June 19: On Display, Longcomings, a Million Views

And Billy traveled in time to the zoo on Tralfamadore.  He was forty-four years old, on display under a geodesic dome.  He was reclining on the lounge chair which had been his cradle during his trip through space.  He was naked.  The Tralfamadorians were interested in his body--all of it.  There were thousands of them outside, holding up their little hands so that their eyes could see him.  Billy had been on Tralfamadore for six Earthling months now.  He was used to the crowd.

Escape was out of the question.  The atmosphere outside the dome was cyanide, and Earth was 446,120,000,000,000,000 miles away.

Billy is used to being the center of attention in the Tralfamadorian zoo.  There he sits in his lounge chair, naked--like a chimpanzee or giraffe.  I can imagine the plaque on the geodesic dome:  "Earthling male, 44-years-old, in natural habitat."  All the Tralfamadorians snapping selfies.

It's a strange thing, being the center of attention.  Some people really enjoy it.  In this age of social media, everybody's looking to be the next viral sensation.  I suppose I sort of buy into it, as well.  I write a daily blog.  I post things on Facebook.  Poems.  Essays.  I'm just like Billy.  Standing in front of you all naked, displaying all my insecurities and longcomings.  (I am not going to use the word "shortcomings" in that sentence.)

I'm not sure that I do this for people to necessarily pay attention to me.  I like it when I know that people read and like what I write, but attention is not my primary goal.  The work is.  I love putting together words, trying to create something elegant or moving or beautiful.  Stuff that I would want to read.  That's why I do it.

Now, if something that I write or say or post goes viral, I wouldn't have a problem with it.  If Jimmy Fallon suddenly wants to fly me out to New York as a guest, I wouldn't turn him down.  I am not opposed to celebrity and its attendant perks.  Money.  Backstage passes.  Vacations to places tropical.  Yes, I know there are downsides to fame.  However, I am willing to put up with the inconveniences for a little while.  Until I have a couple cars, a new house, a vacation home, and the cover of People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive issue.

Hey, a poet can dream, can't he?

Tonight, however, I send a couple more posts out into the ether.  Feel free to pass them along.  Post them.  Repost them.  Share them.  I'm looking for a million views by tomorrow morning.

Saint Marty is thankful for his loyal fans this evening.  All two of them.

April 8: Deep Cuts, Insecurities, Finding Solid Ground

Then [Ives] shocked the priest, rolling up the sleeve of his bright red cashmere sweater, which he wore that day with a white shirt and a red bow tie, to expose his arm:  his skin was covered with deep cuts and scabs from tossing and turning and scratching himself at night until he bled.

Ives tortures himself for years.  At night, when he sleeps, his grief-stricken heart takes control, and all the mental and spiritual anguish manifests itself.  He tears at his skin in his sleep, leaving his body covered with wounds and sores.  Like Job, Ives endures his afflictions, not understanding, struggling to trust God's will.


I've been struggling a lot recently.  Feeling a little stupid.  Unqualified.  Each time I stand in front of a classroom this semester, I have this sensation that my students think I'm some kind of fraud.  That they're sitting there, questioning everything I say and do.  Now, I know that I'm a good teacher.  I have the student evaluations to prove it.  However, I can't shake my insecurities.  I get knots in my shoulders before every class.

Usually, by this time in the semester, I've hit my stride, know what I'm doing.  This time, I'm still trying to find solid ground.  I'm beginning to believe I'm never going to feel comfortable.  It has a lot to do with the poetry workshop I'm teaching.  Brand new class and syllabus.  I have graduate students.  A lot smarter than the freshmen and sophomores I'm used to.

I know poetry.  I'm good at it.  I've been nominated for the Pushcart Prize twice.  I've been nominated to be the U. P. Poet Laureate.  Twice.  I've published a book.  I'm the poetry editor of a respected literary journal.  That means people respect my opinion.  I don't think I've just been lucky.  Well, maybe luck had a little something to do with it.  I've worked hard, really hard, for what I've got right now.

I need to relax.  Stop doubting myself.  Take some deep breaths.

Saint Marty's really good at self-torture.  Not so much at deep breathing.

Maybe I was Sylvia in a former life

February 18: A Dip in the "Rye" on Monday, Insecurities

Back to our regular Monday programming after the special memoir update this morning.

Of course, I'm not going to wander far from the memoir excerpt I posted, because it is one of the things that is most on my mind.  I'm not feeling very secure about it, which is a little unusual for me.  When I put something on this blog or send it out for publication, I'm pretty confident about what I've done.  Not this time.  But, as I promised, I'm going to be forging ahead this Lent, come hell or high water.  The one thing I can say about "Prologue Confession" is that I had fun writing it.

The other thing on my mind today (EVERY day) is money.  After bills were payed this Friday, we had just enough left over to buy a Chicken McNugget or a stick of gum.  It's going to be a very difficult month for finances.

So, my question for Rye Dip Monday is:

Will I ever not have to worry of money all the time?

And the answer from Mr. Caulfield is:

"She's fine, thanks.  I haven't seen her too recently, but the last I--"

OK, it's an incomplete thought, but the answer is there in Holden's dialogue:  she's fine.  That means everything's going to be fine.  Somehow.  I think.


Funny, that answer doesn't make Saint Marty feel any better today.

This pretty much says it all