November 20: Company Luncheon, Long Winter's Nap, Buson, Two Haiku, Off the Top of My Head

The next day, Ives was in the office by eight-forty-five, the last business meeting of the year before the Christmas holidays, with various art directors and executives, scheduled for half past nine.  Afterward there would be a company luncheon, and the office would close for a pleasantly long weekend at three, and the parties, held here and there at different agencies and suppliers would begin...

It is a few days before Christmas.  Ives has just hosted his annual tree-decorating party the night before, friends and family coming to the Ives' apartment, listening to records, eating lots of food, drinking lots of wine.  Now, on the last business day before December 24, Ives and his coworkers are going through the motions.  Having meetings.  Wrapping up last-minute projects.  Maybe writing a memo or two.  Nothing really important is accomplished, though.  The holidays have taken over.

I love the last day of work before Thanksgiving or Christmas.  Usually, there is little to do.  There is talk of Christmas shopping or pie making.  Sometimes, silliness ensues.  Snowflake-making contests.  Spontaneous caroling or turkey gobbling.  And then there's the baked goods in the break room.  Petty arguments are forgotten, and goodwill reigns, for a little while anyway.

It is Friday night.  Thanksgiving break for the university has commenced.  Over the next week, I have grading to do, books to read, a holiday essay to write .  But it's Friday, and here I sit, typing this blog post, listening to Christmas music.  For the first time in a long while, I am relaxed.  I don't really have to do anything tonight.  The world will not come to an end if I choose to crawl into bed right now and take a long winter's nap.

I am very thankful for this moment of peace, however fleeting it may be.  A respite is a respite, whether it's Johnny Mathis crooning "Winter Wonderland," Jimmy Fallon writing thank you notes, or Robert Hass translating seventeen-syllable Japanese poems.

Once upon a time, a wizard named  Bob decided to take a night off.  He popped some popcorn, rented a couple Harry Potter DVDs, and hung a sign on the door to his cottage that read "Visitors Unwelcome."

Half-way through Chamber of Secrets, somebody knocked on Bob's door.  Bob paused his movie and yelled, "Go away, or I'll turn you into a toad!"

After a few moments, there came another knock.

Bob took out his wand.  "I'm warning you," he yelled.  "If you knock again, I will turn you into an amphibian."

Another knock.

Bob stood up, jabbed his wand at his front door, and shouted, "Eat ribbit!"  A shower of sparks filled the room.

When the smoke cleared, Bob stormed to the door and threw it open.

On his front step were two pizzas from Pizza Hut and a toad.

"Oh,"  Bob said.  "Did you remember the breadsticks?"

Moral of the story:  don't expect a tip from a pissed-off wizard.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Two Haiku

by:  Buson

     The old man
cutting barley--
     bent like a sickle.


     A tethered horse,
snow
     in both stirrups.

Off the Top of My Head

November 18: Why Me, Darkness and Light, Two Haiku, Buson, Off the Top of My Head

But for all that, there hummed through his body a sorrow and loneliness that took him back to his son's death.  The very thought made him dig into his own skin, deep scratches further enflaming his condition of old:  cutting himself and bloody and restless turning all night, an impossible itchiness--"un picazon" he told Ramirez--hives ravaging his knee and arm joints, bumps formed under his arms.  He knew it was really bad when welts rose on his back and blotches appeared floating like large measle dots on his face, a depressing state, because he felt like a leper, not wanting to touch or be touched, and he would twist and turn and ask, "Why me?" and "Why is it going on and on?"

For decades, Ives tortures himself like this.  He can't let go of his sadness and grief.  If he tries to be happy, he feels guilty, and the guilt manifests as scratches and oozing sores on his body.  Every day is a punishment for Ives.  At night, one question swoops through the air above him like a fruit bat--"Why?"  Ives wants to understand the reason behind his son's death and his own unending sorrow.

I have been in a quiet state of sorrow myself for the past three months.  I try not to let it overwhelm me.  It's difficult some days.  Driving to work in the morning this past week, I've been listening to a radio station that has been playing just Christmas music.  Bing Crosby.  The Carpenters.  Johnny Mathis.  Every morning, I've cried.  I'm not sure if it's the early hour, the music, or my tired state of mind.  By the time I get to the medical office, I'm a mess. I have to sit in my car for a few minutes just to pull myself together.

I don't think I'm as bad as Ives.  I don't brood or avoid happy occasions, and I haven't stopped participating in any of my normal activities.  In fact, I'm currently planning a Christmas concert to benefit a local homeless shelter.  I am able to function.  Yet, sometimes, when I'm alone, there's a sadness that descends upon me.  It's palpable, like putting on a wet bathing suit.

I know that grief is a process.  I simply can't wake up one morning and say, "Okay, I'm done with being sad.  Time to move on."  It just doesn't work that way.  And I'm getting better.  There are whole days where I don't experience that clinging sadness.  I am very thankful for days like that.  Other days are more challenging.  And I am thankful for days like that, too, because they remind me to cherish my blessings--my family, home, jobs.

You can't have light without darkness.  That's just the way the universe works.  The darkness defines the light.  Therefore, Saint Marty is thankful for the darkness.

Two Haiku

by:  Buson

     Calligraphy of geese
against the sky--
     the moon seals it.


     It cried three times,
the deer,
     then silence.

Off the Top of My Head

November 16: Poets of the Week, Buson, Two Haiku, "Ives" Dip, Off the Top of My Head

For the first time, I have decided to award Poet of the Week to three writers.  Three masters of haiku--Basho, Buson, and Issa.

I have never been able to write a successful haiku, but I have always admired them.  The concentration of image.  The surprise of the final line.  There's so much possibility for humor and beauty.  Making the ordinary extraordinary.  Buson does all of that.

Two Haiku

by:  Buson

     His Holiness the Abbott
is shitting
     in the withered fields.


     Cover my head
or my feet?
     the winter quilt.


See what I mean?  When I came across that first one, I literally laughed out loud in my office at the university.  A grad student was walking by my door at the time and did a double take.  That's alright.  I'm already known as the guy who plays Christmas music all year long, so I'm just five cats away from being the English Department's certifiable eccentric.

Speaking of the English Department, tomorrow morning I have a guest coming to my Good Books class to do my annual evaluation.  Now, I've recently learned that I have been teaching for 46 semesters at the university as a contingent professor.  Doing the math, that is exactly 23 years of teaching.  I shouldn't get nervous about classroom observations any more.  Yet, my inner Catholic schoolboy always gets the best of me, and I spend a few weeks being anxious and guilty.

So, my question for this evening's Ives dip is:

Will my classroom observation go well tomorrow morning?

And the answer from Oscar Hijuelos is:

As they happily walked to the subway, they were looking forward to spending a lot of time together at home during the holiday, in the company of family and friends.  Ives and Annie stopped to peer into a window display of French linen when, just like that, a terrible darkness entered them, and they could not move and stood looking at one another stupidly, on the crowded and busy sidewalk.

Okay, the first half of that passage points toward a really good evaluation.  However, the second half is a little Stephen Kingish in feeling and tone.  So, either everything's going to go great tomorrow morning, or I'm going to be attacked by a rabid Saint Bernard on the way to class.

Saint Marty isn't sure which answer he prefers.

Off the Top of My Head