July 5: Think About the War, Fireworks, Day After

When the beautiful people were past, Valencia questioned her funny-looking husband about war.  It was a simple-minded thing for a female Earthling to do, to associate sex and glamor with war.  

"Do you ever think about the war?" she said, laying a hand on his thigh.

"Sometimes," said Billy Pilgrim.

Billy doesn't really have to think about the war.  He keeps living it, over and over, back and forth in time.  Valencia has no idea that there's a chance, once she goes to sleep, Billy will jump back to Germany, Dresden, or Tralfamadore.  The war is constantly with Billy, whether he likes it or not.  He doesn't get a chance to suffer from PTSD, because the trauma is never post.  Always present.

I am exhausted tonight.  I was at an Independence Day fireworks display until after 11 p.m.  Got home, took a shower, went to bed.  The alarm went off at 4:45 a.m., and my day began.  So, I am operating on less than four hours of sleep, and my day still isn't over.  I have rehearsal tonight with my praise band, I think.  That will last until past eight o'clock, at which time I will come home and finalize the plans for a poetry workshop that I'm leading tomorrow night.  I'm not saying this day is going to give me PTSD, but I'm certainly not going to have any fun.

I'm feeling a little brain dead right now.  Usually, after I'm done working at the medical office, I get a second wind to prepare me for the afternoon and evening responsibilities/festivities.  About the only thing I have the energy for is a nap.  A long one.  If I close my eyes, I fear that they won't open again until tomorrow morning.

So, let me sum up the extent of my wisdom this evening:

1. Fireworks, good.
2. The day after, exhausted.

Saint Marty is going to be very thankful tonight for his bed.  Amen.

December 26: Dry Thread, Day After, Fairy Tale Without a Point

A spider can produce several kinds of thread.  She uses a dry, tough thread for foundation lines, and she uses a sticky thread for snare lines--the ones that catch and hold insects.  Charlotte decided to use her dry thread for writing the new message.

Charlotte is a writer, and, with a few words, she's able to change Wilbur's life.  If  Charlotte had written "CRUNCHY" or "TASTY" in her web,  the book would have ended with Christmas dinner, and dinner would have been a little smoked Wilbur.  Instead, Charlotte convinces Mr. Zuckerman of Wilbur's nobler character traits.  Wilbur's "HUMBLE" and "SOME PIG."  And Charlotte's little "miracle" works.  Thus proving that people will believe almost anything in print.

You may be asking yourself, "What does all this have to do with today's post?"  And my answer to that query:  "Absolutely nothing."  My mind is still a little spent from Christmas, and the approximately six hours of sleep I've gotten in the last two days.  Since I have nothing of real import to discuss, I thought I'd try to weave a little web of my own with this post.  How about "SOME POET" or "SOME SAINT"?  Again, let me remind:  if you are looking for any measure of thoughtful reflection tonight, look somewhere else.  I am too tired.

Once upon a time, a blogger who called himself Saint Marty was so tired that he couldn't string three words into a coherent thought.  So, Saint Marty wrote a pointless post about a blogger who called himself "Saint Marty."  Saint Marty was so tired that he couldn't string three words into a coherent thought.  So, Saint Marty wrote a pointless post about a blogger who called himself "Saint Marty."  Saint Marty was so tired...

That's it.  That's all I have.

Saint Marty's going to bed.  His eyes are burning, and his head is throbbing.  Tomorrow, he'll try to be a little more "RADIANT."  Maybe even "TERRIFIC."

No guarantees

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