August 12: Nightwork, Computer Issues, Beginnings

The tomcat that used to wake me is dead; he was long since grist for an earthworm's casting, and is now the clear sap of a Pittsburgh sycamore, or the honeydew of aphids sucked from that sycamore's high twigs and sprayed in sticky drops on a stranger's car.  A steer across the road stumbles into the creek to drink; he blinks; he laps; a floating leaf in the current catches against his hock and wrenches away.  The giant water bug I saw is dead, long dead, and its moist gut and rigid casing are both, like the empty skin of the frog it sucked, dissolved, spread, still spreading right now, in the steer's capillaries, in the windblown smatter of clouds overhead, in the Sargasso Sea.  The mockingbird that dropped furled from a roof . . . but this is not time to count my dead.  That is nightwork.  The dead are staring, underground, their sleeping heels in the air.

It is springtime at Tinker Creek, and, in this paragraph, Dillard reflects on the process of life, death, rebirth.  Her tomcat, a giant water bug, a fallen mockingbird--all become "grist" for worms, calling to mind the song we all used to sing as children:

The worms crawl in. 
The worms crawl out. 
In and out of the dead man's mouth.

Death's a strange preoccupation for the season of buds and blossoms, and Dillard admits it eventually.  She says that spring is "not time to count my dead."  She turns her attention, instead, to trees and water.  Renewal.

Closing in on the middle of August, I have begun to think seriously about autumn.  Next week, I need to pull together the syllabi for the classes that I'm teaching this fall.  And then, in another week, the semester begins.  So, I am thinking of endings tonight.  And beginnings.  This is, as Dillard points out, nightwork.

My apologies for my absence last night.  My seven-year-old son decided to attempt to download an online game yesterday afternoon.  Instead, he managed to download a virus onto my laptop, making it impossible for me to do any blogging last night.  Instead, I watched Michael Phelps, who is competing in his last Olympics, win another gold medal.

Obviously, my computer issues have been resolved, after having the hard drive wiped clean and re-imaged.  (I have no idea what that means, but my laptop is running at warp speed again.)  It is once again night time.  I find myself weary after a long week of work.  This weekend, I plan to do nothing.  I will read and rest.  After last weekend's marathon of grading, I've earned that, I think.  Think of it as my gold medal.

Like Dillard, I'm trying to avoid thoughts of endings.  That's difficult for me.  I'm a poet.  Darkness is kind of my thing.  Today had the feel of fall.  Misty and cool.  Dusk comes much earlier now.  A month ago, the sun was still in the sky at ten o'clock.  Tonight, it disappeared by nine-thirty.  And one week from today will mark the year anniversary of my sister's death.  Endings.

Life doesn't always turn out the way that you expect, obviously.  For instance, I just watched Michael Phelps swim.  He did not win the gold medal.  Instead, he tied for silver.  A month ago, I thought that I was going to be teaching two film classes this fall.  Instead, I'm teaching a film class and a freshman composition class.  Six months ago, I was working in a cardiology office and thought that I was going to be working there a long time.  Instead, I'm back at my old job and loving it.  Over a year ago, I decided to apply for a promotion a the university.  This September, my title will be Full Contingent Professor instead of Contingent Assistant Professor.  Beginnings.

Saint Marty is battling his poetic instincts tonight, focusing on the light instead of . . . well, you know.

Embracing laughter and light . . .

June 14: Weary Heads, Girls and Sex, Getting Older

But it gets harder.  The courage of children and beasts is a function of innocence  We let our bodies go the way of our fears.  A teen-aged boy, king of the world, will spend weeks in front of a mirror perfecting some difficult trick with a lighter, a muscle, a tennis ball, a coin. Why do we lose interest in physical mastery?  If I feel like turning cartwheels--and I do--why don't I learns to turn cartwheels, instead of regretting that I never learned as a child?  We could all be aerialists like squirrels, divers like seals; we could be purely patient, perfectly fleet, walking on our hands even, if our living stature required it.  We can't even sit straight, or support our weary heads.

Dillard is talking about getting old.  When we're young, we worry about physical mastery.  That's why, in high school, the athletes are the kings and queens of the school, for better or worse.  We live in a world that prizes extraordinary feats of the body.  That's why we get so excited about events like the World Cup, Super Bowl, and the Olympics.  However, when we get old, our priorities shift.  By ten o'clock, most adults with jobs and family are ready for bed.

When I was a young guy, I was pretty normal.  All I thought about was girls and sex.  I wasn't much of an athlete.  I ran on the cross country team for one year in high school.  I wasn't great.  Didn't break any records.  Didn't place in any race.  I don't even know what I did with the JV letter I earned.  But I was determined to be the best I could be.  It just so happens that the best I could be was mediocre.

As I've gotten older, I have continued to run.  I've gotten slower and thicker.  Given the choice between sex or a nap, I would have a difficult time making a decision.  As Dillard says, my living stature does not require me to be able to outrun things.  I do not live in a place populated by packs of wolves, killer bears, or dinosaurs.  Therefore, speed is not a requirement in my life.

