June 28: Ten-Day Boat, Book Club Meeting, God Complex

Young Merton goes on the search for love . . .

In three months, the summer of 1931, I suddenly matured like a weed.

I cannot tell which is the more humiliating: the memory of the half-baked adolescent I was in June or the glib and hard-boiled specimen I was in October when I came back to Oakham full of a thorough and deep-rooted sophistication of which I was both conscious and proud.

The beginning was like this: Pop wrote to me to come to America. I got a brand-new suit made. I said to myself, "On the boat I am going to meet a beautiful girl, and I am going to fall in love."

So, I got on the boat. The first day I sat in a deck chair and read the correspondence of Goethe and Schiller which had been imposed on me as a duty, in preparation for the scholarship examinations at the university. What is worse, I not only tolerated this imposition but actually convinced myself that it was interesting.

The second day I had more or less found out who was on the boat. The third day I was no longer interested in Goethe and Schiller. The fourth day I was up to my neck in the trouble that I was looking for.

It was a ten-day boat.


According to David Van Biema of Time Magazine:

He [Thomas Merton] will not become a saint because of his radical pacificism, which caused him to be censored even in his lifetime; because his curiosity regarding Eastern contemplative traditions struck some as heretical; and because he admitted to a variety of sins throughout his career that would give ammunition to his opponents. Certain intellectually-inclined Catholics, however, will continue to regard his wrestling with faith as holier than the boring compliance of some others well along the path to canonization.

According to Van Biema, Merton is too much a person of his time--vehemently opposed to war, intellectually curious about Eastern religious ideas, and wholly human in his failings (he fathered a child out of wedlock before he became a Trappist monk).  And in the passage above, the adolescent Merton does what all adolescent boys do:  he lets his actions be dictated by a force centered thoroughly below his belt.  

I think I am drawn to Merton because of his humanity.  He isn't one of these holy people who, as a child, had visions of the Virgin Mary and joined a holy order when he was ten years old, never to leave the confines of the monastery again.  No, Merton struggled.  Failed.  Sinned.  Sought forgiveness.  Failed again.  For me, he is a model for saintliness.  Despite all of the things he did "wrong," Merton never stopped chasing God for his entire life.

Now, I have been chasing God most of my life, or vice versa.  It's pretty much the same thing.  I've run away from God, turned my back on God, yelled at God, and broke up with God.  Yet, somehow, I still have God in my life, despite my best efforts.  I would like to say that now, in the darkest moments of my life, I always turn to prayer and find comfort in God's abiding presence.  However, that would be a lie.  

Here's the truth:  there is something in me that always wants to try to fix things that are wrong in my life.  Things I simply have no power over.  People I love who are traveling down the road of addiction and self-destruction.  Who are sick with no hope of good health.  Who make bad choices daily because of that stupid thing called free will.

You will notice that all of the things I listed in the previous paragraph belong to the life journeys of other people.  One of my huge failings as a human being (and spiritual person) is this notion that I have all the answers.  If only people would listen to me, the world would be a much better place.  Certainly, my life would be a lot easier.  God just needs to let me drive the car for a little while.

There it is.  I want to be God.  Instead of praying "Thy will be done," I pray "my will be done."  And when my will isn't done, I get angry, depressed, despairing.  

Tonight, I had a wonderful Zoom meeting with my book club.  This month's selection was Ann Patchett's The Dutch House.  A great novel.  Deeply complex in its humanity.  There were a lot of difficult questions to answer about being stuck in the past, unable to move forward.  A lot of the book's issues struck close to home.  And no matter how hard I tried to steer the discussion in other directions, it always seemed to circle back to me.  I'm not kidding.  I couldn't control it.

The people in my book club are some of my best friends.  They know me.  I can't bullshit my way through anything with them.  They will call me on it.  Or laugh at me.  That's why I love our meetings.  They bring out my flaws, force me to take stock of my life.  They remind me that I'm human, like Merton.  I ain't no saint, although one of my book club members pointed out the possibility that I enjoy being a martyr.  My response to that observations:  "I have to be a martyr to put up with all of you."  Which simply elicited raucous laughter.

So, here I am tonight:  a flawed, deeply conflicted, would-be saint with a God complex.  And I am blessed with the miracle of friends who know all this and still love me.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.

May 25: Patient Sort of Fire, Ann Patchett, "Commonwealth"

Billy Pilgrim was on fire, having stood too close to the glowing stove.  The hem of his little coat was burning.  tt was a quiet, patient sort of fire--like the burning of punk.

Billy wondered if there was a telephone somewhere.  He wanted to call his mother, to tell her he was alive and well.

Billy is literally burning up, and he doesn't even realize it.  He's too preoccupied with the idea of letting his mother know that he isn't dead.  Meanwhile, the flames are slowly eating away his overcoat.

I think that's always the case.  When some significant life event happens, most people are completely unaware of it.  Tonight, I hosted the monthly meeting of my book club.  This month's selection was Ann Patchett's Commonwealth, which is all about major life events and their disastrous aftermaths.  Two families destroyed with a kiss.  I love this book.

