October 9: Lovely Trip, Wisconsin Dells, Eric Torgersen, :"What Is Your Earliest Memory?," Adventures of Stickman

It had been a lovely trip, London everything they had wanted and imagined--for Annie, reading selections from several Dickens novels at the time, it was an enchantment, they took strolls through the Queen's gardens, fed the swans in Regents Park; tried to envision the shantytowns that Dickens had once written about, along the Thames, the city's architecture sometimes suspending their notion of modern time...

After years of depression and struggle, Ives and his wife, Annie, go on a trip to the British Isles.  London, especially.  Annie loves the words of Dickens, and Ives loves the work of artists like Seymour and Cruikshank, the first illustrators of Dickens' work.  Ives and Annie rekindle their love on this journey.  It gives them a fresh start.

Greetings from the Wisconsin Dells.  We arrived around 4 p.m.  The journey was unremarkable.  We didn't get lost once, the weather was sunny and cool.  This trip was the first we've made to the Kalahari Resort without the navigating skills of my sister, who couldn't come because of work conflicts.

This evening, I have been to an indoor amusement park and water park.  My son dragged me up to the top of several water slides.  My feet are sore, and I can still smell chlorine.  My wife just fell asleep, and my kids passed out about an hour ago.  After I am done with this post, I will be calling it a night, as well.

Just like Ives, I've needed this time away from my day-to-day existence.  Since the beginning of the semester, I've felt a little distracted, at the medical office and university.  Perhaps it's the stress of the summer finally catching up with me.  Or maybe it's grief.  I don't know.  Whatever the cause, I have not really been fully myself.  Perhaps these few days away will heal what's ailing me.

There will be no fairy tale this evening.  I'm taking a vacation from that, as well.

I do have a poem, however.  It's about memory, and fragility of time, things I've been thinking about a lot this past month.

Saint Marty is hoping to make a few happy memories over the next few days.  This year hasn't provided a whole lot of those.

What Is Your Earliest Memory?  What
Does It Mean?

by:  Eric Torgersen

Barbara the earliest thing I remember
is pushing a train of wooden blocks
sawed off the ends of two-by-fours
around the top of the concrete foundation
of the house my mother and father built
up Lyons Street at the end of the war.

It means we really were all there
together once, my father and mother,
my house, my brother and I,
my three sisters one after the other.

The foundation was a foundation
to hold up my little train
and I was a block on my brother
and sister and sister and sister.

I remember a little while later
my mother on the roof with a hammer.

The roof was a roof over our heads
but the house was never whole:
the bathroom no more than a shell,
around the back no shingles,
in the front yeard a big stump
we had no one to dig up and haul.
We cut and tunneled and burned but the stump
was bigger than all of us together.

The stump was the stump of a tree
I can't remember.  The tree was my father.

Adventures of STICKMAN

October 8: Well-Made Books, Saint Svetlana, Eric Torgersen, "The Ones Reading Books," Adventures of Stickman

And he loved those books because not only did they emanate the spirit of a different time, when, it seemed to Ives, people were better, but because they reminded him of his father.  They seemed to have been a great source of pride to the older Mr. Ives.  He had been fond of collecting well-made books, and kept a modest library of them in a hallway bookshelf, books that seemed to bring him as much pleasure and solace from the world as did books on religion and the Bible.

Yes, Edward Ives loves books.  He's not much of a reader.  Art is his thing.  However, he takes pride in his wife's collection of literature.  Dickens.  Lawrence.  Cervantes.  Shakespeare.  Annie Ives can't resist buying cheap and expensive editions of the classics.  She recognizes greatness.

Speaking of recognizing greatness, the Swedes made the big announcement this morning.  Unfortunately, I forgot to watch the livestream from the Swedish Academy.  I remembered about 10 a.m., when I was teaching a classroom full of students about One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.  When I got back to an available computer, I went straight to the Nobel site and read this:

The Nobel Prize in Literature 2015 was awarded to Svetlana Alexievich "for her polyphonic writings, a monument to suffering and courage in our time".

That's right.  Once again, I have been overlooked by the Swedes.  Instead it went to a Belarussian journalist who wrote most famously about Chernobyl survivors.  So, if you're keeping count, that's Russia 1, United States 0.  Next year, I'm going to start a write-in campaign very early.  I think the Swedish Academy is ready for a blogging poet.

Thus, I will not be celebrating my Nobel win this weekend when I am in the Wisconsin Dells with my family.  My daughter has a dance convention.  I was hoping that, after my name was announced in Stockholm, the Kalahari Resort would upgrade my reservation to the Presidential Suite and comp it.  No such luck this year.  Although, maybe I could wear a wig, speak with a Russian accent, and pretend my name is Svetlana. 

