July 19: Jonah, Storytelling, Truth

Reference was made to the historical story of Jonah and the whale in the preceding chapter. Now some Nantucketers rather distrust this historical story of Jonah and the whale. But then there were some sceptical Greeks and Romans, who, standing out from the orthodox pagans of their times, equally doubted the story of Hercules and the whale, and Arion and the dolphin; and yet their doubting those traditions did not make those traditions one whit the less facts, for all that.

One old Sag-Harbor whaleman's chief reason for questioning the Hebrew story was this:- He had one of those quaint old-fashioned Bibles, embellished with curious, unscientific plates; one of which represented Jonah's whale with two spouts in his head- a peculiarity only true with respect to a species of the Leviathan (the Right Whale, and the varieties of that order), concerning which the fishermen have this saying, "A penny roll would choke him"; his swallow is so very small. But, to this, Bishop Jebb's anticipative answer is ready. It is not necessary, hints the Bishop, that we consider Jonah as tombed in the whale's belly, but as temporarily lodged in some part of his mouth. And this seems reasonable enough in the good Bishop. For truly, the Right Whale's mouth would accommodate a couple of whist-tables, and comfortably seat all the players. Possibly, too, Jonah might have ensconced himself in a hollow tooth; but, on second thoughts, the Right Whale is toothless.

Another reason which Sag-Harbor (he went by that name) urged for his want of faith in this matter of the prophet, was something obscurely in reference to his incarcerated body and the whale's gastric juices. But this objection likewise falls to the ground, because a German exegetist supposes that Jonah must have taken refuge in the floating body of a dead whale- even as the French soldiers in the Russian campaign turned their dead horses into tents, and crawled into them. Besides, it has been divined by other continental commentators, that when Jonah was thrown overboard from the Joppa ship, he straightway effected his escape to another vessel near by, some vessel with a whale for a figure-head; and, I would add, possibly called "The Whale," as some craft are nowadays christened the "Shark," the "Gull," the "Eagle." Nor have there been wanting learned exegetists who have opined that the whale mentioned in the book of Jonah merely meant a life-preserver- an inflated bag of wind- which the endangered prophet swam to, and so was saved from a watery doom. Poor Sag-Harbor, therefore, seems worsted all round. But he had still another reason for his want of faith. It was this, if I remember right: Jonah was swallowed by the whale in the Mediterranean Sea, and after three days' he was vomited up somewhere within three days' journey of Nineveh, a city on the Tigris, very much more than three days' journey across from the nearest point of the Mediterranean coast. How is that?

But was there no other way for the whale to land the prophet within that short distance of Nineveh? Yes. He might have carried him round by the way of the Cape of Good Hope. But not to speak of the passage through the whole length of the Mediterranean, and another passage up the Persian Gulf and Red Sea, such a supposition would involve the complete circumnavigation of all Africa in three days, not to speak of the Tigris waters, near the site of Nineveh, being too shallow for any whale to swim in. Besides, this idea of Jonah's weathering the Cape of Good Hope at so early a day would wrest the honor of the discovery of that great headland from Bartholomew Diaz, its reputed discoverer, and so make modern history a liar.

But all these foolish arguments of old Sag-Harbor only evinced his foolish pride of reason- a thing still more reprehensible in him, seeing that he had but little learning except what he had picked up from the sun and the sea. I say it only shows his foolish, impious pride, and abominable, devilish rebellion against the reverend clergy. For by a Portuguese Catholic priest, this very idea of Jonah's going to Nineveh via the Cape of Good Hope was advanced as a signal magnification of the general miracle. And so it was. Besides, to this day, the highly enlightened Turks devoutly believe in the historical story of Jonah. And some three centuries ago, an English traveller in old Harris's Voyages, speaks of a Turkish Mosque built in honor of Jonah, in which Mosque was a miraculous lamp that burnt without any oil.

Sorry for my absence these last couple days.  Yesterday, I was having dinner at my parents' house.  Got back home late, and then I had to help my daughter get ready for her trip to Missouri.  She left this morning with her boyfriend's family.  By the time I finally sat down, it was past ten o'clock at night, and I was brain dead.  Anything that I attempted to write last night would have sounded something like this:  "I believe the tofu tree next door is dropping Bob Dylan on top of my house, where he's peeing lemonade into my rain gutters."

