December 9: "Moby" Dip, Christmas Essay, Honey

Many years ago, when I was focusing on A Christmas Carol in my blog, I used to do what I termed Carol dips.  It was based on a practice I once read about where people would use the Bible like a Magic 8-Ball.  A believer would ask a question ("Will I contract the plague?" or "Will Mommy be burned at the stake for witchcraft?") and then simply flip through the Bible, stabbing a finger at a random page.  The verse that the finger landed on contained the answer to the question.  I used Dickens' book in the same manner.

Today, I'm going to do a Moby dip.  I will ask a question here, flip through my copy of Moby-Dick, and see where my finger lands.

Now, what question should I ask?  I have a few options to choose from:

1. Will the medical office where I work remain open after January 1, 2019?
2. Will I ever finish my book of Bigfoot poems and get it published?
3. Will Donald Trump resign as President of the United States?
4. Will Robert Mueller put Donald Trump in jail?
5. Will I ever get a full-time teaching position at the university?
6. Will I ever get my Christmas essay written soon?

I could go on, but you get the idea.  Anything that is troubling the mind is fair game.  And, right now, my immediate concern is Question 6.  I'm really struggling with my Christmas essay at the moment.  So . . .

Will I ever get my Christmas essay written soon?

And the answer is . . . 

. . .  Only one sweeter end can readily be recalled--the delicious death of an Ohio honey-hunter, who seeking honey in the crotch of a hollow tree, found such exceeding store of it, that leaning too far over, it sucked him in, so that he died embalmed . . . 

Okay.  It's about a guy being mummified in honey.  I'm not quite sure how to read that.  Perhaps it's an indication that the writing of my Christmas essay will end sweetly and easily, the words dripping onto the page, leaving behind a beautiful creation for posterity.  An essay encased in honey, if you will.

There you go.  Herman Melville says that I'm going to get that essay written soon.  Thank God.  Now I can relax.

Oh, yeah.  I should probably write, too.

It's a ridiculous, superstitious practice, but there's some satisfaction in it.  Like calling a psychic on the phone and having her tell you that you will soon come into a great deal of money.  It fills you with a kind of hope, even if it's false hope.

Saint Marty will take hope where he can get it.

December 17: Resentment, "Carol" Dip, Job

I have a confession:  there is a part of me that resents the fact that my wife is able to stay home and take care of our children.  I know she didn't choose to be pink slipped.  The day she lost her job, she called me, crying, and said, "I'm not sad about getting fired.  I'm sad about not being able to help you with money.  I know how hard you work."  All I think about right now is how to pay the next bill or buy the next Christmas present.

Since she joined the ranks of the unemployed, my wife has been visiting my son's classrooms and going to Bible study at church on Tuesdays.  She's catching up on the laundry, and dinner is usually made by the time I get home from work.  But, when my alarm goes off at 4 a.m. every morning and I have to drag myself out of bed, there's a part of me that gets a little bit angry.  I can't remember the last time I slept past 6:30 a.m.  I'm tired.  I was thinking of canceling my vacation at the beginning of January because I could earn a lot of overtime pay if I worked, but I can't bring myself to do it.  I am really looking forward to having two full weeks off.  Now, I feel guilty about my vacation.

I've said before that I know I'm lucky for having the jobs that I do.  Not many Americans have jobs that give them health insurance and paid time off and vision coverage.  Many people would kill for the kind of benefits that I have.  I'm lucky.  I'm blessed.  I'm grateful.  There, I've said all the things I should say.

But I'm still resentful and tired.  I don't want to get up at 4 a.m. for the rest of my working life.  I want a normal existence.  One job with decent hours and pay and benefits.  Of course, my choice would be to work for the university as a full-time instructor.  It's the one thing I do in my professional life that provides me with a sense of fulfillment.  I love being on campus and teaching.

I bet you can guess what my question for Carol dip Monday is going to be:

Will I get a full-time teaching job at the university this coming year?

