July 30: Book Club, Fannie Flagg, Classic Saint Marty, "Mysteries of Light"

It has been a good day.  Church in the morning.  Then Book Club in the evening.  This month, we read Fannie Flagg's newest novel--The Whole Town's Talking.  It was a good read.  I finished it last night.

We met at my best friend Lydia's house.  We barbecued hot dogs and brats.  Had a good salad and some berry trifle.  Oh, we also talked about the book.  We sat in Lydia's backyard, surrounded by flowers and running fountains.  My son went in the hot tub.  The discussion ranged far and wide--from karma to immigrants.  We were there about four hours.

Tonight, we are packing for our trip tomorrow.  We are headed downstate to Boyne Mountain for a few days of relaxation.  I am really looking forward to getting away, disconnecting. 

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired two years ago, when my life was in turmoil . . .

July 30, 2015:  Red Pajamas, Wormhole Existence, Sharon Olds, "The Present Moment"

The night before, on Christmas Eve, after spending the evening with Luis and the family in his living room after a lamb dinner and after making toasts to friendship and love; after Luis had left (around midnight) and Ives had finished talking to his daughter and his sister, Katherine, about the next day's plans (dinner at his daughter's and son-in-law's apartment at three), he got into bed beside his wife; after carrying on to Annie about the cruel and selfish changes in the political climate of the country in regard to the poor and disadvantaged (unfairly condemned in Ives' words to "a hopeless future") and after kissing his wife, Ives slept through the night serenely.  That morning he awoke in his bedroom to find his son, Robert, about six years old, in red pajamas and thick black stockings, alive again and playing quietly in the corner of the room with his toy soldiers, jousting horsemen, black knights versus white, moving them across the floor.  And even though Ives knew that his son had been dead for nearly thirty years, he now saw the boy looking out the bedroom window of their old apartment on Claremont into the courtyard, which was glaring white with falling snow...

Ives frequently dreams about his son in the years following his son's death.  Sometimes, Robert is an adult, serving as a parish priest in a church.  Sometimes, he's still a teenager, getting up early in the morning to deliver newspapers.  And, sometimes, he's a little boy, playing with toy soldiers in Ives' bedroom on Christmas morning.  Memories and dreams and visions of Robert haunt Ives for the rest of his life.

This afternoon, I went to have lunch at the surgery center where I worked for my sister for 17 years.  Many of my friends still work there, including one of my very best friends.  All the people there know my sister.  As I sat at my old desk, eating, I looked down the hall, to the door of my sister's old office.  I could see a sliver of light under the door, on the floor.

For several strange moments, I actually thought that the door was going to open and my sister was going to come out of the office, calling out to me the way she always did, "Hey, Mart."  She would be dressed in her blue scrubs, the surgical bonnet on her head and her shoes covered in blue booties.  It was as if I had somehow stepped back about four or five years.  I could actually hear her voice.

Of course, that version of my sister is gone.  I know that, just like Ives knows Robert has been dead thirty years in the above passage.  But, where I work, I'm surrounded by reminders of my sister every day.  Walking through the medical center parking lot some mornings, I still catch myself looking for my sister's van.  I'm living a wormhole existence, in the past and present simultaneously.  I think it's because, out of everybody in my family, I spent the most time with my sister over the last 20 years.  Ten hours a day, five days a week, not counting weekends.

It was literally painful this afternoon when I realized that her office door wasn't going to open, that she wasn't going to come out.

Saint Marty needs to have lunch somewhere else tomorrow.

The Present Moment

by:  Sharon Olds

Now that he cannot sit up,
now that he just lies there
looking at the wall, I forget the one
who sat up and put on his reading glasses
and the lights in the room multiplied in the lenses.
Once he entered the hospital
I forgot the man who lay full length
on the couch with the blanket folded around him,
that huge, crushed bud, and I have
long forgotten the man who ate food--
not dense, earthen food, like liver, but
things like pineapple, wedges of light,
the skeiny nature of light made visible.
It's as if I abandoned that ruddy man
with the swollen puckered mouth of a sweet-eater,
the torso packed with extra matter
like a planet a handful of which weighs as much as the earth, I have
left behind forever that young man my father,
that smooth-skinned, dark-haired boy,
and my father long before I knew him, when he could
only sleep, or drink from a woman's
body, a baby who stared with a steady
gaze the way he lies there, now, with his
eyes open, then the lids start down
and the milky crescent of the other world
shines, in there, for a moment, before sleep.
I stay beside him, like someone in a rowboat
staying abreast of a Channel swimmer,
you are not allowed to touch them, their limbs
glow, faintly, in the night water.


And now some love poems on the eve of vacation . . .