Tonight, however, I'm a little more cogent.  The chapter from Moby-Dick is all about the story of Jonah from the Bible, and the relative historical truth of its details.  Melville, after pointing out the inconsistencies of the Biblical account, comes down squarely on the side of believing that Jonah was swallowed by a whale near Joppa and vomited onto the shores of Nineveh, despite its impossibility.  Melville chooses to believe in miracles.  So do I.

Tonight, I am attending a poetry/storytelling open mic.  It's one of my favorite events of the month.  People show up, papers in their fists, and share some remarkable work.  It never ceases to amaze me that there always seems to be some thread that connects every poem and story that is shared.  One month, everyone was talking about loss.  Another month, summer was the topic.  This past January, we all shared holiday tales.  None of this synchronicity is planned.  It just happens.

I do believe in the power of storytelling.  A story doesn't have to be true to be truthful.  Moby-Dick is true, but it's also fiction.  For me, the standard I use to judge poetry is truth, as well.  A poem has to somehow ring true, even if it's about Bigfoot meeting Albert Einstein.  If it doesn't meet this test, the poem is a failure for me.

I think that's why most people make the assumption that all poems are "real."  Because of this truth standard, to which most people subscribe.  All the poems I'm going to read this evening are true.  Ditto the stories I'm going to tell.  I may talk about the time I was swallowed by a giant lake sturgeon in Lake Superior.  How it coughed me up on the shores of Canada, where I found the Aurora, goddess of the borealis, and ate pancakes with her.

And it will all be true, every last word.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for Jonah and Bigfoot.

October 31: Fall Migration, Great Pumpkin, My Nobel Prize

In autumn the winding passage of ravens from the north heralds the great fall migration of caribou . . . 

The passage of ravens.  The great fall migration of caribou.  Autumn.

This morning, I heard a great flock of geese above me, loud as city traffic.  Honking and honking.  Heading away from winter, toward something warmer, something summer.  Perfect music for the beginning of Halloween.

It is late.  I have just returned from the great migration of trick-or-treating.  Both of my kids are in bed, and I am surrounded by plastic pumpkins filled with Milky Ways and Twix bars and boxes of Dots.  I am watching an episode of the new season of American Horror Story.  Believe it or not, I've never watched the show before.  It's a good way to end a windy, dark Halloween night.

The Great Pumpkin has come and gone.  It is time now to slip into November and Thanksgiving.  December is right around the corner, and Bob Dylan will be traveling to Sweden to receive my Nobel Prize.

Saint Marty wishes everybody a Happy Halloween.

October 30: Wife's Birthday, Carving Pumpkins, Classic Saint Marty

Today was my wife's birthday.  We celebrated it.  Sort of.  We went out to lunch at one of my wife's favorite restaurants.  Carved pumpkins with our kids.  Had dinner at my parents' house.  And I worked.  Finished my lesson plan for Tuesday's class, since tomorrow is Halloween and I will be busy prowling the streets in search of candy with my son in the evening.

Right now, I'm watching a movie with my daughter.  Kolchak:  The Night Stalker.  She's loving it.  Of course, she knows that it is one of my favorite television films and series.  Perhaps she's indulging me a little bit.

By the way, Bob Dylan has finally indulged the Permanent Secretary of the Swedish Academy.  He called her, and they spoke for 15 minutes.  Told her that he was "speechless" over the news of the award.  So, Dylan will be taking a trip to Sweden this December.

And I will be sneaking Milky Ways from my son's Halloween candy tomorrow night.

Today's Classic Saint Marty first aired four years ago.  So much has changed.  So much is still the same.

October 30, 2012:  At This Time, Rolling Year, All Soul's Day

"At this time of the rolling year," the spectre said, "I suffer most.  Why did I walk through crowds of fellow beings with eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode!  Were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted me?"

I know I have used this passage before, but on this first episode of "Saint of the Week," it is particularly apt to touch upon Marley's penance as a ghost.  Marley wanders the world, seeing all the suffering and anguish he could have helped alleviate while he was living.  It is a terrible eternal punishment, to be in a constant state of regret and mourning.

On November 2, the Catholic Church celebrates All Souls' Day.  On this day, people on this planet can offer prayers and alms for those who have died who are "being purified in the sufferings of purgatory."  By offering these sacrifices, we can help the Marleys of the afterlife pass through the pearly gates and enter heaven.  Now, whether you believe in Purgatory and punishment or not, most Christian churches at this time celebrate those who have died in the past year.  In Mexico, it's a national holiday.  Dia de los Muertos.  That's the day where everybody dresses like skeletons and makes sugar skulls and goes to visit grandma and grandpa at the cemetery, usually bringing them food and drinks.  It's sort of like Halloween, except the trick-or-treaters are dead.