And the answer (although I don't hold out too much hope) from Scrooge and company is:

...What's Christmas time to you but a time for paying bills without money; a time for finding yourself a year older, but not an hour richer; a time for balancing your books and having every item in 'em through a round dozen months presented dead against you?

Hmmmmm.  Paying bills without money.  Balancing my books and having every item for a year listed as a debt or liability.  Sounds pretty bleak.

Looks like Saint Marty's going to be setting his alarm to 4 a.m. for another year.

My least favorite time of day

November 26: 4 a.m., Early Bird, "Carol" Dip

The Early Bird gets Coke Zero

I have never been an early bird.  I don't believe in catching worms or sunrises or anything related to mornings.  It is 5 a.m., and I have already taken a shower, gotten dressed, and driven to work.  I have piles of work to get done, and I am not looking forward to the day ahead of me.  Mornings pretty much suck in my book.

I don't know how I ended up with a job that gets me out of bed so early.  Don't get me wrong--I'm grateful to have a job.  I am completely aware that there are many people in this country who would kill to be in my position.  My job provides health and vision and dental insurance.  I have a ton of vacation time accrued.  I'm really lucky.

However, I don't like getting up early.  I don't like having to suck down 52 ounces of Coke Zero in order to make it past 8 a.m.  (Keep in mind, by 8 a.m., I have already worked three hours.)  On weekends, when I'm able to sleep in until 6:30 or 7 a.m., I feel positively decadent.

I know what job I want.  My dream job.  My Oprah job.  That is what my question for Carol Dip Monday concerns:

Will I ever be hired as a full-time instructor at the university?  (I may have already made this query, but it doesn't hurt to check back every once in a while, either.  And I have taken steps to accomplish this goal.)

The answer from the book of Dickens is:

Martha didn't like to see him disappointed, if it were only in joke; so she came out prematurely from behind the closet door, and ran into his arms, while the two young Cratchits hustled Tiny Tim, and bore him off into the wash-house, that he might hear the pudding singing in the copper.

I think I may have received that same answer the last time I asked this questions.  That's OK by me.  Martha doesn't like to disappoint her father, Bob Cratchit.  I don't like to be disappointed, either.  I will get that full-time job at the university.  Charles Dickens says so.

That's good enough for Saint Marty this morning.

October 22: On the Limn of Possibility, "Carol" Dip

I've always liked the word "limn."  It gives me a sense of comfort, and I don't know why.  It's a verb, meaning, "to represent in drawing or painting" or "to portray in words; describe."  Because it is so close to the word "limb," many people get the two confused.  I, personally, think there should be a noun version of "limn," so that, if you are on the limn of something, you are on the edge of it.  You are on the line that marks the outer most reaches of the object or person or place or space.  So, if I say to you some time, "That's on the limn of possibility," that means it is within the realm of possibility.  It could happen.

This morning, I would like to think of things on the limn of possibility.  Some people may call them dreams or pipe dreams or wishes or fantasies.  However, I prefer to exist on the limn, because that's where the interesting things of the world happen.

Let me give you a few examples.  It was on the limn of possibility that peasant parents in China might give birth to a Nobel Prize winning writer.  Mo Yan won the Nobel this year.  It was also on the limn of possibility that a young, African American man from Hawaii might grow up to be President of the United States.  President Obama was elected in 2008.  Finally, it was on the limn of possibility that the Son of God might be born to an unwed mother in a barn in an obscure little village.  Over two thousand years ago, you know what happened.

Thus, I will give you a few things on the limn of possibility that give me a little happiness.

It is on the limn of possibility that I will be hired by the university as a tenure-track professor of poetry.  (One of my favorite things on the limn.)

It is on the limn of possibility that I will win the Nobel Prize in Literature.  (Hey, if Mo Yan or Pearl S. Buck or Dario Fo can win, so can I.)