Tomorrow night, Saint Svetlana will be posting from Baraboo, Wisconsin.  Do svidaniya, comrades.

The Ones Reading Books

by:  Eric Torgersen

Now in his fifty-ninth year,
he has seen two of them:
the ones reading books
and driving, also, their cars
down the great expressways,
through the traffic.

The first, years ago,
half forgotten,
a young man, intent,
the book lying open
on the steering wheel
unmistakably the Bible,
a map of sort, he supposes,
to guide the big van
down US 23,
although as he passed
it swerved
and nearly hit him.

The second
just weeks ago:
the car large, well-used,
American,
the book a fat paperback,
some thriller, some horror,
some mystery,
the cover bent back
and clenched
in the driver's right hand,
he too large, American,
well-used
and in no hurry,
left hand steadying
the wheel,
course for the moment
clear.

My friend has grown almost
accustomed
to the ones using telephones;
books he has read
in his own unlikely places;
there are too many things
he has done
and driven the car;
but the ones reading books
and driving, also,
down the great expressways
through the traffic
continue
to astonish him.

Adventures of STICKMAN

October 7: John F. Kennedy, Peanut Butter and Banana, Eric Torgersen, "Snow. Memory," Adventures of Stickman

Remembered how Robert, coming home in tears after John F. Kennedy was assassinated, had asked him, "Did God will that?"

After Robert is murdered, Ives spends a good portion of his life remembering.  It's his way of coping with the loss of his son.  Unfortunately, Ives gets stuck in his memories.  Every time something changes, Ives loses Robert all over again.  The Biltmore Hotel closes, Ives mourns.  Gimbels closes, he mourns.  Ives retires.  Mourning.  It's about letting go, and Ives can't seem to loosen his grip on the past.

I'm sitting in my university office at the at the moment, eating a peanut butter and banana sandwich.  It's a good sandwich,  It was one of my favorite sandwiches as a kid.  I used to beg my mother to make them for me.  It was a treat.  I don't know why.  Maybe bananas were too expensive.  Or peanut butter.  Whatever the reason, a peanut butter and banana sandwich was the prime rib of my childhood cuisine.

That's a good memory.  Each bite I take of my sandwich tonight is a little stroll through the playgrounds and elementary school hallways of my mind.  It's amazing how something as simple as two pieces of white bread, a couple tablespoons of peanut butter, and a banana can unlock such elemental recollections.  If I had a cold glass of milk mixed with Nestle Quik to go with my sandwich, I would probably never want to leave my office again.

Of course, I will finish my dinner.  I will suck the last smudges of peanut butter from my fingers.  Then I will go to the water fountain and drink.  This moment will pass.  Like snow or a super moon.  Moments are not meant to last.  They just slide into short term memory and, eventually, get filed away in long term.

Tomorrow, I will probably forget this meal.  How it made me feel like I was eight or nine again.  I will take up the mantle of adulthood.  Drive to work.  Punch a time clock.  Earn money.  Worry about bills.

Tonight, however, Saint Marty has a peanut butter and banana sandwich.  And that's enough.

Memory.  Snow.

by:  Eric Torgersen

Snow returns and snow
is memory,
imperfect as memory of dreams
but our only memory of wind,
of feet that circle the house
at night as we sleep.

You were still asleep
when the first of the first snow
fell, renewing the memory
of winter; I forgot my dreams
and ran in the snow, right out in the wind,
not afraid of leaving the house.

That night, in the house
again, refusing to sleep,
I mocked the snow
and vaunted my own poor memory.
"The one who never dreams
of wind

will die in wind,"
you said.  "His house
will be no refuge, nor will sleep;
snow on snow
will erase his memory
and even the landscape of dreams

will no longer hold his dreams;
we know that when wind dies wind
will rise again, but no house,
fallen, rises.  Sleep
if you can but the snow
will return when we are just memory."

"Let the sum of all memory
equal the sum of all dream,"
I said.  "All the world's wind
weighs less than the poorest house.
Dream-winds trouble every hour's sleep,
but snow is only snow is only snow."

Even in tropics we keep the memory of snow;
in dreams, night after night, we're torn from sleep
as our separate houses yield to the single wind.

Adventures of STICKMAN

October 6: Good Forever and Ever, My Equilibrium, Eric Torgersen, "I Will Die in Lake Superior," Adventures of Stickman

With pained but transcendent eyes, bearded and regal, He would come down the central aisle toward Ives, and placing His wounded hands upon Ives' brow, give His blessing before taking him away, and all others who were good in the world, off into His heaven, with its four mysterious winds, where they would be joined unto Him and all that is good forever and ever, without end.