Mysteries of Light

by:  Martin Achatz



1.  Baptism
She bathes
With cherry blossom soap
Pure milk

2.  First Miracle
I eat strawberries
Their tender flesh, their seeds
Wedding night

3.  Proclamation
I, Neruda at dusk
Whisper in my wife's ear
Holy sin

4.  Transfiguration
Kiss her fingers
Feel her breath
Chrysalis touch

5.  Eucharist
Her body
Given up for me
Sweet, seismic bread

July 31: Wonder Twin's Backyard, Fannie Flagg, Classic Saint Marty

This evening, I went to my friend Wonder Twin's house.  It was Book Club night.  Our get-together was supposed to be this past Thursday, but Wonder Twin's mother took a spill and got a little banged up (bruised face and arm, skinned knees).  We had to postpone until tonight.

It was worth the wait.  We barbecued hot dogs and bratwurst, ate fruit and hummus, and talked about Fannie Flagg's novel Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!  It was a really great night.  Usually, our book club meetings last about two hours or so.  We sat around in Wonder Twin's backyard for four hours.  (My son went in the hot tub and hunted Pokemon.)

I am home now, near exhaustion.  I've spent the whole weekend working on lecture notes and the final exam for my online film class--about eight hours yesterday and another four hours today.  It's ready to go now, and I'm ready for bed.

I do have an episode of Classic Saint Marty that aired one year ago.  I don't remember writing this post, but it's so full of hope.  It didn't make me sad rereading it.  It reminded me what a fighter my sister was, how she never gave up.  It made me happy because I felt her spirit in it.  I'm not wallowing here.  I'm celebrating.

July 31, 2015:  Something Beautiful, George Burns, A Frank Fairy Tale, Sharon Olds, "The Struggle"

On his back, Robert must have had time to see something beautiful, and not just the ugliness of a city street at the end of life.  Even with the tremendous pain in his badly gutted belly he would have looked up beyond the fire escapes and the windows with their glittery trees and television glows, to the sky above the rooftops.  A sky shimmery with the possibilities of death; light exaggerated, the heavens peeled back--a swirling haze of nebulae and comets--in some distant place, intimations of the new beginning into which he would soon journey.  He would have seen a few pale stars, maybe a planet or two, Jupiter or Venus. Remembering his Catholic schoolboy's mythology he might have imagined Apollo and his chariot, somewhere "out there."  And he would have seen the moon and its sad expression and imagined in its pocked luminous surface the faces of his mother and father and sister . . . The moon?  Was it out that night?  Ives tried to remember.

Ives is trying to picture his son's last moments of life, on the sidewalk, bleeding, struggling for breath, staring up at the starry night.  He imagines that Robert saw something beautiful and comforting--meteors and stars and planets, clouds of cosmic gases, a Greek god.  Above all, Ives wants to believe that Robert wasn't alone, that, in the bright face of the moon, he saw his family smiling down on him.

As a Christian, I believe that death is an entry into something better.  That's what I've been taught my whole life.  When I was younger, I really liked the image of God as George Burns, smoking cigars and telling jokes.  Vaudeville.  I imagined God performing in the Catskills.  "Did you hear the one about the snake and the naked woman?" He would say.

Something better.  That's what Heaven is supposed to be.  The other day, one of my best friends said this about my sister:  "She's only 54.  She's not ready to die yet."  I guess my friend is right.  My sister had the same Catholic upbringing I had.  The Virgin Mary and the manger and Jesus and all.  Every night when I was a kid, my family would get down on its knees and pray the rosary.  Clouds and angels and harp music.  We all believed in God's goodness and mercy.

My sister isn't ready to be measured for her wings just yet.  Even in her diminished state, she's been pretty adamant about that.  The doctors have asked her if she wants to be kept alive by any means possible, and my sister has answered very clearly, "Yes."  So George Burns is going to have to wait for a little bit, if my sister has her way.

I saw a picture of my sister this evening.  She was sitting on the side of her hospital bed, a nurse kneeling in front of her, in case she should fall.  I haven't seen my sister out of bed for over six or seven months.  She's thin, having lost close to 120 pounds over the last half year.  She looked pretty exhausted to me.  When my sister goes to the bathroom, there's blood in her stool.  That's to be expected with the chemo.  She's probably going to need a transfusion.

She's weak but determined to stick around.

Once upon a time, a little angel named Frank was put in charge of sweeping Heaven every night.  Frank had to clean up after all the archangels and cherubim and seraphim.  After choir practices, he spent hours putting away sheet music and musical instruments.  Frank never got a day off.

The day Jesus was born, Frank dusted all the stars.  He polished the angel harps and trumpets.  He counted all the halos.  Fluffed all the wings.  Frank made sure that first Christmas was perfect.

After all the shepherd and star and magi crap was done, Frank sat down to rest a little.

But God, who looked a little like George Burns, said, "Nice work, Frank.  I like this Christmas stuff.  We should do this every year."