It is on the limn of possibility that I will write a bestselling memoir.  (Everybody wants to read about a middle-aged poet living in the middle of Michigan's Upper Peninsula.  In the movie adaptation, I will be played by George Clooney or Brad Pitt.)

It is on the limn of possibility that I will have pizza for lunch.  (Actually, this one is more than on the limn.  I have two pieces of pizza in the fridge right now.  I just wanted to throw in one thing that would come true today, even if it does involve three-day-old pepperoni from Little Caesar's.)

It is on the limn of possibility that Saint Marty will be named a Blog of Note.  (I haven't harped on this one for quite some time, so I thought I'd throw it in.)

It is on the limn of possibility that I will lose 40 pounds and be named one of People Magazine's 100 sexiest people.  (I can see the title to my photo already:  "Sexiest Blogger" or "Sexiest Poet" or "Sexiest Nobel Prize Winner."  Hey, it's always possible.)

OK, I have lifted my spirits with this little list of things on the limn.  Now, it is time for a Carol dip.  I will focus on something else within the limn of possibility:

Will Barack Obama be reelected as President of the United States?

And the answer from the great Charles Dickens is:

Sort of looks like Mitt, doesn't it?

Well, my finger landed on a picture of Scrooge before the knocker on his front door.  The subtitle to the illustration is this:  The ghostly knocker which presages a terrifying Christmas Eve for Ebenezer Scrooge.

I don't really like that answer.  It sort of hints at something terrifying to come (i.e., the election of Mitt Romney).

Saint Marty prefers to exist on the limn today:  President Obama will dominate the last debate this evening and soundly defeat Mr. Romney come November.  That's a limn Saint Marty can live with.

August 13: Last Day, Poetry Book, "Carol" Dip

Today is the last day of my vacation.  I have a few things planned.  As soon as I'm done typing this post, I'm going for a run.  Then, I'm going to take my kids swimming at a local pool.  This afternoon, I'm taking my daughter to see the new Diary of a Wimpy Kid movie.  It's going to be a daddy-daughter date.  With lots of buttered popcorn.

I'm not going to spend a lot of time searching around for some other topic to expound upon in this post.  I do have a question for Carol dip Monday.  It's a question that's been on my mind since last Friday, when I got the news about the poetry competition.  My question for the great book of Dickens is:

Will I get my new  book of poems published this year?

And the answer from Chuck is:

My opinion is, that it was a done thing between him and Scrooge's nephew; and that the Ghost of Christmas Present knew it...

So, it's a done deal.  Scrooge's nephew Fred knows it.  The Ghost of Christmas Present knows it.

And now Saint Marty knows it, too:  my book will be published.

...at least for one more day

July 30: Disappointment, Jordyn Wieber, "Carol" Dip

So I watched the Olympics last night.  Of course, there were a lot of events that were covered, but the one that really struck me was the women's gymnastics competition.  I think the term "women's" is a little misleading, because most of the athletes competing are these tiny little teenage girls.  That being said, I was really moved by the story of American gymnast Jordyn Wieber.

Here's a girl who's been working her whole life for this Olympic moment.  She's the reigning world all-around gymnastics champion.  She posts the third best score of the night, but because of a rule that only allows the top two scorers from each country to compete in the women's all-around finals, Jordyn Wieber will not be able to fulfill her dream of trying to win an all-around Olympic gold medal.

That wasn't the part that really move me.  The part that moved me was Jordyn Wieber's disappointment, which was immediately evident and immediately heartbreaking.  She alternated between tears and stiff-upper-lip.  As the father of a girl who dances competitively, I just about died watching Wieber's post-competition interview.  I've sat in an auditorium and witnessed my daughter receive a medal I knew she wasn't happy with.  I don't care if my daughter takes bronze, silver, gold, or platinum in competition.  I care about the disappointment she feels in herself.  That's what I saw last night with Jordyn Wieber, and I could barely stand it.