No matter what tradition you celebrate, the end of October and the first days of November are reserved for remembrance, for reflection on those you have lost.  It can be a solemn time, or it can be a time of celebration.  It depends on the culture and traditions.

So, whether you're eating Milky Ways or sugar skulls, or lighting votive candles, I wish you a peaceful All Souls' Day.

Saint Marty will end with a traditional Catholic prayer for this time:  Eternal rest grant to them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.  May they rest in peace.  Amen, Marley, amen.

My son's jack-o'-lantern

My daughter's jack-o'-lantern

October 28: Killing Frost, Pile of Dead Leaves, Christmas Essay

Since then the killing frost has struck.  If I got lost now on the mountains or in the valley, and acted foolishly, I would be dead of hypothermia and my brain wiped smooth as a plate long before the water in my flesh elongated to crystal slivers that would pierce and shatter the walls of my cells.  The harvest is in, the granaries full.  The broadleaf trees of the world's forests have cast their various fruits:  "Oak, a nut; Sycamore, achenes; California Laurel, a drupe; Maple, a samara; Locust, a legume; Pomegranate, a berry; Buckeye, a capsule, Apple, a pome."  Now the twin leaves of the seedling chestnut oak on the Carvin's Cove path have dried, dropped and blown; the acorn itself is shrunk and sere.  But the sheath of the stem holds water and the white root still delicately sucks, porous and permeable, mute.  The death of the self of which the great writers speak is no violent act.  It is merely the joining of the great rock heart of the earth in its roll.  It is merely the slow cessation of the will's sprints and the intellect's chatter:  it is waiting like a hollow bell with stilled tongue.  Fuge, tace, quiesce.  The waiting itself is the thing.

This passage smells like autumn to me.  The killing frost.  Berry and drupe and legume and pome.  I was recently on a panel with two other poets.  We spoke about the power of the month of October, which is what Dillard is speaking about here.  One of the poets said that October is his most productive month.  It is a time when, for him, it's easier to tap into the root of writing.  Or, as Dillard says above, it is a time for the "slow cessation of the will's sprints and the intellect's chatter."  The poet simply becomes a hollow bell, waiting to to rung.

This last weekend of October, I find myself exhausted for some reason.  My mind barely functions at the moment.  The evidence:  it took me close to four minutes to compose the previous two sentences.  It is only 4:30 in the afternoon as I type this, and yet I could go into hibernation right now.  I don't feel like a hollow bell, full of potential music.  More like a pile of dead leaves, rattling and scratching like bones in the wind.

I do have two writing projects in the works:  my collection of Bigfoot poems and my annual Christmas essay.  The former has started taking shape, although I'm not sure what that shape is eventually going to be.  The latter is merely a great idea in my head at the moment--one that requires some research and poetic inspiration.

So, my bell has been ringing this month.  Tonight, however, I feel the need for rest.  My body and mind let me know every once in a while that I am in need of more than my usual nightly quota of five hours of sleep.  A late afternoon slump.  Sometimes, I regain my energy.  Other times, I surrender.  Fall asleep on the couch for five hours.  Crawl into bed for a power nap and stay there until the morning.

I want to rest this evening.  But I also want to read and work on my Christmas essay a little bit.  Perhaps I will be able to do both.  Or neither.  Remain mute, like Bob Dylan.  Refuse to acknowledge reality.

If the Swedish Academy calls tonight, Saint Marty will answer the phone.  He doesn't want to be accused of being impolite and arrogant.

October 27: Snakebite Kit, Something Black-and-White, Silver Bullet

I never step a foot out of the house, even in winter, without a snakebite kit in my pocket.  Mine is a small kit in rubber casing about the size of a shotgun shell; I slapped my pants instinctively to fix in my mind its location.  Then I stomped hard on the ground a few times and sat down beside the snake.

Seems like a crazy thing to do, sitting by a copperhead rattlesnake.  But that's what Dillard does.  Sometimes I think her curiosity impairs her common sense.  Yes, she has a snakebite kit on her person, but why take the risk of getting bitten?  For me, that would be akin to seeing a train coming and just standing on the railroad tracks to get a better look. 

Last night, when I pulled into my driveway at about 10 o'clock, I saw something black-and-white amble through my headlights, heading toward my front porch.  I had a moment of panic.  Although I didn't see the creature clearly, I'm pretty sure it was a skunk. 