This afternoon, I ran one mile and then played in a swimming pool with my son for a couple of hours.  By the time I got dressed after swimming, I was b-e-a-t.  Beat.  I had a hard time keeping my eyes open.  Right now, at 9:50 p.m., at the end of America's Got Talent, I am beyond beat.  And it's only Tuesday.  I'm in for a long week.

So, I am not Usain Bolt or Michael Phelps.  No world records will by broken by this wannabe saint.  I am old, getting older.  I still run.  Swim.  Every once in a great while, I may go for a bike ride.  I don't dance, unless I have had several drinks.  In short, I am a normal middle-aged man.

Perhaps I should try to master something physical.  Something that tests my agility or speed or strength.  Something amazing.

Saint Marty will have to sleep on it.  It's after ten o'clock, after all. 

August 12: Olympic Inspiration, New Cartoon

Well, this evening the Olympics come to an end in London.  My wife, daughter, and I will be watching the closing ceremonies, in all their gaudy, pop-music glory.  Spice Girls here we come.

The Olympic games inspire me, as they do the rest of the world.  I love the stories of athletes overcoming great adversity to achieve glory.  Michael Phelps.  Oscar Pistorius.  Caster Semenya.  Gabby Douglas.  Twenty years from now, most of those names will mean nothing to young people.  Caster who?  Piss story what?  But, at the present, they represent something special.  Something amazing.  The human spirit at its best.

That is what the Olympics represents to me.  A group of people from around the world who are, for seventeen days, showing us all what we are capable of.  We are all capable of greatness.  We are all capable of finishing the race, even if we have no legs.  We are all capable of diving an impossible dive, beating an unbeatable opponent.  We are all capable of holding our heads high, even when the rest of the world is questioning who you are, what you are.

That is what I'm taking away from the London Olympic games tonight.  A little lesson in being the best person you can be.

Saint Marty will take his inspiration with chips and dip.

Confessions of Saint Marty

August 3: Things You Shouldn't Do While Blogging

There are many things you shouldn't do while blogging.  Top of my list at the moment is watching the Olympics.  I have had my laptop in front of me for the past hour, and I have typed nothing, zero, zilch.  All I had up to a few seconds ago was just the blinking cursor.

Another thing you shouldn't do while blogging is eating Cheetos.  It makes for orange fingers, orange keys, and orange computers.  Cheetos and any kind of electronic device involving software just don't mix.

Going to the bathroom.  Let's just leave it at that.

Taking a shower.  Generally, whatever you are doing in the shower doesn't belong in a blog post.  Plus, like Cheetos, water and computers do not mix.

Drinking alcohol.  Some people may argue with me on this one.  However, drunk blogging is like drunk dialing.  You will post something embarrassing, possibly even a compromising picture of yourself.  Whether deleted later or not, a drunk blog post is a mistake.

Watching TV in general.  My current distraction is the Olympics.  However, even if the TV is tuned to something you don't even like (Bill O'Reilly say), you will watch the TV and not type anything.  Keep the TV turned off.

Cooking.  This is not a hard-and-fast rule for every blogger.  Just for myself.  If I blogged and cooked at the same time, something is going to burn, boil over, or explode.  I would probably end up microwaving my iPad.

Having sex.  Of course, this depends upon the kind of blog you are writing.  Nuff said.

(OK, now I'm watching diving in the Olympics.  I'm not even that interested in diving.  I am totally pathetic.)

Last thing I want to warn fellow bloggers not to do while blogging:  having quality time with your significant other.  Your significant other will insist on reading your blog post when you are done, and when he or she discovers you have been writing about the Olympics or cleaning up dog crap in the backyard, you will end up in the doghouse yourself.

That is the extent of Saint Marty's wisdom this evening.  Now, he's going to go eat some Cheetos, cook some Ramen noodles, go to the bathroom, have sex with his wife, and watch Michael Phelps swim.  Not in that order, necessarily.




Even this idiot can distract you!



July 31: Spoiler Alert!

SPOILER ALERT:  Michael Phelps took the silver medal in the Olympic 200 m fly, losing to South Africa's Chad le Clos by .02 seconds.  The American women's Olympic gymnastics team won the gold medal, defeating Russia.  Katniss ends up with Peeta at the conclusion of the Hunger Games trilogy.  Luke is Darth Vader's son.  Michael Corleone has his brother Fredo executed at the end of The Godfather Part 2.  Anthony Perkins is his mother in Psycho.  Leonardo DiCaprio dies in Titanic.  Rosebud is Charles Foster Kane's sled in Citizen Kane.  Bella becomes a vampire, and Jacob imprints on Bella and Edward's daughter.  Kristen cheats on Robert.  Rhett tells Scarlett that he doesn't give a damn.  Dorothy uses the ruby slippers to get home.  The North wins the Civil War.  The American colonies revolt against Great Britain.  Socrates eats hemlock.  Jesus Christ rises from the dead after three days.  And Saint Marty always reads the last chapter of a book first.

I hate surprises!