May 16, 2025: "Alcatraz," Trapped in the Past, "To That Girl in High School"

It's easy to get trapped in the past, especially if that past contains any kind of trauma or difficulty. I've worked for years with therapists to overcome some of my life experiences. Talking and writing about these experiences throws open the closet door and lets the skeletons hidden inside start dancing.

Sharon Olds deals with some childhood trauma . . . 

Alcatraz

by: Sharon Olds

When I was a girl, I knew I was a man
because they might send me to Alcatraz
and only men went to Alcatraz.
Every time we drove to the city 

I'd see it there, white as a white
shark in the shark-rich Bay, the bars like
milk-white ribs. I knew I had pushed my
parents too far, my inner badness had
spread like ink and taken me over, I could
not control my terrible thoughts,
terrible looks, and they had often said
that they would send me there--maybe the very next
time I spilled my milk.  Ala
Cazam, the aluminum doors would slam, I'd be
there where I belonged, a girl-faced man in the
prison no one had escaped from. I did not
fear the other prisoners,
I knew who they were, men like me who had
spilled their milk one time too many,
not been able to curb their thoughts—
what I feared was the horror of the circles: circle of
sky around the earth, circle of
land around the Bay, circle of
water around the island, circle of
sharks around the shore, circle of
outer walls, inner walls,
steel girders, chrome bars,
circle of my cell around me, and there at the
center, the glass of milk AND the guard's
eyes upon me as I reached out for it.

Now, going to prison for spilling a glass of milk seems a little drastic.  However, that was Sharon Olds' fear as a young girl, and this poem is all about little childhood wounds.  I know I can trace quite a few of my own adult phobias back to things that happened to me as a kid.  (Everybody goes through heartbreaks in high schooler--I think it's part of every curriculum.)

I'm not going to belabor any point tonight.  I'm too tired.  It's been a long week.  Yes, I could write about some of my past traumas, but it's Friday night.  I want to relax and sleep well.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about a high school heartbreak, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Think about all the people in your life that you liked, but never really got a chance to know.  This could be because they died or perhaps you just had a brief friendship before you had to move away.  Maybe you switched jobs or your relationship was cut short for another reason.  Write a poem where you address this person.  Share with her/him images of your favorite things and things s/he never knew that were important to you.  Be specific.  If you love flatbread from Spain or love dinner-plate dahlias, mention it.  Tell them what you remember of them.  You can write this poem in the form of a letter, postcard, or just address the poem to them:  "Dear __________, You never saw my garden . . ."

To That Girl in High School

by: Martin Achatz

Every night I went to bed

jealous of the moonlight

for turning your body into

a bright, perfect pearl.

My 17: "Orphans," Day Two, "Without Heat"

Billy Collins studies astronomy . . . 

Orphans

by: Billy Collins

Earth and moon

pulled through space,

a boy and his pale sister

forever spinning in a darkened room.

It is Friday night, day two of having no heat.  Thank goodness the weather has been warm.  It is strange how 50 degrees outside seems like summer, but 60 degrees inside seems almost arctic.  

Unlike Collins, I've been too distracted by my furnace situation to do any moon- or stargazing.  Friends have been posting gorgeous pictures of auroras over Lake Superior.  I have no such pictures saved on my phone's camera roll.  Like I said, my mind's been a little preoccupied. 

It looks as though I will be getting a new furnace next week.  Just in time for spring.  Everything is greening and yellowing and pinking and purpling up in my backyard.  

Saint Marty is pretty exhausted tonight.

Without Heat

by: Martin Achatz

I sit in a room above

my broken furnace,

think of an old bear

who forgot to set

his alarm clock for spring.

September 6: How Many Roads, Long Week, Faking It

Frankie and Benjy mouse are trying to come up with the Ultimate Question about life, the universe, and everything (they already have the answer--42) . . .

"Difficult," said Frankie.  He thought.  "How about What's yellow and dangerous?"

Benjy considered this for a moment.

"No, no good," he said.  "Doesn't fit the answer."

They sank into silence for a few seconds.

"All right," said Benjy.  "What do you get if you multiply six by seven?"

"No, no, too literal, too factual," said Frankie, "wouldn't sustain the punters' interest."

Again they thought.

Then Frankie said, "Here's a thought.  How many roads must a man walk down?"

"Ah, said Benjy.  "Aha, now that does sound promising!"  He rolled the phrase around a little.  "Yes," he said, "that's excellent!  Sounds very significant without actually tying you down to meaning anything at all.  How many roads must a man walk down?  Forty-two   Excellent, excellent, that'll fox 'em.  Frankie, baby, we are made!"