The last paragraph of the book.  Ives is sitting in church, reflecting on the events of his life.  He is in his eighties and has made peace with the world.  No longer perpetually sad, Ives has this vision in his mind of Christ coming down from the altar, toward him.  It is a moment of grace.  Ives, always a good man, even in the darkest moments of his life, is being called home, to a place where goodness resides, eternally

I really love the closing of Mr. Ives' Christmas.  It's redemptive in its imagery.  Beautiful.  Heaven is a place of great comfort and happiness.  I find great solace in Hijeulos' words.  I like to think of all the people I've lost recently in this place of goodness, forever and ever, without end.  I imagine my sister there, smiling, laughing all the time.  Who wouldn't want that?

Don't worry.  I'm not thinking of harming myself.  I've simply had a very difficult evening, containing a lot of conflict with family members.  I'm not going to discuss blame, point fingers.  That's not the raison d'etre of this post.  No, I'm just trying to find my goodness, reclaim my equilibrium.  The best way I know to find balance is through writing and reading.

An hour ago, I was furious, threatening to cut off ties with certain people in my life.  Now, after siting here for a little while, reading poetry and listening to some Mozart, I am not in a homicidal state of mind any more.  With each word I type, I find myself becoming calmer.

That doesn't mean that I'm going to apologize for anything I said or did this evening.  I have done nothing wrong.  Other people may feel differently, and I'm fine with that.  I am not responsible for other people's emotions or beliefs.  I know I'm a good person.  Maybe not as good as Ives, but good enough.

Perhaps that's best I can do.  Good enough.  Despite the name of this blog, I am no saint.  More like a saint-in-training.  Maybe some saints were born fully-formed, holy and ready to evangelize.  I am not one of those saints.  But I do believe in the inherent goodness of people, to paraphrase Anne Frank.

This saint-in-training is going to make himself a drink now, find a little liquid goodness.

I Will Die in Lake Superior

by:  Eric Torgersen

I will die in Lake Superior on an August night,
naked because it is dark
and I ran out of the sauna, all rosy and wrinkly
in the candlelight of the cabin,
though in the dark outside no one will see,
not even I in my last moments--
thin moon, stars all blazing and boiling
like I'm Vincent van Gogh,
but I will have left my glasses in the bathroom.

I'll feel that first chill grip as I hit the water,
and think, "My heart is pounding,
as it should be"; then I'll dive in and go under,
once, again, and a third time
as the pounding grows, as if something
really large means to be let in.
I'll turn to go back, but the dim light of the cabin
will get farther and farther away,
as if I were carried off by some huge wave.

Adventures of STICKMAN

October 5: Saint Marty's Day, Poet of the Week, "When They Draw Us," "Ives" Dip, Adventures of Stickman

Happy Saint Marty's Day!

Yes, the day has finally arrived.  Hopefully, all of my disciples have had a chance to celebrate.  Tonight, I'm sure, everyone will be gathering around their Saint Marty's Day trees to share bowls of tapioca and bask in the warm glow of the twinkling lights.  Maybe put on a little Saint Marty's Day music by Judy Garland or Bing Crosby.

I, myself, have had a very nice Saint Marty's Day.  My desk at work was bedecked with signs and banners when I arrived.  Later, I was given a box of Saint Marty's Day candies (chocolates and taffy and truffles).  All of my coworkers stopped by to wish me "Happy Saint Marty's Day!"  Tonight, when I get home, I will relax with a cup of Saint Marty's Day cheer.

On this auspicious day, I am pleased to announce that the Poet of the Week is Eric Torgersen.  I've had his 2012 collection of poems, Heart. Wood., for a while, and I find the fierce simplicity and clarity of his lines hypnotic.  I think you will, too: 

When They Draw Us

by:  Eric Torgersen

When they draw us, the children,
as great beaming sun-faces
balanced on sticks, waving sticks,
can it be that they see us so soon
with a clarity we believe
comes only with age?

They draw us out
of ourselves, our trembling palaces,
into the fragile worlds
they play, dream fear into being,
as if they know even now
we will be going.

A haunting little poem that strikes at the heart of every parent.  Yes, children do seem to grasp the fragility of life at a very young age, I think.  A few weeks ago, my seven-year-old son was listening to songs from one of my CDs.  He looked at me and said, "Umm, Daddy, when you die, can I have this CD?"  That's it.  He knows that I'm not going to be around forever, and he's laying claim to my belongings.  Happy Saint Marty's Day!

In the spirit of the holiday, my Ives dip question deals with one of the most important Saint Marty's Day mysteries:

Will Saint Marty be awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature this year (winner to be announced on October 8 at the Swedish Academy)?

And the answer from Ives this blessed night:

"Please," Ives was saying.  "In good conscience I can't condone it.  No."

Well, I don't think that answer is very clear.  I guess I'll just have to wait until Thursday morning to find out.

Saint Marty, Nobel Laureate.  Just trying it on for size.

Adventures of STICKMAN