I put my car in park and sat there, wondering what I was going to do.  You see, I've been sprayed by a skunk three times in my life.  Three times.  Now, I can't smell skunk.  It's a condition called specific anosmia, and it's hereditary.  My brother can't smell skunk, either.  We are lucky in a way, but we are also cursed.  The luck is that we are immune to the skunk's defense.  The curse is that we can still be victims of the skunk's defense and simply not know it.

So, yesterday night, I was sort of like Dillard.  I knew there was danger close by, but I had my snakebite kit with me.  I was safe, but I didn't want to take the chance of a close encounter of the black-and-white kind.  The scent of skunk lingers for days.  At least, that's what my wife has told me.  I didn't know what to do.

Bob Dylan has said that the answer is blowing in the wind.  I sat for a good ten minutes in my car, peering into the darkness.  The wind was blowing strongly, and leaves were swirling and whirlpooling around me.  I didn't find any answers.  I finally decided to bite the silver bullet and made a dash for the house.

I didn't encounter Annie Dillard or a rattlesnake or a skunk or the Swedish Academy trying to find Bob Dylan to give him his Nobel Prize. Which is a good thing, because the members of my book club are coming over tonight to talk about Neil Gaiman's The Graveyard Book. 

They wouldn't have appreciated their dinner or Saint Marty seasoned with eau de skunk.

Wouldn't want to meet him in the middle of the night, either

October 24: Great Thought, "The Neverending Story," Miracles

Sir James Jeans, British astronomer and physicist, suggested that the universe was beginning to look more like a great thought than a great machine.  Humanists seized on the expression, but it was hardly news.  We knew, looking around, that a thought branches and leafs, a tree comes to a conclusion.  But the question of who is thinking the thought is more fruitful than the question of who made the machine, for a machinist can of course wipe his hands and leave, and his simple machine still hums; but if the thinker's attention strays for a minute, his simplest thought ceases altogether.  And, as I have stressed, the place where we so incontrovertibly find ourselves, whether thought or machine, is at least not in any way simple.

Such an interesting argument.  Is the universe some great machine put into motion by God like some divine mechanic firing up a generator?  Or is it a notion, like Einstein's relativity or Hawking's black holes, spawned in the unknowable mind of the Supreme Being?  In the former, God can take a break, walk away from his creation as it hums along.  In the latter, if God takes a break, the universe ceases to be.

I don't know why this particular paragraph jumped out at me tonight.  I have been sitting in my university office, lesson planning, searching for teaching videos.  I have not spoken to or seen another person for close to three hours.  That kind of isolation makes me a little reflective.  Paranoid even.  For example, I just had this vision of God "taking a break" and the world outside my closed office door simply vanishing, like The Nothing eating up The Neverending Story.  When I open the door, I will be confronted by a void.  Emptiness.

Yes, I get in weird states when I work for extended periods of time by myself.  It's productive, but it also fuels the Stephen King lobe of my brain sometimes.  I know that there is still a hallway outside my door.  I just heard a couple of graduate students talking and laughing.  However, the idea of the universe being a machine does not appeal to me; I don't relish the thought of creation running on autopilot.  I prefer a more hand's on vision of the universe--God always attentive, tinkering, creating, throwing a miracle at us every once in a while.

I haven't experienced any miracles today.  Then again, I haven't been around a whole lot of people.  Perhaps, when I go to pick up my daughter from the dance studio, I will encounter something miraculous.  A unicorn crossing the street in front of my car.  A rainbow circling the moon.  A teenage daughter who is actually in a good mood.  It could happen.  Bob Dylan said, " . . . I've always thought there's a superior power, that this is not the real world and that there's a world to come."

Saint Marty just hopes that, in the world to come, teenage daughters make their beds and are nice to their little brothers.

I don't think I've ever been an agnostic. I've always thought there's a superior power, that this is not the real world and that there's a world to come.
Read more at: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/b/bob_dylan_4.html

I don't think I've ever been an agnostic. I've always thought there's a superior power, that this is not the real world and that there's a world to come.
Read more at: http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/authors/b/bob_dylan_4.html

The Nothing is right outside the door

October 23: Pumpkin Shopping, Halloween Superstore, Classic Saint Marty

I spent most of today getting ready for the upcoming holiday.  First, we went pumpkin shopping at Walmart.  Got a couple of monstrous ones.  Then, after lunch at Burger King, we hit the local mall.

