October 4: "Tension," Saint Marty's Day Eve, Suddenly

I'm not a big fan of things happening suddenly.  I prefer a more gradual pace, giving me plenty of time to adjust to any changes or revisions in my universe.  As I've said in many prior posts, I don't like anything that even smacks of the unexpected.

Billy Collins, on the other hand, is often taken by surprise . . . 

Tension

by: Billy Collins

Never use the word suddenly just to 

create tension.

— Writing Fiction

Suddenly, you were planting some yellow petunias
outside in the garden,
and suddenly I was in the study
looking up the word oligarchy for the thirty-seventh time.

When suddenly, without warning,
you planted the last petunia in the flat,
and I suddenly closed the dictionary
now that I was reminded of that vile form of governance.

A moment later, we found ourselves
standing suddenly in the kitchen
where you suddenly opened a can of cat food
and I just as suddenly watched you doing that.

I observed a window of leafy activity
and beyond that, a bird perched on the edge
of the stone birdbath
when suddenly you announced you were leaving

to pick up a few things at the market
and I stunned you by impulsively
pointing out that we were getting low on butter
and another case of wine would not be a bad idea.

Who could tell what the next moment would hold?
another drip from the faucet?
another little spasm of the second hand?
Would the painting of a bowl of pears continue

to hang on the wall from that nail?
Would the heavy anthologies remain on the shelves?
Would the stove hold its position?
Suddenly, it was anyone's guess.

The sun rose ever higher in the sky.
The state capitals remained motionless on the wall map
when suddenly I found myself lying on a couch
where I closed my eyes and without any warning

began to picture the Andes, of all places,
and a path that led over the mountains to another country
with strange customs and eye-catching hats,
each one suddenly fringed with colorful little tassels.

I took today off from my job at the library.  That doesn't mean I sat around contemplating the hairs on my toes.  I kept myself insanely busy, working on a book tour for November, shopping for ice cream cake, practicing music for church services, taking my puppy for a long walk.  None of those things, by the way, were surprises, in case you were wondering.

It is Saint Marty's Day Eve.  I hope you've all bought your Saint Marty's day presents, baked your Saint Marty's Day cookies, trimmed your Saint Marty's Day trees, and watched How the Grinch Stole Saint Marty's Day.  Maybe you even pulled up an album on iTunes of Bing Crosby singing some Saint Marty's Day carols like "White Saint Marty's Day" and "I Heard the Bells on Saint Marty's Day."  And don't forget to make a pot of the traditional Saint Marty's Day treat--tapioca pudding--for tomorrow's celebrations.

The sky blazed orange at dusk tonight.  No surprise there, though.  For the last week or so, the sunrises and sunsets have been stunning.  I've finished all my work for the day.  Now, mamma in her kerchief and I in my cap are just settling our brains for a long autumn nap.  Barring anything unforeseen, I will soon brush my teeth and get ready for bed, where visions of tapioca will dance in my head.

No suddenly this Saint Marty's Day, which exactly the way that Saint Marty likes it.

October 3: "Lost," Ross Gay Style, Delights

One of my best friends and I have a thing for Ross Gay's collection of essays The Book of Delights. 

Yesterday, I texted a picture of the sunrise to this friend.

She texted me this today:  "Good morning!  Wonder if you want to share delights with me?  Ross Gay style.  You shared the sunrise that was your delight.  I shared the albino deer that was one.  I am telling you now that I love the smell of the post office."

I responded, "I love sitting in my library office in the dark, watching car headlights climbing up the building."

Billy Collins loses a coin that gives him delight and luck . . .

Lost

by: Billy Collins

There was no art in losing that coin 

you gave me for luck, the one with the profile 

of an emperor on one side and a palm on the other. 

It rode for days in a pocket 

of my black pants, the paint-speckled ones, 

past storefronts, gas stations and playgrounds, 

and then it was gone, as lost as the lost 

theorems of Pythagoras, or the Medea by Ovid, 

which also slipped through the bars of time, 

and as ungraspable as the sin that landed him— 

forever out of favor with Augustus— 

on a cold rock on the coast of the Black Sea, 

where eventually he died, but not before 

writing a poem about the fish of those waters, 

into which, as we know, he was never transformed, 

nor into a flower, a tree, or a stream, 

nor into a star like Julius Caesar, 

not even into a small bird that could wing it back to Rome.

It's really easy to lose or overlook things that give us delights.  Collins writes about the poet Ovid who was banished from the place that delighted him the most--the city of Rome.  He spent the rest of his days exiled by Augustus Caesar to a small fishing village on the Black Sea, never seeing Rome again.  Some say he died of a broken heart.

I would venture to say that Ovid probably never realized how delightful his Roman life was until it was taken away from him.  That's the way delights generally work.  We take them for granted until we lose them like a lucky coin.

So, I am going to share a list of delights I experienced today.

I love the smell of my puppy's breath when she kisses me as I walk through the front door.

I love taking walks at night, when everyone has locked their doors and turned off their front porch lights.