This post isn't about the United States being screwed out of a chance for a gold medal.  Or an unfair Olympic rule.  Or unfair Olympic judging.  It's about a little girl who isn't even going to get a chance to make her dream come true.  That's really depressing to me.

It is a Monday, and, therefore, it's time for a Carol dip.  I've been thinking long and hard about the question I was going to ask this morning.  I think it's going to have to do with disappointment:

Will I be disappointed with the employment contract that's currently under negotiation at the university?

And the answer from the ever-wise Charles Dickens is:

...The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever...

Wow.  That answer depresses me even more this morning.  Misery.  That doesn't sound very appealing.

Excuse Saint Marty now.  He needs to go take some Prozac.

I just want to give her a hug

July 23: Diet Mountain Dew Morning, Long Day, "Carol" Dip

It is definitely a Diet Mountain Dew morning.  My mind is about five steps behind the rest of my body, and it's losing ground.  By the end of the day, my mind will be back in Sunday while my body will be getting ready for Tuesday.  Therefore, I have a 52 ounce cup of the yellow nectar to jumpstart my week.  I hope it works, or it is going to be one very long day.

You know, when I started this blog about a year and a half ago (under the name Feasts & Famines), I thought it would only be a matter of time before some big agent or publisher discovered how witty and talented I was.  A book deal was supposed to follow.  Then a film adaptation of my book, starring Leonardo DiCaprio and directed by Martin Scorsese (I'd settle for Steven Spielberg).  Well, here I am, almost two years later, no book or movie deal on the horizon.  I'm still holding out hope that these things will come to pass, but I'm trying to be a little more realistic.  I'm setting my sights on the Nobel Prize in Blogging (which the members of the Swedish Academy will create just so they can honor my brilliant writing).  Hey, a guy's gotta dream.

My point is that sometimes it feels like I'm writing in this little vacuum.  Aside from a few very supportive and kind disciples who leave comments, I don't know if what I'm writing is having any kind of impact.  I mean, I sound whiny and annoying to myself sometimes.  I'm sure I turn off more readers than I turn on (not in any kind of sexual or pornographic sense--the name of the blog is Saint Marty, not The Penis Blog or Adventures With My Other Head).  I guess the best I can hope is that my posts make a few people smile or laugh, maybe think a little about issues of mental illness, writing, poetry, and sexual addiction.  If I can accomplish that every day, then I'm doing something worthwhile.  I'm making a small difference in the world.

Well, it's Carol Dip Monday.  I already have my question picked out.  It has to do with something that's happening later this afternoon:

Will I have any cavities at my dentist appointment today?

And the answer from the great book of Dickens is:

...It gave him little surprise, however; for he had been revolving in his mind a change of life, and thought and hoped he saw his new-born resolutions carried out in this.

That doesn't really answer the question.  Either I'm not going to have a cavity and will change my oral hygiene habits to insure I don't develop any issues, or I will have a ton of cavities and gum disease and will change my oral hygiene habits to correct these problems.

Either way, Saint Marty is going to have to brush and floss more often.

Not in this blog!

July 16: Searching My Mind, Coming Up Blank, "Carol" Dip

Usually, when I sit down to type my morning post, I perform a little inventory, searching my mind to see what subject preoccupies my thoughts.  This morning, when I sat down at the keyboard, I took inventory.  Then, I took inventory again.  I checked a third time, just to make sure my results were accurate.  They were.  My shelves are empty.  I'm coming up blank.  My cup is half-empty.  I can lead a horse to water, but I can't make him give me a subject.  The grass isn't greener over my septic tank.  Life is giving me lemons, and I don't know how to make lemonade.  My well is dry.  I've been through the desert on a horse with no name.

You get the idea.  I could write about how I'm falling asleep in between each sentence, but I don't think any of my disciples want to read another post about how tired I am.  Every Monday is the same story.  I'm tired.  Need caffeine.  It's the mantra of my life.  Therefore, I'm going to cut my losses and get straight to the Carol dip for today.

