I'm not a person who wishes people pain or death, no matter what they've done/are doing. Yet, I'm ashamed to admit that when I first heard someone tried to assassinate the Felon in Chief last summer, my first thought wasn't to pray for him and his family. My first thought was a question: why couldn't the gunman have had better aim? (Again, not my proudest moment, I know.) But it's difficult to work up any empathy for a person who pretty much is the poster boy for intolerance and hatred.
Sharon Olds talks about abuse . . .
Of All the Dead That Have Come
to Me, This Once
by: Sharon Olds
I have never written against the dead, I would
open my
shirt to them and say yes, the white
cones still making sugary milk,
but when Grandfather's gold pocketwatch
came in by air over the Rockies,
over the dark yellow of the fields
and the black rivers, with Grandmother's blank
face pressed against his name in the back,
I thought of how he put the empty
plate in front of my sister, turned out
the lights after supper, sat in the black
room with the fire, the light of the flames
flashing in his glass eye
in the cabin where he taught my father
how to do what he did to me, and I said
No. I said Let this one be dead.
Let the fall he made through that glass roof,
splintering, turning, the great shanks and
slices of glass in the air, be his last
appearance here.
Is it possible to be a good person and also not forgive somebody who's caused you considerable pain and suffering?
I don't know the answer to that question. As a Christian, I learned the whole turn to other cheek thing. Forgiveness is an important part of any Christian denomination's belief system. Jesus came into the world to provide redemption. I can cite, chapter and verse, the whole thing--sin, sacrifice, condemnation, crucifixion, resurrection, salvation.
Now, I do believe that it's possible for anyone to be forgiven. However, that forgiveness comes with a price: remorse. If you won't admit that you've fucked up, you can't really be absolved. That would be like shooting the last rhino on the planet, making a nice leather couch out of its hide, and then saying "oops, my bad" while sitting on the couch and watching Netflix. It just doesn't work.
If you're expecting me to start naming names, I'm not going to do that. Shaming someone, while it might feel really good (I mean REALLY good), isn't a good way to elicit true regret. Instead, it just makes the shamer look petty and small. I don't need help looking petty and small. It comes naturally to me.
Plus, there's this little thing called penance. It's not enough to just say "I'm sorry." You have to prove that you're truly sorry through action. That's really the name of the game in Christianity. Don't just SAY you care about the homeless. GIVE that homeless person a room at the inn, See what I mean?
Every day (sometimes several times a day), I forgive people who've hurt me. Because forgiveness is hard work, too. If I've harmed you in any way, I ask your forgiveness. I'll try to make it up to you, I swear.
Come into my home. Grab a bag of Cheetos from the cupboard and lie down on my genuine rhino couch. Let's watch some episodes of Breaking Bad on Hulu together.
Saint Marty takes a deep breath with today's prompt from The Daily Poet:
Write a poem that is made up completely of one run-on sentence. You can use commas, but no colons or semicolons. The poem can be on any topic you wish, but it must be one complete sentence. If you're not sure how to begin, start with the line, S/he told me once . . . Allow the poem to wander through various scenes and details. To keep the poem moving, use conjunctions like and, but, however, and although.
One Breath
by: Martin Achatz
I didn’t sleep well last night
because the neighbor’s Great Dane
kept barking a steady cadence,
as if she was keeping time
for a young boy practicing a piece
on the piano for his lesson
in the morning, maybe “Minuet
in G Major” or, God help us,
“Let It Be,” playing it so poorly
John Lennon’s soul wept in
whatever cosmic weigh station
he happened to be, halfway between
The Dakota and the strawberry
fields of his imagination, so
I was awake, working complex
algebra problems in my head,
trying to think of all the words
to the “Gettysburg Address” that I
memorized as a sixth grader,
wondering if Lincoln was nervous
when he stood in front of the throng
on that battlefield, pulled the text
of the speech from his tall, black
hat, knowing anyone in front
or behind him could pull out
a revolver and add his blood
to the blood already soaking
the dark soil beneath his boots,
and maybe he took a shallow,
shivering gulp of air before
releasing his first word, looking
into the eyes fixed on him,
thinking how the dog barking
in the distance sounded like
a canon firing at all the souls
storming the gates of paradise.
