "Breathless," Sid, Calumet

Billy Collins contemplates his death . . .

Breathless

by: Billy Collins

Some like the mountains, some like the seashore,

Jean-Paul Belmondo says

to the camera in the opening scene.

Some like to sleep face up,

some like to sleep on their stomachs,

I am thinking here in bed--

some take the shape of murder victims

flat on their backs all night,

others float face down on the dark waters.

There there are those like me

who prefer to sleep on their sides,

knees brought up to the chest,

head resting on a crooked arm

and a soft fist touching the chin,

which is the way I would like to be buried,

curled up in a coffin

in a fresh pair of cotton pajamas,

a down pillow under my weighty head.

After a lifetime of watchfulness

and nervous vigilance,

I will be more than ready for sleep,

so never mind the dark suit,

the ridiculous tie

and the pale limp hands crossed on the chest.

Lower me down in my slumber,

tucked into myself

like the oldest fetus on earth,

and while cows look over the stone wall

of the cemetery, let me rest here

in my earthy little bedroom,

my lashes glazed with ice,

the roots of trees inching nearer,

and no dreams to frighten me anymore.

This admission may or may not shock you:  I think about death.  A lot.  In the last nine or so years, death has been a frequent visitor in my life.  I should know death's first name, but I don't.  So I will assign death a name:  Sid.

I've been close to Sid a few times in my life, due to my diabetes.  When I have an extremely low blood sugar, I experience a kind of slowing down, as if the world is a motion picture going by one slow frame at a time, so that I can study each one in intimate detail.  It's not frightening or traumatic.  It's also not comforting or warm.  Sid doesn't come as the Grim Reaper, but Sid also doesn't come as a long lost relative.

It's been a long day of rehearsing and performing in Calumet.  Spent the morning writing and rewriting scripts and sketches.  The afternoon, practicing and rewriting some more.  The evening, acting and singing and reciting poetry.  It was stressful, but I was surrounded by people I care about deeply.  

Now, I'm Sid-tired.  I just had the rest of my meatball sub for dinner and watched an episode of Portrait Artist of the Year.  Once I'm done typing this blog post, I will be going to bed.  (Isn't sleep just practice for when Sid comes calling?)

I guess I would be remiss if I didn't mention that Sid tried to take out Donald Trump tonight, but failed.  (Among other things, this blog is also a way of recording notable historical events and my reactions to them.)  Everyone knows I'm not a fan of Trump.  However, I'm not sure if somebody killing the former Insurrectionist and Chief is the best way to dispel the MAGA brand of insanity that has plagued the United States since before the plague of COVID.  (By the way, Sid did take Richard Simmons and Dr. Ruth in the last couple days.  He's been busy.)

I don't have any profound piece of wisdom to pass on tonight, about Sid or politics or poetry.  I'm tired, and I have a long day of travel tomorrow.

Saint Marty just hopes Sid takes the rest of the weekend off.