After much thought, and a whole lot of self-reflection and moral wrestling, I've come up the the following question to ask the great book of Dickens:

Is Tom Cruise as nutty as he seems?

And the answer from Charles Dickens is:

...The way he went after that plump sister in the lace tucker, was an outrage on the credulity of human nature.  Knocking down the fire-irons, tumbling over the chairs, bumping up against the piano, smothering himself among the curtains, wherever she went, there went he...

There you have it, folks.  Katie Holmes got out in the nick of time.  Tom is nuttier than a jar of Planter's Dry Roasted Peanuts, an outrage on the credulity of human nature.  It's official.

Saint Marty needs a nap now.

Call the guys with the butterfly nets!

July 9: Jinxes, Bipolar, Contests, "Carol" Dip

There are a couple of topics I haven't blogged about for a while.  I try not to write about these subjects for one reason only:  superstition.  Even though, as a Christian, I shouldn't believe is such things as jinxes, I am also human, and that means that I fall into the trap of thinking about good luck and bad luck and karma.  I have come to believe that, if things are going well in a certain area of my life, I shouldn't talk about it.  To talk about it courts the fickle finger of fate to reach down and screw things up.  It's a completely irrational belief.  I know that.  However, I still follow that dictum.  If I'm happy or hopeful, I don't stand in the middle of a crowded intersection, waving a cardboard sign that reads, "I'm so happy and lucky!"  I will get hit by a bus.

For instance, as most of the disciples of this blog know, my wife suffers from bipolar disease.  One facet of her illness is that she also has a serious problem with sexual addiction.  I'm not talking about the Tiger Woods kind of sexual addiction where you go away to a treatment facility for a couple of months and then return to a multi-million dollar golfing career.  I'm talking about an addiction that has almost derailed our marriage and destroyed our family on more than one occasion.  When things are going well with my wife's illness and addiction, I don't like to talk about them.  I just say a little "thank you" prayer at the end of each day for the peace and happiness.  Most people who have family members with mental illnesses will tell you that life sometimes feels like a series of hurricanes interrupted by periods of good weather.  You spend a good deal of time waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the next crisis to arise.  That's why I don't talk about my wife's bipolar when things are going well.  I don't want to hear that other shoe hitting the floor.

The other subject I don't discuss is poetry contests.  When I have a poem or a book submitted to a poetry contest, I avoid discussing the subject.  Because, if I start talking about it, I will start obsessing about it.  I will check my e-mail ten or twenty times a day.  I will go to the contest's website over and over and over as the deadline approaches for the announcement of the winner.  I will convince myself that I've lost, and that I've won, several times in a 24-hour period.  It's not healthy.  So, to avoid such insanity and maintain a kernel of hope in my being, I do not talk about this subject, either.  I prefer to live in a fantasy world where editors fight to publish my poems and books.  It's a wonderful land where scarecrows sing and dance and troubles melt like lemon drops.

Thus, on this Carol dip Monday, I will not ask a question concerning either of these topics.  They are a little to close to me.  Instead, my question deals with another important issue in my life:

Will the pumpkin plants in my garden produce any pumpkins this year?

And my answer from the great Charles Dickens is...

"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 homes to which its light would have conducted me!"

Scrooge was very much dismayed to hear the spectre going on at this rate, and began to quake exceedingly.

Well, that certainly doesn't bode well for any home-grown jack-o-lanterns this year.  Suffering.  Eyes turned down.  Poor abodes.  Dismay.

Saint Marty has a feeling he won't be getting any squash from his backyard this year.

