November 3: "Hangover," Addictions, Be Kind

I don't drink much.  Once a week, my wife and I meet friends for dinner and a beer or two.  That's about it.  I'm very aware of my hereditary predisposition to addiction, so I try not to overindulge in anything, except maybe chocolate and poetry.  

I do host a podcast called Lit for Christmas in which my cohost and I drink a little to excess and discuss Christmas literature.  Had to put that show on pause last March for a little while.  I was working on edits for my new collection of poems and a lot of shit was going on in my life.  I'll be starting LFC up again this month now that things have sort of settled down.  

For some people, however, things never settle down, and that crutch of alcohol or pills or whatever becomes an anchor that pulls them down to the bottom of the Marianas Trench, and they simply . . . vanish.  I've seen it happen more than once.

Billy Collins has a rough morning after . . . 

Hangover

by: Billy Collins

If I were crowned emperor this morning,
every child who is playing Marco Polo
in the swimming pool of this motel,
shouting the name Marco Polo back and forth

Marco          Polo          Marco          Polo

would be required to read a biography
of Marco Polo--a long one with fine print--
as well as a history of China and of Venice,
the birthplace of the venerated explorer

Marco          Polo          Marco          Polo

after which each child would be quizzed
by me then executed by drowning
regardless how much they managed
to retain about the glorious life and times of

Marco          Polo          Marco          Polo

I'm not going to talk about my loved ones who suffer/have suffered from addictions.  That's not my story to tell.  But you all know that addiction comes in many forms.  Sure, there's gin and opioids and nicotine and cannabis and meth.  But there's also gambling and pornography and sex and the internet.  It's all about dopamine being released in the brain in smaller and larger amounts and the pleasure, however brief or intense, it brings.

In the past, I have succumbed to certain addictions.  The one thing I learned during those dark times is that addiction can alleviate pain or loneliness or stress or sadness for a little while, but all those negative emotions come roaring back with a vengeance.  It's a pretty vicious cycle.  Feel shitty.  Indulge in addiction.  Feel better.  Crash.  Feel shitty again.  Indulge even more.  Feel better.  Crash even harder.  Feel even shittier.  Repeat.  Over and over and over.

It's like a game of Marco Polo in the swimming pool, but you never find Marco Polo.  You just flail around blindly.

Don't worry.  This post is not some coded confession that I've started taking heroin or doing crystal meth.  I'm in a good place in my life.  (Not that being in a bad place gives me a free pass to start indulging in my past addictions.)  I'm fine.  But the holidays are upon us, and, for many people, it's not an easy time of year.  (No to mention that other thing that's happening in two days' time.)

Be kind in the upcoming days and weeks and months.  You never know other people's struggles.  

Saint Marty can tell you that, after the darkest nights, there's always a beautiful sunrise.

May 23: Busy Day, Holy Night, All is Calm

No Merton this evening, disciples.  Just a report from the front lines of sainthood.

I was up until 3 a.m. this morning, recording and editing an episode of my podcast Lit for Christmas.  Stumbled to bed, slept for about four hours.  Then I had to get up to play for a worship service at a local Lutheran church.  Then I went grocery shopping.  Then I prepared for a poetry workshop that I led this evening.  Then I attended a Zoom Book Club meeting, discussing Hilary St. John Mandel's The Glass Hotel.  Then I led a poetry workshop in celebration of Walt Whitman's 202nd birthday.  And now . . . I'm ready to collapse.

However, I wanted to share something that I wrote this evening during the Whitman workshop . . . 

There is This

by:  Martin Achatz

There is this:  me in the middle of sleepless

night, couch my space while moon, constellations

creep by outside like hungry skunks.  Even sound

has gone to bed, and what I'm left with is nothing.  

But you.  Faithful friend, who didn't want 

crate or pillow, treat or knot.  You sit with your muzzle 

on my thigh, gray back studded with continents of black.  

I rest my hand on you, press fingers into the tiny

atlas of your shoulders, and you take a deep

breath, huff out a sigh as long as summer.

I feel its El Nino warmth on my skin, sit

there.  With you.  And somehow, I understand

why Saint Francis preached to sparrow flocks

and hungry wolves. Because they understand

what human beings, with our minds hunkered

under thick bunkers of bone, cannot. Or

will not. They accept this world for just what it is:

an aggie rattling around with loose pennies and nickels

in God's deep, wide pocket.