Book Club is always one of my favorite nights of the month.  I get to sit around with some of my favorite people in the whole world, talking about good literature (in Fannie Flagg months, mediocre literature).  And everybody brings food.  Tonight, it was pesto ravioli, a great salad, vegetables and dip, and banana bread bottom cheesecake.  So good.

One of the things I appreciate the most about these gatherings are the conversations that occur.  Yes, we talk about themes and characters and symbolism.  But we also talk about how the month's book intersects with our own lives.  For example, tonight we spent a lot of time talking about childhood and parenting and dysfunction and forgiveness.  Those are the kind of conversations I love the most.

So, I am tired.  I am also full.  Satisfied.  It was a great time.

Saint Marty is thankful this evening for his book club friends.

May 21: Empty Eggshell, Classic Saint Marty, "Waiting for Donald Hall"

I am an empty eggshell right now.  I've been working all day on computer stuff.  I'm tired of staring at my laptop, planning out my students' academic lives for the next six weeks.  Tonight, I see a good book and maybe a drink or two in my future.

My son has been throwing up for most of the day, although he's regaining some of his normal piss and vinegar, as my brother in Grand Rapids would say.  My son's still looking pale, but he's eaten some ice cream and kept it down.  He's already talking about not going to school tomorrow. 

I am ready to be done.  Really ready.  I am going to get my son in bed, and then I'm going to either pass out or disappear into Ann Patchett's Commonwealth.

And now for a flashback.  Seven years ago, I was thinking about winning the Nobel Prize in Literature.  Some things never change . . .

May 24, 2010:  Saint Simeon Stylites the Younger

A few days ago, I found out that I've been chosen Employee of the Month for the health care system I work for. (Yes, I teach college, as well. Need to pay the bills, people.) This is the same award my coworker and friend won back in February or March. You may remember my jealous rant about the subject some weeks ago. This award came as a complete surprise. Usually, if someone from a department wins Employee of the Month, the rest of the employees are pretty much screwed for a few years. So I wasn't expecting even a nomination until the year 2013.

Winning this award puts me in a bit of a quandary. As most of my readers know, I spend a good deal of my time in this blog complaining about the fact that some idiot has received some kind of award or blessing that he or she does not deserve. Now, I am that undeserving idiot. It sort of takes all of the wind out of my writing sails. How can I be sarcastic and cutting about myself?

Despite the fact that I have a blog and write many witty postings about being unrecognized and unappreciated, I generally feel uncomfortable when people start complimenting me. I prefer to make people laugh. When I start receiving praise, it's my nature to deflect or joke about it. I truly don't go out of my way to draw attention to myself. I like being the funny one, not the one that's held up as an example of excellence. Generally, if you're put on a pedestal, someone's sneaking up behind you to knock you off of it. (Take it from someone who usually does the knocking.)

Saint Simeon Stylites the Younger knows a few things about pedestals. A disciple of a monk named John, Simeon, from the age of five onward, lived a good portion of his life on platforms mounted on top of columns. He did this to avoid distractions in his life of prayer and devotion. (I'm not sure what he did about certain bodily functions, but I can imagine he spent a lot of time yelling "Incoming!" or "Look out below!") When he turned 20, he moved to the mountains, put up another column and platform, climbed to the top of it, and spent the last 45 years of his life on top of that perch.

Nobody ever knocked Simeon off his pedestal. He sat up there, praying, meditating, celebrating mass (the bishop scaled the column to ordain him), eating, sleeping, defecating, urinating, and receiving pilgrims. I sort of picture him as Mel Brooks' 1000-year-old man, dispensing one-liners with a Yiddish accent.

Anyhow, I would prefer to be Mel Brooks than Simeon. Being on a pedestal is too precarious. One false move and you could find yourself at the bottom of the column in a big old pile of saintly shit.

But, since I'm up here for the moment, I might as well make the most of it. Therefore, I've decided to write my acceptance speech for the Nobel Prize in Literature. I know Employee of the Month isn't quite in the same league, but I believe in planning ahead, killing two birds with one stone. So, imagine, if you will, a lavish hall, long tables set with royal china and crystal. The Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy announces my name. I stand up, check to make sure my fly is zipped, and then make my way to the podium amid a fanfare of trumpets. (Honest to God, that's how they do it every year, more or less.)

Then I speak:

NOTE: I have included two versions of my speech. The first is humorous; the second, more serious. If you prefer a chuckle, read Version 1. If you want something a little more somber, read Version 2.

VERSION 1:

Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses, Ladies and Gentlemen,

Ever since I won Employee of the Month several years ago at my place of work, I've dreamed of winning this prize. Every writer secretly does. We might say we write for truth or art or grace or understanding. But really, it's all about moments like this, when you stand before the world and are acknowledged as the very best, all your peers looking up to you with blood in their eyes, an envy so intense it causes constipation in a generation of writers. That is when you know you have reached the pinnacle, as I have. I am, at this moment, Saint Simeon on his mountain perch, evacuating myself on the less-talented masses below.