I love talking about books with the members of my book club (we met tonight and discussed Margaret Atwood's MaddAddam).

I love the sound of my wife's breathing when she falls asleep.

I love those quiet hours of early morning or late night when I'm the only person awake.

I love friends who share their delights with me.

I love soggy Lucky Charms and thin crust pizza.

I love the idea of Bigfoot.

I love unexpected texts from people I care about.

I love falling asleep on the couch while comfort movies like On Golden Pond or The Perks of Being a Wallflower are on the TV.  

I love writing blog posts.

Delight.  Delight.  Delight.  Delight.

Saint Marty is now going to brush his teeth (another delight).  He might even read a little Ross Gay before his closes his eyes.

October 2: "Hippos on Holiday," Bigfoot Poems, Dreams Do Come True

Many, many years ago, I dreamed of a book that I would love to read:  a collection of Bigfoot poems.  This was when Amazon was in its infancy, and Google wasn't a verb.  I searched the internet, visited different websites (again, this was before social and media met).  The book simply didn't exist.  

Billy Collins dreams of a movie he'd like to see . . . 

Hippos on Holiday

by: Billy Collins

is not really the title of a movie
but if it were I would be sure to see it.
I love their short legs and big heads,
the whole hippo look.
Hundreds of them would frolic
in the mud of a wide, slow-moving river,
and I would eat my popcorn
in the dark of a neighborhood theatre.
When they opened their enormous mouths
lined with big stubby teeth
I would drink my enormous Coke.

I would be both in my seat
and in the water playing with the hippos,
which is the way it is
with a truly great movie.
Only a mean-spirited reviewer
would ask on holiday from what?

This afternoon, I received a shipment of my new collection of poems--A Bigfoot Bestiary and Other Wonders.  It's the book of which I dreamed so many years ago.  To give you an idea of how long it took me to write it, one of the poems predates my daughter, who will be 24 years old in December.  

There are no hippos in my book.  However, you do get a lot of Bigfoot and lake sturgeon and ducks and jellyfish and chipmunks.  When I first opened the box, I just stood there, staring at the book's cover.  Until today, it didn't seem real.  More like a really good fever dream where hippos do go on holiday and Bigfoot trick-or-treats.  

I've been carrying a copy of the book with me all day long.  Every once in a while I'll hold it in my hands, flip through the pages, read a line or stanza.  Just to remind myself that dreams can come true.  

Saint Marty may sleep with the book under his pillow.

October 1: "Scenes of Hell," Walz and Vance, Meatloaf

Given a choice between rereading Dante's Inferno or rereading his Paradiso, I will always choose the former.  Why?

Because badness is more interesting than goodness.  Sin more interesting than grace.  Turmoil more interesting than calm.

Billy Collins' Inferno . . . 

Scenes of Hell

by: Billy Collins

We did not have the benefit of a guide,
no crone to lead us off the common path,
no ancient to point the way with a staff,

but there were badlands to cross,
rivers of fire and blackened peaks,
and eventually we could look down and see

the jeweler running around a gold ring,
the boss trapped in an hourglass,
the baker buried up to his eyes in flour,

the banker plummeting on a coin,
the teacher disappearing into a blackboard,
and the grocer silent under a pyramid of vegetables.

We saw the pilot nose-diving
and the whore impaled on a bedpost,
the pharmacist wandering in a stupor

and the child with toy wheels for legs.
You pointed to the soldier
who was dancing with his empty uniform

and I remarked on the blind tourist.
But what truly caught our attention
was the scene in the long mirror of ice:

you lighting the wick on your head,
me blowing on the final spark,
and our children trying to crawl away from their eggshells.

I just finished watching Tim Walz debate J. D. Vance.  Democrats are going to claim that Walz won.  Ditto for Republicans with Vance.  I'm not really interested in the final score tonight.  (Of course, I have an opinion about this subject, but that's not really pertinent to my point tonight.)

We slow down when driving by car accidents.  If there's a fire down the street, we step out of our houses to watch the excitement.  When leaves start turning color from summer emerald to autumn mustard or pumpkin or cardinal, we stop and take pictures with our phones.  On September 11, 2001, we all watched, over and over, the towers collapsing.

Human beings are fascinated by calamity.  I'm just as guilty as the next person on this.  Perhaps it's morbid curiosity.  Or maybe we just feel a little better about our lives by witnessing something terrible happen to another person

+.  Then we can say to ourselves, "Well, yeah, my life is shitty, but I haven't been diagnosed with lung cancer like Floyd down the street."

We all have our own versions of Hell.  For Democrats (and a good deal of other people around the world), it's another Trump presidency.  For MAGA Republicans, it's whatever fear-mongering lies come out of the mouth of their orange-faced leader.  I'm sure Tim Walz and J. D. Vance have their own versions of Hell, as well.  J. D.'s Hell may be reading all the terrible reviews of Hillbilly Elegy.  Tim's Hell may be a world without meatloaf.  

Saint Marty's Hell would be filled with piles of ungraded freshmen essays.