Frank looked at God and said, "I don't think it'll catch on.  But let me tell You about a little thing I cooked up called an iPhone."

Moral of the story:  Heaven is just an app away.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

The Struggle

by:  Sharon Olds

When the minister would come into the hospital room
my father would try to sit up, he would cry out
Up!  Up! for us to raise his bed-head, then
silently he would wrestle himself
up, sweating, he would end up
leaning on the pillows, panting, a man, erect.
The minister would kiss him, they would pray, then chat,
he would hold his eyes open unblinking,
rigid adherent to the protocol of the living,
he would sit for the whole visit, and then,
the minute the man was out the door, cry
out Down!  Down! and we would lower him
down, and he would pass out.
Later the doctor wold pay a call and as
soon as my father saw that white coat
he would start to labor up, desperate
to honor the coat, at a glimpse of it he would
start to stir like a dog who could not
not obey.  He would lurch, pause,
then thrust up slowly, and unevenly, like a
camel, a half-born animal--the way,
they say, his soul will pull itself up
out of his dead body and wobblingly
walk.  And then, one day, he tried,
his brain ordered his body to heave up,
the sweat rose in his pores but he was not
moving, he cast up his eyes as the minister
leaned to kiss him, he lay and stared, it was
nothing like the nights he had lain on the couch passed
out, nothing.  Now he was alive,
awake, the raw boy of his heart stood
up each time a grown man
entered his death room.

God bless you all!

July 28: Choir the Proper Praise, Really Good Day, Content with Life

Our life is a faint tracing on the surface of mystery, like the idle curved tunnels of leaf miners on the face of a leaf. We must somehow take a wider view, look at the whole landscape, really see it, and describe what's going on here. Then we can at least wail the right question into the swaddling band of darkness, or, if it comes to that, choir the proper praise.

Yes, Dillard attempts to take a wider view.  Instead of being a leaf miner, she gazes upward, outward, inward to try to understand the mysteries of the universe.  Sometimes, she questions.  Sometimes, she praises.  Dillard doesn't always comprehend the whys.  Instead, it's enough for her to simply touch the surface of mystery and know that it's good or beautiful or frightening.  Then, she opens up her mouth and sings.

I have had a really good day.  Nothing monumentally stupendous occurred.  I didn't win a fellowship to write for a year in a villa in Rome.  I wasn't given a full-time teaching job at the university because of my dedication and hard work.  And a New York literary agent didn't discover this blog and offer to represent me.  Nope.  Nothing like that.

I went to work this morning.  Worked my ass off all day.  Had a meeting at the university about my online film class.  And, in about an hour, I'm heading off to a friend's house for a book club meeting where we will barbecue bratwurst and eat noodle salad and talk about a Fannie Flagg novel.  Like I said, nothing earth-shattering.

Yet, I'm in a really good mood.  Looking forward to an evening of friendship and food.  Talking about a good book with people I love.  That's the definition of happiness.  Yes, tomorrow I will have to get up for work.  Yes, Donald Trump will probably say something idiotic tonight that will insult women, Hispanics, African Americans, Muslims, mothers, every member of the LGBT community, and Kermit the Frog.  And, yes, I have grading to do and lecture notes to compose.

For tonight, though, these few hours, I am content with my life.  Maybe it's because of my newfound focus on the positive.  Maybe it's because I didn't encounter any assholes today.  Or maybe I'm in a bubble of grace.

Whatever the reason, Saint Marty is going the choir the proper praise tonight.

July 24: Finding Words, Book Bag, Scraps

Then the oldest sheep spoke up.  "I agree that there should be something new written in the web if Wilbur's life is to be saved.  And if Charlotte needs help in finding words, I think she can get it from our friend Templeton.  The rat visits the dump regularly and has access to old magazines.  He can tear out bits of advertisements and bring them up here to the barn cellar, so that Charlotte can have something to copy."

The oldest sheep does convince the rat to go on a word hunt for Charlotte.  Templeton comes back with several choices, including CRUNCHY and PRE-SHRUNK and RADIANT.   The first two words are rejected pretty quickly, but Charlotte uses Templeton's third offering, which he found on a package of soap flakes.

Recently, I've felt a little like Templeton.  I've been gathering words without doing a whole lot with them.  Thursdays, I'm supposed to discuss a book I've been carrying around in my book bag.  I haven't been following through on this promise recently because I haven't been reading a whole lot.

In my book bag right now, I have an old Time magazine with a big article on summer book releases.  (I haven't read the article.)  I have my writing and drawing journals.  I have Fannie Flagg's new novel, which I have to finish by next Thursday for my book club.  (I'm about 50 pages into it.)  I have a poetry collection by Billy Collins.  (I will use this book for my second post this evening.)  And I have my grade book from the university.  Even Templeton wouldn't find a whole lot of interest in that collection of miscellany.