The Halloween Superstore was set up in an old J. C. Penney store.  It was huge, full of things that jumped, screamed, cackled, gasped, and moaned.  My eight-year-old son was more than a little freaked.  Of course, he enjoyed it a little bit, as well.  For her part, my daughter had a good time trying to scare the shit out of her little brother, as all older siblings are wont to do.

As the afternoon progressed, it became very obvious that my son had not been given his ADHD medication in the morning.  (He spent last night with his aunts.)  He bounced from one costume to another.  Kept running away from us.  And, as the afternoon got longer, he started using his favorite phrase--"I don't care."  As in, "If you don't come with us right now, we won't be getting this costume for you."  Answer:  "I don't care."  Or, "If you don't get in the car, we are not going to go back to grandma's house."  Answer:  "I don't care.  This is stupid."

My son is always a handful.  Without his medication, he's more than five handfuls.

Today's episode of Saint Marty first aired two years ago.  Oddly enough, at the time, I was also worried about my son and his medication.  Bob Dylan once said, "Take care of all your memories.  For you cannot relive them."  In 2014 on this day, I wasn't too sure what kind of memories my son was going to have of his time in school.

October 23, 2014:  A Fine Spider, My Son, Medication

"That's a fine spider and I'm going to capture it," said Avery.  He took the cover off the candy box.  Then he picked up a stick.  "I'm going to knock that ol' spider into this box," he said.

Avery Arable is all boy.  He carries around frogs in his pockets, and he collects insects.  Armed with wooden daggers and air rifles.  Accident prone.  Always doing something he's not supposed to do.  Avery seems like a prime candidate for in-school detention and Ritalin.

This weekend, my son is going to start taking an ADHD medication that is supposed to help him control his impulsivity and focus better.  When I was putting him to bed tonight, we had so much fun together.  As I read him a book, he made faces and did character voices.  We talked about the tooth fairy (he lost his first tooth this morning) and the pajama party he's having in school tomorrow.  He's so excited.  I'm afraid that this drug is going to change all that.  Make that hilarious little boy disappear.

Of course, I know that my son needs a little help.  His violent outbursts are like instant tornadoes.  They come out of nowhere and leave a swathe of destruction.  One of his teachers told us, "When it happens, he doesn't even seem to be there."  There's something going on in his brain that goes beyond Avery Arable-hood.  He's destroyed a tree on the school playground.  He punches classmates, bites his sister's arm, and rips the glasses off my face when he loses control.

Now, I don't need to read a whole bunch of angry comments from people who don't "believe" in drug therapy or ADHD.  My wife has bipolar, and her medications keep her sane and allow her to live a normal life.  Drug therapy works.  One of my nephews has ADHD, and, without his medication, he can't focus.  He's like a fly that flits and buzzes from one thing to another.  ADHD is real.  It's not a matter of belief.

I just want what's best for my son.  I want him to be able to play during recess without bloodshed or school detention.  I want him to be a "normal" Avery.  Toads and spiders and poison ivy.  Hell, I'll even let him play football.  As long as he's happy and not a threat to society.

And as long as Saint Marty doesn't have to sit through wrestling meets or take him deer hunting.

So, this is normal?

October 22: Past Inserts a Finger, Smell of Orange, Druids

These trees stir me.  The past inserts a finger into a slit in the skin of the present, and pulls.  I remember how sycamores grew--and presumably still grow--in the city, in Pittsburgh, even along the busiest streets.  I used to spend hours in the backyard, thinking God knows what, and peeling the mottled bark of a sycamore, idly, littering the grass with dried lappets and strips, leaving the tree's trunk at eye level moist, thin-skinned and yellow--until someone would catch me at it from the kitchen window, and I would awake, and look at my work in astonishment, and think oh no, this time I've killed the sycamore for sure.

I love Dillard's image of the past as some little kid scratching and pulling apart things in the present.  I've seen my son do this.  He'll have a blade of grass or a piece of paper in his hands, and, pretty soon, there are shreds of green or confetti in front of him.  I do the same thing sometimes with Styrofoam cups.  After I'm done drinking my hot chocolate from it, I will slowly start to dissect it until it's a pile of white, environmental-damaging pebbles.

The past works that way.  Something nondescript, like a tree or the smell of an orange, is a portal into memory.  When I smell orange, for some reason I think of Christmas.  One year, I made an ornament out of an orange and cloves, and it filled the whole house with this sweet, citrus scent for the entire holiday season.  Orange also makes me think of Walt Disney World's EPCOT Center.  The day after I graduated from high school, I went on a trip to Florida.  There was a ride at EPCOT called Horizons, I think.  In Horizons, you rode in this spaceship.  At one point, the spaceship flew over an orange grove, and the smell of orange was all around.