I want to thank the members of the Swedish Academy for finally coming to their senses, recognizing a talent that is unparalleled, a talent Biblical in power and truth. I am humbled by the company I am now a part of: Hemingway, Faulkner, Heaney, Shaw, Lessing, Yeats, and all of those foreigners whose names I can't pronounce. I know, in years to come, younger writers will compare their works to mine and realize how much they fall short. That is as it should be.

The world applauds the wisdom of your decision that culminates in this great hall tonight. I applaud your good taste. Thank you.

VERSION 2:

Your Majesties, Your Royal Highnesses, Ladies and Gentlemen,

I have had much grace in my life. I have been graced by a beautiful wife. I have been graced by beautiful children. I have been graced by family and friends who have supported me, carried me through difficult times, danced with me in joyful times. And I have been graced with a love of words, of language, of the transformative and healing power of poetry.

The Catholic saint Simeon Stylites the Younger spent almost 60 years of his life sitting on top of a platform balanced on a column. He put himself in this dizzying position to eliminate worldly distractions, to bring himself closer to creation and the Creator. I find myself balanced on a similar pinnacle tonight, gazing down from this prestigious vantage into the faces of people I cherish and admire.

I am humbled by the company you have placed me in, and I am humbled by the faith you have placed in my palms. I will eventually come down from this height, either gracefully or violently, but I will be sustained, lifted up by this faith.

Thank you to the members of the Swedish Academy. Toni Morrison, upon receiving this award, asked everyone present "to share what is for me a moment of grace." Like Simeon, I feel as though I have been lifted up to touch the face of the eternal. Thank you.




And a poem from Saint Marty, just for fun.

Waiting for Donald Hall

by:  Martin Achatz

Is like looking out the kitchen window

     at fists of clouds,

Wondering when those fingers

     will relax,

When bullets of water will spill

     from that palm

Of sky, sail down to black soil

     in the pumpkin patch

Where two leaves have sprouted,

     green as swamp, with promise

Of orange in their tender

     stems, a wide orange,

Full of mulch and hay, vines

     of frost on morning panes,

Candle grin of jack-o-lantern

     on All Hallow's Eve,

When souls wander all night

     in search of an open gate.

He appears in the doorway, hunched

     over his walker, shuffles

To his chair, sits, lifts his beadle

     eyes to the gathered crowd,

Clears his throat, ushers words

     to his tongue, and makes a sound

Like driftwood in Lake Superior surf.

May 9: "Valley of the Dolls," Final Grades, Ann Patchett

Billy asked for something to read on the trip to Tralfamadore.  His captors had five million Earthling books on microfilm, but no way to project them in Billy's cabin.  They had only one actual book in English which would be placed in a Tralfamadorian museum.  It was Valley of the Dolls, by Jacqueline Susann.

Billy read it, thought it was pretty good in spots.  The people in it certainly had their ups and downs, ups and downs.  But Billy didn't want to read about the same ups and downs over and over again.  He asked if there wasn't, please, some other reading matter around.

"Only Tralfamadorian novels, which I'm afraid you couldn't begin to understand," said the speaker on the wall.

"Let me look at one anyway."

So they sent him in several.  They were little things.  A dozen of them might have had the bulk of Valley of the Dolls--with all its ups and downs, ups and downs.

Billy Pilgrim craves stories on the long flight from Earth to Tralfamadore.  Unfortunately, all his hosts have is a copy of Valley of the Dolls, a highly popular but completely trashy novel by Jacqueline Susann that was published in 1966.  Since Dolls was first released, it has sold 31 million copies.  To put that into perspective, the first Harry Potter novel sold a relatively small 5 million copies in hardcover and 6.6 million in paperback during the first year of its release.

It's not surprising that Valley of the Dolls is going in the Earth exhibit in a Tralfamadorian museum.  Everyone was reading Susann's book when Slaughterhouse first came out.  Today, the Tralfamdorians might choose a copy of Fifty Shades of Gray for their museum's human collection.  It's all about popularity.  Certainly, J. K. Rowling and Stephen King might make the cut as well, simply by the sheer numbers of books they've sold.

It is the day after.  I finished evaluating my last stack of papers at 10:40 p.m., entered my final grades at 11:35 p.m., took some ibuprofen, and went to bed.  I am currently in the state of end-of-semester hangover.  My eyes are burning, and I am a little achy with sleep deprivation.  I plan to completely relax this evening.  Tomorrow, I dive into planning my summer class, which begins in two weeks.  Gulp.

Tonight, however, I take a break.  I have a copy of Ann Patchett's Commonwealth that I have been saving for this occasion.  It's not Valley of the Dolls, but it has gotten great reviews.  If I can stay awake, I plan on reading a few chapters before I pass out from exhaustion.  I do have a bottle of white wine in the fridge.  I may have a glass.  Or two.

Saint Marty is thankful for a night without a red pen in his hand.