They performed a scampering dance in their excitement.

Searching for answers in life is difficult.  Questions are a little easier.  I'm sure that, if I put my mind to work, I would be able to come up with a list of questions that plague most people, starting with Why do good people have to suffer? to How do I live a meaningful life? to What happens to all the matching socks that I put in the dryer?  Frankie and Benjy don't really care about the Ultimate Question or its answer.  They care about themselves.  That's it.  Their happiness is about becoming rich and famous.

It has been a very long week.  I'm plain exhausted right now.  Today, I worked about ten hours, came home, and then cleaned at church for a few hours (another job I have now).   My feet are sore.  My eyes are burning.  And my mind is Jell-O.  I'm too tired to get much deeper than that. 

Despite working 16 or 17 hours, however, I've had a good day.  It wasn't complicated or stressful.  Sure, I'm tired, but that's a cumulative tiredness that comes from the week's activities.  Right now, I'm sitting in my living room, typing this blog post (something I love to do), and I don't have a deadline.  Don't have any lessons to plan or quizzes to worry about.  I even get to sleep late tomorrow.

So, my answer tonight to What makes you happy? is pretty simple:  Friday night.  I am more relaxed than I've been in days.  Of course, there are worries still hovering around my head like hummingbirds, but I'm not letting them take over.  Not tonight.  Instead, I'm going to pretend that I'm completely content and happy.  My therapist friend has a saying for this:  "Fake it 'til you make it."  It's pretty simple advice.  Sometimes, when your life is falling apart, you just have to act as though everything is okay.  You keep doing that, over and over.  It's called survival.

So, for the next ten or eleven hours, my life is going to be perfect.  I'm going to eat well.  Write well.  Love well.  Sleep well.

Who knows?  Maybe Saint Marty's life will be perfect when he wakes up tomorrow morning.

Some perfect reading to end the night with . . .

July 20: Pitchpoler, Surprises, Friday Night

To make them run easily and swiftly, the axles of carriages are anointed; and for much the same purpose, some whalers perform an analogous operation upon their boat; they grease the bottom. Nor is it to be doubted that as such a procedure can do no harm, it may possibly be of no contemptible advantage; considering that oil and water are hostile; that oil is a sliding thing, and that the object in view is to make the boat slide bravely. Queequeg believed strongly in anointing his boat, and one morning not long after the German ship Jungfrau disappeared, took more than customary pains in that occupation; crawling under its bottom, where it hung over the side, and rubbing in the unctuousness as though diligently seeking to insure a crop of hair from the craft's bald keel. He seemed to be working in obedience to some particular presentiment. Nor did it remain unwarranted by the event.

Towards noon whales were raised; but so soon as the ship sailed down to them, they turned and fled with swift precipitancy; a disordered flight, as of Cleopatra's barges from Actium.

Nevertheless, the boats pursued, and Stubb's was foremost. By great exertion, Tashtego at last succeeded in planting one iron; but the stricken whale, without at all sounding, still continued his horizontal flight, with added fleetness. Such unintermitted strainings upon the planted iron must sooner or later inevitably extract it. It became imperative to lance the flying whale, or be content to lose him. But to haul the boat up to his flank was impossible, he swam so fast and furious. What then remained?

Of all the wondrous devices and dexterities, the sleights of hand and countless subtleties, to which the veteran whaleman is so often forced, none exceed that fine manoeuvre with the lance called pitchpoling. Small sword, or broad sword, in all its exercises boasts nothing like it. It is only indispensable with an inveterate running whale; its grand fact and feature is the wonderful distance to which the long lance is accurately darted from a violently rocking, jerking boat, under extreme headway. Steel and wood included, the entire spear is some ten or twelve feet in length; the staff is much slighter than that of the harpoon, and also of a lighter material- pine. It is furnished with a small rope called a warp, of considerable length, by which it can be hauled back to the hand after darting.

But before going further, it is important to mention here, that though the harpoon may be pitchpoled in the same way with the lance, yet it is seldom done; and when done, is still less frequently successful, on account of the greater weight and inferior length of the harpoon as compared with the lance, which in effect become serious drawbacks. As a general thing, therefore, you must first get to a whale, before any pitchpoling comes into play.