So, you see, that's why I haven't been writing any book reviews.  I haven't had the time.  At most, I've read a paragraph here, a page or two there.  Scraps, basically.  I have a week of vacation coming up and a list of things I want to read during those seven days.  That list includes at least one novel and a book written by a friend of mine.  Big plans.

I'll probably end up still reading scraps, anyway.  I'll want to spend time with my wife and kids.  My wife will probably force me to do something out of my comfort zone, like get in the car and drive three hours to go to a zoo that has tigers and horseflies.  Swimming.  I will certainly take my kids swimming.  My son has been begging to go to an actual beach.  He has no idea that last winter's deep freeze can still be felt in the lakes.  Lake Superior didn't completely thaw until June.  The waters are glacial.

I will have to be satisfied with scraps, but larger scraps.  Whole poems.  Entire chapters.  Maybe even a couple late-night binges where I gobble up a hundred or so pages.

Saint Marty can't wait.

She is in my book bag

April 24: Cow Manure, Tired, Book Club

Tired from his romp, Wilbur lay down in the clean straw.  He closed his eyes.  The straw seemed scratchy--not as comfortable as the cow manure, which was always delightfully soft to lie in.  So he pushed the straw to one side and stretched out in the manure...

I am tired tonight.  My book club left a little over two hours ago.  It was a good meeting.  Everybody showed up, and we had lots of food.  Chicken wings.  Ice cream cupcakes.  Taco salad.  Chicken divan.  Hummus.  Enchiladas.

Everyone loved the book.  It was David Rakoff's Love, Dishonor, Marry, Die, Cherish, Perish.  And then we picked out books for the rest of the summer.  I must say that I'm not offended by any of the choices.  Of course, I was just one vote among a quorum of eight.  Therefore, in July, we are reading Fannie Flagg's new novel, The All-Girl Filling Station's Last Reunion.  Personally, I don't understand Flagg's penchant for titling her books like sentences in bad freshman compositions.  However, in the spirit of democracy, I bow to the will of the people.

It's been a very long day.

Saint Marty is ready to hit the cow manure.

Even if they like Fannie Flagg

January 3: Vicks Nose Drops, Sick People, Book Club

The minute I went in, I was sort of sorry I'd come.  He was reading the Atlantic Monthly, and there were pills and medicine all over the place, and everything smelled like Vicks Nose Drops.  It was pretty depressing.  I'm not too crazy about sick people, anyway...

Holden is visiting his history teacher, old Spencer.  Old Spencer asked him to stop by to say goodbye before Holden leaves the school permanently.  (As I said yesterday, I believe, Holden is being kicked out of his boarding school at the beginning of the novel.)  And old Spencer has the grippe.  He's sick, and Holden can't stand being around sick people.

I'm sick at the moment, and I can't stand being around me.  It's a strange illness, sort of ebbing and flowing all day long.  Sometimes, I feel just fine.  My head and nasal passages are clear, and I have tons of energy.  Other times, my head and nose are filled with mucus, and all I want to do is go to sleep.  That's the way it's been all day long.

I spent most of the day getting ready for my monthly book club meeting.  Cleaning the bathroom.  Sweeping the floors.  Cleaning strawberries and a pineapple.  Melting chocolate for my chocolate fountain.  I also mailed off the last of my Christmas poems to distant relatives and friends.  I haven't had a lot of time to relax.

Tonight's book was Fannie Flagg's A Redbird Christmas.  It's a short, sweet little novel about a man dying of emphysema who moves to a little town in Alabama called Lost River.  There, he's befriended by the town's citizens and learns for the first time in his life the true meaning of love and happiness.  It reads like a fable, especially at the end, and I loved this book.  Flagg has a way of tempering the sentimentality of her stories with wry wit and a twist of the Southern gothic.  All of her characters are just a little off, and that's what appeals to me.

A Redbird blessing

So this night, when Saint Marty feels like he's suffering with the grippe, like old Spencer, he gives thanks for his book club, and Fannie Flagg, and a Christmas fable.

July 26: A Smile Thought

Tonight, my book club meets for a barbecue.  My good friend is hosting, and she has cleaned her hot tub just for the occasion.  I have bratwurst to grill, and my swimsuit is in the car.  Oh yeah, I also have the book with me.  It's Fannie Flagg's Daisy Fay and the Miracle Man, which I am thoroughly enjoying.  No, I haven't finished it yet, but I have every intention of doing so.  In fact, I'm going to cut this post a little short so I can get back to my reading.

I do have a devotional thought to share with you today:

Always smile.  It will make people wonder what you have locked up in the trunk of your car.

Saint Marty needs to get back to his Fannie.

Hot dogs, hot tubs, and a little Fannie tonight