Halloween does this to me, as well.  As I'm walking around with my kids, collecting Milky Ways and Skittles and raisins from the neighborhood, I think about the Halloweens from my past.  The time my mother sewed me a clown costume (this was before clowns became homicidal creeps), and I painted my face white.  Or, the year the film Alien was released, and I put on a pair of sweatpants, white tee shirt, and head band emblazoned with the word "Nostromo," which was the name of the spaceship in the film.  Nobody got that one. 

When I was a kid, there wasn't a designated trick-or-treating time.  Trick-or-treating began after school let out, and I didn't stop until the last front porch light was turned off, usually around 10:30 at night.  As Bob Dylan says, the times they are a' changin'.  After a couple of streets, my kids are pretty much done.  They want to go home, sift through their booty, and call it a night.  Churches throw "Harvest Festivals" on Halloween, I assume to circumvent the holdover elements from the Druids.  The Halloweens of my past were filled with Christopher Lee Dracula movies, full-size candy bars, and the fear of razors in apples.

Yes, the past has a way of inserting itself in the present.  This weekend, I'm taking my kids pumpkin hunting.  Then we will hit the local Halloween Superstore to do a little costume shopping.  I'm sure there will be eye-rolling from my daughter.  Tantrums from my son.  By the end of the excursion, my son will tell his sister, "I hate you." 

Saint Marty will just tuck those memories into the Halloween file in his mind, along with all the pumpkin guts and leftover Jolly Ranchers.

The good old days . . .

October 21: Air of Menace, A Hundred Conversations, Misphonia

Still, the day had an air of menace.  A broken whiskey bottle by the log, the brown tip of a snake's tail disappearing between two rocks on the hill at my back, the rabbit the dog nearly caught, the rabies I knew was in the county, the bees who kept unaccountably fumbling at my forehead with their furred feet.

Dillard has a bad feeling, as if some wall of water is about to roll over her.  She's talking about rains and floods, uprooted trees and washed-out bridges.  While I don't think she's a superstitious person, Dillard is looking around her, seeing all these signs of impending disaster.  Broken bottles.  Snakes.  Rumors of rabid forest creatures.

I have had a trying day.  Eight hours of calling patients.  Over a hundred conversations.  My voice is tired, my brain is tired, and my tolerance is tired.  When I left work, I found myself disliking people.  A lot.  Not because of the people I spoke to.  Because of the number of people I spoke to.

When I feel like this, everybody irritates me.  Right now, my sister is irritating the shit out of me because she's talking so loud.  Hell's Kitchen is on the TV, and Gordon Ramsay's voice is making my skin crawl.  I want to slap people who are chewing or swallowing too loudly.  (In case you're wondering, I do suffer from misphonia, where certain noises trigger irrational anger responses.)

So, there is an air of menace about me this evening.  Invisible bees buzzing around my head.  I have to force myself not to speak, because, if I open my mouth, I will probably yell, scream, or swear for no good reason.  I would look like a crazy person, which I might be.

I think that Bob Dylan suffers from misphonia, as well.  That's why he hasn't said anything about his Nobel Prize.  Either that or he just doesn't give a flying fig, which, again, irritates the shit out of me.

Maybe Saint Marty should just go to bed.

October 19: Run a Universe, Pulitzer Prize, Sorry Bob

Is it a better way to run a universe?

Dillard is talking about evolution and death.  How the survival of the planet sort of depends upon death in some way.  As she says at another point in her discussion, "Evolution loves death more than it loves you or me."  Eventually, all of us will cease to exist.  That is a 100% certainty.  Yet, ironically, death will go on, claiming species, taking the weak, leaving the strong.  That's the way God set up the universe.

So, let me talk about how I would run the universe (or at least my little portion of the universe).  First, I would have a tenured teaching position at a university.  Most of my days would be spent writing.  You see, my first collection of poetry would have won the Pulitzer Prize, which would have immediately catapulted me into a full professorship, do not pass "Go," or associate and assistant professorship.

My second book of poems would also have been awarded the Pulitzer Prize, making me the youngest and hottest poet in the country.  Harvard and Cambridge and Oxford would have come knocking on my door.  But I would have humbly demurred, preferring the rural life of the Upper Peninsula.

