February 23-24: The Foundations, Sally Rooney and Book Club, Being Normal

Merton's father is still in search of a house . . .

When he [the town capitalist] found out we had come there to live, he immediately offered to sell us his house, and invited us out there to dinner, that we might see it.  The House of Simon de Monfort, as it was called, was a big farm a mile or two out of town on the road to Caylus.  It stood up the slope of a hill overlooking the valley of the Bonnette and was itself in the mouth of a deep circular valley full of woods where, as we found, a small stream full of watercress rose from a clear spring.  The house itself was an ancient place, and looked as if De Montfort might indeed have lived in it.  But it also looked as if he might still be haunting it.  It was very dark and gloomy and, being dark, was no place for a painter.  Besides, it was too expensive for us.  And Father preferred to build a house of his own.

It was not long after I had started to go to the local elementary school, where I sat with great embarrassment among the very smallest children, and tried to pick up French as we went along, that Father had already drawn up plans of the house we would build on the land he had now bought at the foot of Calvary.  It would have one big room, which would be a studio and dining room and living room, and then upstairs there would be a couple of bed-rooms.  That was all.

We traced out the foundations and Father and a workman began to dig.  Then a water diviner came in and found us water and we had a well dug.  Near the well Father planted two poplar trees--one for me, one for John Paul--and to the east of the house he laid out a large garden when the following spring came around.

Owen Merton seems to be trying to create a normal existence for his kids--buying a home, sending Merton to school, laying down roots.  After the turmoil of the previous years with the loss of his mother, Merton, I think, is attracted to the idea of normalcy, even if he will never actually attain it.  He wants what we all want--to have a life filled with quiet, calm perfection.

I woke up Sunday morning with the inside of my house a chilly 31 degrees Fahrenheit.  Everything was cold.  The doorknobs, drinking glasses in the kitchen cupboard, my iPhone.  I left a Mountain Dew Zero on my kitchen stove when I went to bed.  It was colder in the morning than when I bought it the night before.  Don't even get me started about the experience of sitting down on the toilet seat in the bathroom.

Nevertheless, I got ready for church and went to pray.  Figured it couldn't hurt.

As I sat in church, singing in the choir, my brother showed up to work on my furnace.  By the time I got home a little after noon, he had my furnace cranking out hot air.  A bad fuse, dirty air filter, and thermostat were the culprits for my chilly night.  Lesson learned:  I will never take being warm for granted ever again.

Sunday evening, the members of my book club descended on my abode.  (I actually thought that I was going to have to cancel the meeting due to my little furnace predicament.)  Coincidentally, we read the book Normal People by Sally Rooney, which is about (you guessed it!) characters who are trying to be "normal," and failing miserably.  At the end of the night, I think we reached the consensus that "normal" is pretty much in the eye of the beholder.  In other words, we're all fucked up in some way.

Today, this newly acquired wisdom was put to the test.  Without naming names or providing details, let me just say that a "normal" person whom I care about deeply almost ended up taking a little ambulance ride to the hospital because of a drug addiction.  This person has avoided going to rehab because she's afraid that people will find out.  Instead, she ended up "accidentally" overdosing.  She's fine.  This time.

So, you see, normal is a lot of things.

Normal people have addictions.  And new puppies.  They can fill your life with love and heart break.  They make promises.  Break promises.  They are the popcorn kernel that gets stuck in your teeth.  They are the chocolate that melts on your tongue.  Normal people can fill you up and empty you out.  Normal is a matter of opinion.  Normal is a matter of fact.

Saint Marty is all of those things.  And he's praying for the normal addicts in his life.

November 16: Boring Normal, Richard Blanco, "Since Unfinished"

You know, some days feel like they're never going to end.  It's usually the bad ones.  Funeral days.  Final exam days.  Getting fired days.  Misery seems to slow down the hands of the clock.  On the flip side, some days go by in a wink.  Birthdays.  Wedding days.  Christmas days.  When you want a day to go on forever, it explodes like a beautiful firework and is gone, leaving only a glowing reminder against the stars.

Today, I'm experiencing neither of those things.  It's a normal day.  Nothing too terrible.  Nothing too great, except for the brownie I just ate.  Normal days are okay, too.  They're sort of the connective tissue between the fantastic and the cataclysmic.  While I like the fantastic, I'm very comfortable with normal.  Plain, boring normal. 

I think that's what the poem below is about.  The muscle of life.  The unfinished stuff that holds a person together.

Saint Marty isn't sure he ever wants to be finished.

Since Unfinished

by:  Richard Blanco

I’ve been writing this since

the summer my grandfather

taught me how to hold a blade

of grass between my thumbs

and make it whistle, since

I first learned to make green

from blue and yellow, turned

paper into snowflakes, believed

a seashell echoed the sea,

and the sea had no end.

 

I’ve been writing this since

a sparrow flew into my class

and crashed into the window,

laid to rest on a bed of tissue

in a shoebox by the swings, since

the morning I first stood up

on the bathroom sink to watch

my father shave, since our eyes

met in that foggy mirror, since

the splinter my mother pulled

from my thumb, kissed my blood.

 

I’ve been writing this since

the woman I slept with the night

of my father’s wake, since

my grandmother first called me

a faggot and I said nothing, since

I forgave her and my body

pressed hard against Michael

on the dance floor at Twist, since

the years spent with a martini

and men I knew I couldn’t love.

 

I’ve been writing this since

the night I pulled off the road

at Big Sur and my eyes caught

the insanity of the stars, since

the months by the kitchen window

watching the snow come down

like fallout from a despair I had

no word for, since I stopped

searching for a name and found

myself tick-tock in a hammock

asking nothing of the sky.

 

I’ve been writing this since

spring, studying the tiny leaves

on the oaks dithering like moths,

contrast to the eon-old fieldstones

unveiled of snow, but forever

works-in-progress, since tonight

with the battled moon behind

the branches spying on the world—

same as it ever was—perfectly

unfinished, my glasses and pen

at rest again on the night table.

 

I’ve been writing this since

my eyes started seeing less,

my knees aching more, since

I began picking up twigs, feathers,

and pretty rocks for no reason

collecting on the porch where

I sit to read and watch the sunset

like my grandfather did everyday,

remembering him and how

to make a blade of grass whistle.