The Great Pumpkin won't be coming to my patch this year

July 2: Being a Poet, Great Panel, "Carol" Dip

Linda Nemec Foster:  a hard act to follow

Well, fresh from my appearance on the U. P. Book Tour in Republic, Michigan, I am a little tired but feeling wonderful.  The panel of writers was diverse and great, from the poets down to the historians.  We had poems, songs, and stories about starvation and fly-fishing nuns.  I read in the second half of the program, following Linda Nemec Foster--the most accomplished and entertaining writer of the group.  Linda brought down the house were her poems, and then I had to step up.  It was a little daunting, but I managed to grab hold of some of Linda's fireworks and not get burned. 

Last night just proved one thing to me.  Despite small audiences.  Despite limited opportunities for publication.  Despite years of honing my craft.  Despite lack of glory or honor or prestige.  Despite all of these things (and a few more I didn't mention), I LOVE being a poet.

There, I said it.

Today is Monday, and that means it's time, once again, to play the Carol dip game.  For those doubters out there, I wish to point out something.  Last week, I asked a question concerning the fate of a certain Today Show anchor.  The great book of Dickens predicted the departure of said anchor.  Last Thursday, Ann Curry quit Today, despite the fact that Ann is/was the nicest co-host Matt Lauer ever had.  Ann is gone, and Dickens knew it.  So what if everybody from Entertainment Weekly to Elmo was predicting Ann's demise.  The point is that you should never doubt the power of the Carol dip. 

Now that I have that off my chest, I will ask my question for today.  After much thought and reflection, I have settled on the following query:

Will I get sunburned on July 4th?

And the answer from Ebenezer Scrooge and company is:

To sit staring at those fixed, glazed eyes, in silence for a moment, would play, Scrooge felt, the very deuce with him.  There was something very awful, too, in the spectre's being provided with an infernal atmosphere of its own.  Scrooge could not feel it himself, but this was clearly the case; for though the Ghost sat perfectly motionless, its hair, and skirts, and tassels, were still agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven.

I'm in trouble.  Just look at that string of adjectctives:  "very awful," "infernal atmosphere," and "agitated as by the hot vapour from an oven."  This description of Marley's Ghost isn't very comforting.

Saint Marty better purchase himself some sun block.

June 11: Dipping on Monday, Not So Tired, Poetry Question

When I got up this morning, I was so tired I thought I was having an out-of-body experience.  My fleshy part was still with my pillows and blanket, while my spirity part was drifting slowly through the darkness toward the bathroom.  The shower I took didn't help.  The drive to work didn't help.  It took me a couple of hours to feel human, enrobed in skin and muscle and bone.  My mind simply did not want to unite with the physical world.

I am now sipping a cup of Diet Mountain Dew and feeling not so tired.  I'm almost human, not transparent or unsubstantial or dead.  And I'm ready to face another Monday. 

Speaking of Monday, it is time for another Carol dip.  Looking over the past few weeks, I've come to realize that the dipping on Monday has become quite popular with the disciples of Saint Marty.  The only posts that come close in readership are my poetry posts.  So, I will be dipping into the book of Dickens in a couple of seconds, but I wanted to speak about one more topic before I become one with Scrooge.

When I checked my e-mail at 5 a.m., there was a message from a woman in Los Angeles.  She's making a documentary on U. P. writers for PBS, and she wants to interview me.  I don't know how she got my name or e-mail address.  I'm thinking it has to have something to do with the U. P. Book Tour 2012.  Of course, I immediately responded to her communication.  I'll keep you posted.

Now, back to the dip.  My question this morning has to do with a poetry contest I entered a while ago.  I bet you can guess what I'm going to ask:

Will I win the poetry contest with my manuscript?

And the answer from Charles Dickens is:

"Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch?" asked Scrooge.

"There is.  My own."

"Would it apply to any kind of dinner of this day?" asked Scrooge.

"To any kindly given.  To a poor one most."

Well, Scrooge is asking the Ghost of Christmas Present about the blessings he sprinkles on people from the torch he carries.  The Ghost is spreading goodwill and happiness.  Christmas cheer.  Especially to the needy and poor.