I would teach in the fall semester, only classes of hand-picked poetry students who had to submit samples of their writings in order to be selected for a position in my writing workshop.  In the winter semester, the university would pay me to simply work on my writing, perhaps giving a few lectures at the United Nations and the Library of Congress.

Speaking of the Library of Congress, I would have already served twice as the Poet Laureate of the United States.  I would have been offered the position as a lifetime appointment, but, again, I would have demurred because of my humility.

And, of course, I would have been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature last week instead of Bob Dylan.  Unlike Dylan, I would have already granted interviews and accepted the Swedish Academy's invitation to attend the Nobel Week festivities in early December.

Wouldn't the universe be a better place with Saint Marty in charge?

Sorry, Bob, there's a new sheriff in the universe.

October 18: Parasitic Insects, Pile of Essays, Willing Victim

In another book I learn that ten percent of all the world's species are parasitic insects.  It is hard to believe.  What if you were an inventor, and you made ten percent of your inventions in such a way that they could only work by harassing, disfiguring, or totally destroying the other ninety percent?  These things are not well enough known.

That's a pretty amazing statistic.  Ten percent of the world's living things survive somehow by destruction.  Think about it.  Barnacles and tapeworms.  Pea crabs and lice.  Mushrooms.  All parasites, living off the life of something else.  As Dillard says, we are all "frayed and nibbled" survivors "in a fallen world."

I think I spend way too much energy every day fighting parasites.  When I get up in the morning, I immediately start thinking about all the jobs and duties and obligations that will nibble away at my day.  Work--chomp, chomp.  Teaching--chomp, chomp.  A disconnect notice--chomp, chomp.  Every day is like that.

I'm sitting in my university office, looking at a pile of essays that I graded this weekend while I was vacationing at the Wisconsin Dells.  Five or six hours on Saturday.  Five or six hours on Sunday.  Gone.  Eaten up by red ink.  Tonight, I will return those essays to my expectant students, who won't first read my considered and thoughtful comments.  Nope.  First, they will turn to their grades and either be happy or angry or depressed, depending upon which letters of the alphabet have been inscribed on their papers.

Please don't misunderstand me.  I am not comparing my students to parasites.  I'm simply supporting an observation that Annie Dillard makes in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek:  we all live in a fallen world, and, as a result, we must endure a certain amount of daily parasitic activity.  That's how things work.  I offer myself up to grading papers because of the profession that I have chosen.  I am a willing victim.

That's probably a good test for happiness:  do you enjoy being chomped on every day?  If you can answer "yes" to that question, then you are a blessed person.

As Nobel laureate Bob Dylan once said, "No one is free, even the birds are chained to the sky."

Saint Marty is chained to his classroom tonight.

October 17: It's Raining, Wisconsin Dells, Nobel Prize

I hear a roar, a high windy sound more like air than like water, like the run-together whaps of a helicopter's propeller after the engine is off, a high million rushings.  The air smells damp and acrid, like fuel oil, or insecticide.  It's raining.

Dillard is talking about floods and rain.  The power of Nature to redefine the landscape with water.  She has seen Tinker Creek revised by summer storms--trees uprooted, banks washed away, and bridges damaged. 

Just got back from the Wisconsin Dells a little over an hour ago.  The drive was fairly uneventful, but, as we got closer to home, it started to rain.  It's still raining and thundering and lightning.  We got soaked unloading the car.  There weren't any trees down, but the wind was pretty strong.  My Clinton-Kaine yard sign was taking a beating, but so were the Trump-Pence signs down the street.

Tomorrow, I return to my normal life.  At work by 6 a.m.  Teaching until 9:30 p.m.  In between, grading papers and midterm exams.  Plus, I have to prepare for my poetry reading on Thursday.  It's always difficult settling back into routine after several days of non-routine.  Sort of like Bob Dylan giving a concert after winning the Nobel Prize last Thursday morning.  (He performed a concert that night, and so far he has not responded to the news at all.)

So, unless massive floodwaters wash away his car tonight, Saint Marty will be back at it, making the world a better place, one comma splice at a time. 

The Swedish Academy is still blowin' in the wind . . .

October 15: Beauty and Grace, Amusement Park, Forever Young

The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.

Dillard is speaking about God's beauty and grace in the world, and human beings have a tendency not to see them.  Sometimes we ignore them.  Sometimes we're blinded by our own fears and worries.  And sometimes, on good days, when the stars align properly and the car keys aren't lost or the paycheck is larger then anticipated, we notice the goodness that God sends our way.

