April 29: Just Bed, Mary Doria Russell, "Bigfoot and Marty"

Santiago comes to safe harbor . . . 

He could feel he was inside the current now and he could see the lights of the beach colonies along the shore. He knew where he was now and it was nothing to get home.

The wind is our friend, anyway, he thought. Then he added, sometimes. And the great sea with our friends and our enemies. And bed, he thought. Bed is my friend. Just bed, he thought. Bed will be a great thing. It is easy when you are beaten, he thought. I never knew how easy it was. And what beat you, he thought.

"Nothing," he said aloud. "I went out too far."

When he sailed into the little harbour the lights of the Terrace were out and he knew everyone was in bed. The breeze had risen steadily and was blowing strongly now. It was quiet in the harbour though and he sailed up onto the little patch of shingle below the rocks. There was no one to help him so he pulled the boat up as far as he could. Then he stepped out and made her fast to a rock.

The Great Michigan Read with Mary Doria Russell this morning at the library.  A wonderful lady, whip smart and personable.  Then, a virtual matinee of Bigfoot and Marty this afternoon.  Thirteen people in a Zoom meeting.  It was a good day at work.

Tonight, I ate, cleaned a church, and slept.  

Saint Marty's koan for the end of this week (and the poetry festival):  after being attacked by sharks, take a nap.

April 25: Violated Your Luck, "Bigfoot and Marty," Biggest Crowds

Santiago muses on luck . . . 

But in the dark now and no glow showing and no lights and only the wind and the steady pull of the sail he felt that perhaps he was already dead. He put his two hands together and felt the palms. They were not dead and he could bring the pain of life by simply opening and closing them. He leaned his back against the stern and knew he was not dead. His shoulders told him.

I have all those prayers I promised if I caught the fish, he thought. But I am too tired to say them now. I better get the sack and put it over my shoulders.

He lay in the stern and steered and watched for the glow to come in the sky. I have half of him, he thought. Maybe I'll have the luck to bring the forward half in. I should have some luck. No, he said. You violated your luck when you went too far outside.

"Don't be silly," he said aloud. "And keep awake and steer. You may have much luck yet."

"I'd like to buy some if there's any place they sell it," he said.

What could I buy it with? he asked himself. Could I buy it with a lost harpoon and a broken knife and two bad hands?

"You might," he said. "You tried to buy it with eighty-four days at sea. They nearly sold it to you too."

This evening, I screened a documentary for the Great Lakes Poetry Festival.  It was titled Bigfoot and Marty, and it was about . . . me.  We got one of the biggest crowds of the entire festival.

Saint Marty's koan for the night:  luck is like Bigfoot or a shark--it can surprise you or bite you in the ass.