Look now at Stubb; a man who from his humorous, deliberate coolness and equanimity in the direst emergencies, was specially qualified to excel in pitchpoling. Look at him; he stands upright in the tossed bow of the flying boat; wrapt in fleecy foam, the towing whale is forty feet ahead. Handling the long lance lightly, glancing twice or thrice along its length to see if it be exactly straight, Stubb whistlingly gathers up the coil of the wrap in one hand, so as to secure its free end in his grasp, leaving the rest unobstructed. Then holding the lance full before his waistband's middle, he levels it at the whale; when, covering him with it, he steadily depresses the butt-end in his hand, thereby elevating the point till the weapon stands fairly balanced upon his palm, fifteen feet in the air. He minds you somewhat of a juggler, balancing a long staff on his chin. Next moment with a rapid, nameless impulse, in a superb arch the bright steel spans the foaming distance, and quivers in the life spot of the whale. Instead of sparkling water, he now spouts red blood.

"That drove the spigot out of him!" cried Stubb. "'Tis July's immortal Fourth; all fountains must run wine today! Would now, it were old Orleans whiskey, or old Ohio, or unspeakable old Monongahela! Then, Tashtego, lad, I'd have ye hold a canakin to the jet, and we'd drink round it! Yea, verily, hearts alive, we'd brew choice punch in the spread of his spout-hole there, and from that live punch-bowl quaff the living stuff."

Again and again to such gamesome talk, the dexterous dart is repeated, the spear returning to its master like a greyhound held in skilful leash. The agonized whale goes into his flurry; the tow-line is slackened, and the pitchpoler dropping astern, folds his hands, and mutely watches the monster die.

There's a lot of whale-killing in this book.  That shouldn't come as a surprise, considering that the main narrative is about Ahab's obsession with finding and killing Moby Dick.  Plus, almost the entire novel is set on a whaling ship.  So, yeah, there's going to be harpoons and lances and pitchpoles and spouts of red blood.

It is Friday night.  My daughter is in Missouri, and my son is spending the night at Grandma's house.  Perhaps I will clean my house a little tonight.  Or work on a new poem.  Or read a good book.  Or, maybe, just maybe, I'll fall asleep on the couch at ten o'clock because I've been up since 4:45 in the morning.  Again, no surprises here.

I think surprises are a little overrated.  Sure, there's the occasional surprise that is nice.  A surprise birthday party.  A poem that gets accepted in a magazine, and you forgot that you even submitted.  A winning lottery ticket.  An unexpected pregnancy.  A hug from your son who NEVER hugs.  Those are nice surprises.

And then there are the terrible surprises.  Death.  Car accidents.  Job loss.  An unexpected pregnancy.  Terrible medical diagnosis.  In my experience, these kinds of surprises are much more common, or I hear about them a LOT more.  Bad news travels fast.  Usually by Facebook.

So, this evening, I'm not looking for any surprises--good or bad.  I'm looking for routine, because I find routine comforting, like a good pair of pajamas or your favorite pillow.  These things make you feel safe. at home.  And that's not a bad thing.  Everyone needs a home.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for pajamas and pillows and, maybe, a winning lottery ticket.

May 11: Friday Night, Cleaning House, Meltdowns

Guess where I am

It's Friday night.  My daughter is at the dance studio.  I have about an hour to kill.  Guess where we are?  (I know the picture kind of gives it away.)

My wife and I just finished our Wal-Mart run for the week.  It was not a pleasant shopping experience.  My three-year-old son has gotten used to getting a new toy car every time he steps foot in a store.  However, my son's taste in cars tends toward the five- and ten-dollar price range.  Our budget this week, however, was more in the 89-cent Matchbox range.  My son had a meltdown in the middle of the toy car aisle.  Then he had a meltdown on the way to the parking lot.  Then he had a meltdown as I was buckling in his car seat.  Then he had another meltdown on the way to McDonald's.  It was an afternoon of meltdowns, and I have a headache now.

I didn't get a chance to do any cleaning this afternoon, so, instead of relaxing when I get home, I will be scrubbing toilets, vacuuming, sweeping, and dusting.  Cleaning house.  I wish I could say "screw it" tonight, but I didn't clean last weekend due to our trip to Howell, Michigan.  The house is a D-I-S-A-S-T-E-R, and I use the capital letters intentionally.  I don't think I could relax in the living room unless I closed my eyes and thought of my happy place (Stockholm, in December, accepting the Nobel Prize for Literature--or taking a nap).

Saint Marty has a long night ahead of him, and he's doesn't have to use the few words of Swedish he knows.