Over and over this weekend, I have been reminded of the beauty and grace of my daughter.  Last night, at the water park, an older gentleman who was a manager there told me that she was beautiful.  As she was dancing in her classes today, I was amazed by her poise and ease, how comfortable she is in her own skin.  Tonight, at the Kalahari's indoor amusement park, a young male attendant on the ropes obstacle course had the balls to actually flirt with her in front of me.  I felt like cutting his safety line and tossing him over the side.

Yes, my daughter has graduated from gawky, awkward tween to beautiful, graceful teenager.  I don't know how or when it happened.  I still think of her as that little girl calling for me in the middle of the night because she had a bad dream.  It's difficult for me to accept that she has secrets.  That boys are paying attention to her.  That she's growing up, and part of that growing up is being her own person, making her own mistakes, allowing her heart to be broken.  I can't protect her from any of that. 

Saint Marty turns once more to the 2016 Nobel literature laureate Bob Dylan to end this post, something he wrote about growing up:  "May you always be courageous, stand upright and be strong.  May you stay--forever young."

October 14: Live Water, Wisconsin Dells, Wedding Anniversary

Live water heals memories . . .

Greetings from the Kalahari Resort in the Wisconsin Dells, home of much live water.  We just returned from the water park where my son dragged me up and down many water slides.  I floated down the lazy river with my daughter.  I sat in the outdoor hot tub with my wife.  Like I said, lots of live water.  Not sure it's the kind that Dillard is talking about, but it made me feel alive.

Since my daughter has been nine or ten, my family has been coming here every year for this dance convention.  It just so happens that today is also my wedding anniversary.  Twenty-one years.  Our marriage has had its ups and downs.  Huge ups and huge downs.  But, through a lot of grace, we have endured.  I'm talking a LOT of grace.

I've been dealing with memories today.  As I was sitting with my daughter in the hot tub this evening, she asked me how long my wife and I have been married.  When I told her, she laughed and said, "Wow, you are really old."  For a year of our marriage, my wife and I were separated.  It had to do with my wife's bipolar and struggle with sexual addiction.  During that separation, my daughter, who was in kindergarten, was my lifesaver.  Some nights, she was the only thing that kept me tethered to the world.

There were a lot of people (friends and family) who didn't understand why I reconciled with my wife.  People who thought I should simply walk away from our marriage.  Cut my losses, so to speak.  But I didn't.  I couldn't.  For my daughter, myself, my wife, I chose love and forgiveness instead. 

And here I am.  Twenty-one years after my wife and I exchanged vows.  With a beautiful, talented fifteen-year-old daughter and smart, funny eight-year-old son.  Surrounded by live water and love.  As the new Nobel literature laureate Bob Dylan once said, "Behind every beautiful thing, there is some kind of pain."

Saint Marty will take the pain, because the beauty is worth it.

Occtober 13: Starlight Rained, Bob Dylan, 2016 Nobel Prize for Literature

Night risings and fallings filled my mind, free excursions  carried out invisibly while the air swung up and back and the starlight rained . . .



It is night.  I just came back inside after watching the Aurora Borealis ribbon across the moon.  Rising and falling.  Raining starlight and moonlight.  All that poetic jazz that Annie Dillard is talking about. 

Speaking of poetic jazz, at 7 a.m. this morning, I was sitting at my desk, streaming the live feed from the Grand Hall of the Swedish Academy.  At the appointed hour, Permanent Secretary Sara Danius stepped through those great white doors and announced the winner of the 2016 Nobel Prize in Literature.  She first spoke in Swedish.  I don't understand Swedish, but I did understand two words she spoke:  "Bob Dylan."

That's right.  Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize for Literature this morning.  Not me.  Of course, since the announcement, the Internet has blown up with all kinds of elitist snobbery.  Basically, the premise against Dylan winning the prize is this:  song writing is NOT literature.  The argument in support of Dylan's Nobel:  the Swedish Academy expanded the definition of what is considered literature.

Me?  Of course I'm disappointed that Ms. Danius did not speak my name this morning.  However, since Dylan won this year, broadening the definition of literature, I figure that next year it will be time for a poet blogger with a serious Christ complex to win.

This December, Saint Marty will not be traveling to Stockholm to participate in Nobel week festivities.  Next year, however, Sara Danius will speak those fated words:  "Eeer borshneer deer Sankt Marty."

Eerkin feerkins deerpa Bob Dylan

P. S.  This weekend, Saint Marty is on the road.  Stay tuned for remote blog posts from the Wisconsin Dells starting tomorrow night.