So, goodwill and happiness are coming my way.  I'm not sure if I qualify as needy or poor, but I'm certainly desperate.  The Ghost of Christmas Present is smiling down on me.  (Yes, I know that I'm being superstitious, putting my faith in a stupid act of chance, but isn't that what entering a poetry contest is?  A chance?  A leap of faith in your writing ability?)

Saint Marty's going to take his answer to the bank this morning.  Let the goodwill flow.

Hold your breath and jump...

May 14: "Carol" Dip, Shattered iPod, God Bless Me

It's Monday.  And if it's Monday, it must be time for another Carol dip.

My question relates to something that happened yesterday morning.  If you are one of the two frequent readers I have, you will recall that, a couple of months ago, I had to shell out close to $200 to have my daughter's iPod repaired.  I used the term "repaired" loosely, because Apple simply sent me a replacement iPod.  Well, yesterday morning, my daughter dropped her new iPod on a cement sidewalk, and the screen shattered.  It didn't just crack.  It literally shattered.

My daughter is devastated, and I'm hoping that the new iPod is covered under some kind of warranty, although I'm not holding my breath.  And that is the story behind my question for the great book of Dickens today.

That question is:

Will getting my daughter's iPod fixed be free or covered under some kind of warranty?

And the answer from that great Victorian novelist is:

"A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears.  God bless us!"

Which all the family re-echoed.

"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

That answer seems pretty straightforward.  God's going to bless me.   Tiny Tim's going to bless me.  I'm not going to have to pay another $200.  It's going to be like Christmas in May.

I will accept that answer because I don't like thinking about the alternative.  Therefore, I'm ready to break into song.

Sing with Saint Marty:  "Deck the hall with boughs of holly!  Fa la la la la la la la la..."

'Tis the season to be jolly!

April 30: "Carol" Dip, More Grading, Finish Line

Greetings once again this morning.

It is Monday and, therefore, time for a Carol dip.  I have a pretty cloudy mind at the moment.  Phlegm.  Sleep deprivation.  Grading malaise.  Take your pick as to the cause.  I'm already too tired for words, and the day is just beginning.

Anyway, my question for the book of Carol is simple this morning:

Will I be able to finish all of my grading for my final exam times this afternoon?

And the answer from Charles Dickens is:

"And how did little Tim behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content.

I suppose that means that if I behave myself, knuckle down, and get my work done, I'll be in fine shape.  After all, Bob's response to Mrs. Cratchit's question is, "As good as gold...and better..."  That means I'm in the clear today.  The finish line is in sight.

Saint Marty needs to get grading, folks.  Have a great Monday (if that isn't a contradiction in terms).

This was me last night

April 16: "Carol" Dip Monday, Surprise Rejection, Publishing

Once again, it is Monday.,  If there were any way to skip Mondays and go directly to Tuesdays, I'd get on that train in a heartbeat.  But then Tuesdays would become Mondays, and I would want to skip Tuesdays and got directly to Wednesdays.  It would get quite confusing for the Julian calendar.  Therefore, I guess we'll just have to leave things as they are and simply bitch about the fact that it is yet again Monday.

About nine months ago, I submitted a batch of poems to the online publication The Christian Century.  This morning, I opened an e-mail on one of my work accounts (one that I would never use for submissions), and there was my "thanks, but you suck" response from the editor.  Frankly, I'd written that magazine off about, oh, six months ago.  So today's surprise rejection was just a reminder of how much of a failure I am.  Hey, I shouldn't expect anything better on a Monday.

I think this calls for a Carol dip.  My question was prompted by my unpleasant message from The Christian Century:

Will I ever get another poem published?

And the answer from Charles Dickens and A Christmas Carol is:

...Here, again, were shadows on the window-blind of guests assembling; and there a group of handsome girls, all hooded and fur-booted, and all chattering at once, tripped lightly off to some near neighbour's house; where, woe upon the single man who saw them enter--artful witches; well they knew it--in a glow!

