That evening passed festively enough. The tree had been decorated with great aplomb and by ten-thirty everyone had left and the children were in bed. Buoyed by the companionship of his friends and family, Ives had consumed a few more drinks than usual. In the dark of the living room, with only the tree lights on and Bach playing on the hi-fi, Ives and Annie had remained on the couch, relaxing...
This evening is one of the last normal evenings Annie and Ives will have for many years. In a few days, their son will be dead, and the Christmas season will become a painful reminder of everything that they lost, at least for Ives. But, for this quiet moment, in the glow of the newly-decorated Christmas tree, Annie and Ives are happy, content with their lives.
In exactly five days' time, it will be Saint Marty's Day. No, I didn't forget about it. But, with all that has gone on in the last month or so, I haven't really been focusing on the approaching holiday. Yet, it is time to bring the Saint Marty's Day decorations down from the attic, decorate the Saint Marty's Day tree, and bake some Saint Marty's Day cookies.
For those of you new to the blog, I will explain. Saint Marty's Day is very much like the Christmas described in the above passage from
Mr. Ives' Christmas. However, the only person who gets presents is me. Christmas celebrates the birth of Christ. Saint Marty's Day celebrates the birth of another very important holy person.
Tonight, I will probably gather my family around, light a few Saint Marty's Day candles, and watch some Saint Marty's Day movies, like
It's a Wonderful Saint Marty's Day and
Saint Marty's Day Miracle on 34th Street. Of course, there's always the classic
A Charlie Brown Saint Marty's Day. I'm already feeling warm and fuzzy inside.
Join Saint Marty in singing a Saint Marty's Day carol: "Have yourself a merry little Saint Marty's Day..."
Lisa Russ Spaar probably already has her Saint Marty's Day shopping presents wrapped already.
Rapunzel's Girlhood
by: Lisa Russ Spaar
In the house where I lived
before the tower,
we kept a tub filled with carp,
sleek secrets cruising the black water,
orange as embers.
Their mouths were round as my wrist
and always pulsing for more
of the grain we fed them.
I have a mouth with no tongue
and I explored it in my room
as far as my fingers could reach.
For some reason, I'd close my eyes
when I did this,
and always I'd picture those fish,
circling stories below in their basin,
sometimes coming to the surface
where I'd glimpse their large, wild eyes,
the fret of their flesh, elusive
as answers bobbing into view
in my Magic-8 Ball toy--
"Fat Chance" or "No Way"
and sometimes "It's in the Bag."
My lonely body asked my questions
for me--the dull ache of bones growing
overnight, of eggs preerupting inside me,
thimble breasts hot as coals--
and always the crone's hands filling
my bath, shearing my dress up,
testing the steam. It took two hands
for her to wrest a terrified fish,
pin it beneath her sodden knee,
slit its throat. I was always surprised
that something so hidden
could be exposed that way, the guts
coiled and glazed with musk,
little ladders of bones I'd prop
against my sill for the mice to climb--
and the meat I'd close my mouth around,
my tongue pressing all the remnants
of ocean each down my throat
before I'd spit the tough flesh out.
Adventures of STICKMAN