I have no idea what the hell that means.  The passage comes right after Scrooge's visit with the Ghost of Christmas Present to the Cratchit household.  Therefore, I believe it's supposed to describe a happy moment.  It does have the "glow" of yuletide revelry.  I guess I'm going to take Dickens' handsome girls and artful witches as a positive sign.  Some editor(s) out there will fall under the spell of my art.  I will publish poetry this year.

Now, if Saint Marty can just avoid any more nasty electronic surprises, he may be able to salvage the rest of this day.

Trying to avoid shit like this for the rest of the day

April 9: "Carol" Dip Monday, Taxes, Job Interview

If it's Monday, it must be time for another Carol dip.  My question is directly related to an appointment I have this morning with my tax person.  That's right, I haven't done my taxes yet.  There's a reason for this fact:  the tax return money has to help me pay the bills through the summer.  If I had my taxes done in January or February, like most people, my tax return money would already be gone.  That would be bad.

My wife also has a job interview this morning at 9 a.m.  She's probably already on the road.  I'm hoping it goes well for her.  She needs a little shot of self-esteem right now.  She's been in short supply of it for a while.  If you think of it, send some positive thoughts/prayers her way.

So, getting down to business, my question this morning is:

Are we going to get enough tax return money to make it through the summer?

And the answer from the book of Carol is:

In time the bells ceased, and the bakers were shut up; and yet there was a genial shadowing forth of all these dinners and the progress of their cooking, in the thawed blotch of wet above each baker's oven; where the pavement smoked as if its stones were cooking too.

Well, that's a pretty pleasant passage, taking place in the stave about the Ghost of Christmas Present.  Aside from the final stave of the novel, this one is the most happy, filled with parties and laughter and love.  I can almost feel the Ghost standing over me, sprinkling my head with yuletide joy from his torch.  Therefore, I'm going to interpret this answer as a big, fat "yes."  There's going to be abundance of warmth and gladness in the coming summer months.

That was relatively easy and painless.  I actually like my answer.

Saint Marty couldn't ask for a better start to his day.

Lay some goodness on me!

April 3: "Carol" Dip, Questoin on Memoir, Problem With Memoir

I'm at a loss for subject matter this morning.  My mind's a blank, which really isn't that surprising.  Long-time disciples of this blog know that I frequently write about absolutely nothing at all.  But, I did promise a return to A Christmas Carol this morning.  Therefore, I've decided to use my old standby:  the Carol dip.

For a while, I couldn't even think of a decent question to ask.  I had to settle for a mediocre question.  It touches upon my insecurities about writing memoir.  I think most people who write memoirs do so because they've had a disease or a horrible childhood filled with physical or sexual abuse.  Those are the kinds of memoirs that are sexy, that people want to read.  I don't think my life has been quite that compelling.  Hence, my question for today:

Should I finish my memoir?  Is it any good?

And the answer from Scrooge and Dickens is:

"You recollect the way?" inquired the Spirit.

"Remember it!" cried Scrooge with fervour--"I could walk it blindfold."

I'm not quite sure how to interpret that answer.  The passage is all about memory and the past.  I'm going to take it as a positive response.  I'm mean, Scrooge is positively gleeful at this point in the narrative, seeing all of his childhood friends.  The past is treating Scrooge well.  That means that the past is going to treat me well.   I should finish my memoir, and what I have written is good.

Yes, it may seem like I'm pulling this stuff out of my ass.  However, I started this post without anything to say, and now I have a post.  Plus, I feel good about myself and my writing.  (It would still be nice to have reactions from some readers out there about the memoir sections I've already posted.)

I will continue Project Memoir.  I will probably be working on it all summer long.  Be prepared.  The idea for this book has been with me for a few years.  I think the time has arrived for it to come to fruition.

Saint Marty is getting his act together and taking it on the memoir road.

This is the book I need!