August 22: Sudden Realization, Adjusting, Help

Arthur is in for a little surprise . . .

"What happened to you?" demanded Arthur.

"Well," said Zaphod, attacking a boneful of grilled muscle, "our guests here have been gassing us and zapping our minds and being generally weird and have now given us a rather nice meal to make it up to us.  Here," he said, hoicking out a lump of evil-smelling meat from a bowl, "have some Vegan Rhino's cutlet.  It's delicious if you happen to like that sort of thing."

"Hosts?" said Arthur.  "What hosts?  I don't see any . . ."

A small voice said, "Welcome to lunch, Earth creature."

Arthur glanced around and suddenly yelped.

"Ugh!" he said.  ""There are mice on the table!"

There was an awkward silence as everyone looked pointedly at Arthur.

He was busy staring at two white mice sitting in what looked like whisky glasses on the table.  He heard the silence and glanced around at everyone.

"Oh!" he said, with sudden realization.  "Oh, I'm sorry.  I wasn't quite prepared for . . ."

Arthur, the lone Earth man, isn't quite prepared to meet talking white mice.  This sort of thing exists outside of Arthur's normal expectations.  White mice are not things to sit at a dinner table with.  White mice, in Earth terms, are pets or pests or the subjects of laboratory experiments.  So, it takes Arthur a few seconds to adjust his view of the Universe.

Recently, I have found myself doing this a lot.  Reconsidering.  Rethinking.  Adjusting.  Notice that I am avoiding the word "change."  It's a lot easier for me to say that I'm "adjusting" versus "changing."  For some reason, adjusting sounds easier to me.  It's just a matter of making more room, sort of like when I invite my son to sleep with me if he has a bad dream.  I don't change my entire sleeping arrangement.  I simply move over, give him a pillow, let him get comfortable.

My daughter's car needs some work on her brakes, to the tune of about $500.  I found that out this evening.  I had to adjust to that news.  Because of this, I also had to adjust my plans for paying bills this week.  My daughter needs her car for Monday.  She starts college and her new job.  She needs wheels.  So, I simply said to the mechanic, "Get 'er done," or something like that.  (I don't speak colloquial male speak very often.  It's a foreign language to me, with words "caliper" and "brake pad.")

After I hung up the phone, I said a little prayer.  It was pretty simple, consisting of one word:  "help."  I have been using this prayer quite often.  It works in many situations.  If it's for something like finding a parking spot, say it once--"help."  If you're throwing up in the bathroom with an attack of vertigo, I recommend saying it at least five times, in quick succession--"helphelphelphelphelp."  If you're dealing with incredible loss or struggle (the dath of a loved one, alcoholism, mental illness), it can be used as a mantra or chant for as long as you want--"helphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelp!"

That word really is about surrender.  You are admitting that you are powerless.  You're handing over the keys to your car and letting someone else take the wheel for a while, because you've driven into a swamp.  Of course, the real truth is that control is a fallacy.  If I apply for a new job, I'm not in control of whether I get that job or not after I submit my cover letter and resume.  If I'm sick, I dose myself with cold medicine and Nyquil and hope for the best.  If mental illness or alcoholism or (insert overwhelming problem here) is your issue, the sooner you admit that you're not in control, the better off you'll be.

Help.  I need help.  That's a prayer.  An easy, simple way of saying, "I give up!  It's all yours, God!  Round up some grace for me!"  I can say it anywhere, at any time.

I said it just now, for a person who's sick and doesn't recognize it.  I say it for this person's spouse and children.  I say it as an act of complete surrender.  I give this person and family over to God.

Say it with Saint Marty.  Loudly.  Often.  Don't be ashamed.  Try to sleep tonight, knowing that it's on the way. 

ADDENDUM:  My sister is helping to fix my daughter's car.  That's how effective that little prayer can be.  Grace walked through my front door.

January 21: Huge Yellow Somethings, Raging Sinus Infection, Almost Human

So, the world is about to end . . .

On this particular Thursday, something was moving quietly through the ionosphere many miles above the surface of the planet; several somethings in fact, several dozen huge yellow chunky slablike somethings, huge as office buildings, silent as birds.  They soared with ease, basking in electromagnetic rays from the star Sol, biding their time, grouping, preparing.

The planet beneath them was almost perfectly oblivious of their presence, which was just how they wanted it for the moment.  The huge yellow somethings went unnoticed at Goonhilly, they passed over Cape Canaveral without a blip, Woomera and Jodrell Bank looked straight through them, which was a pity because it was exactly the sort of thing they'd been looking for all these years.

So, like Cape Canaveral and Woomera and Jodrell Bank, I missed something big in the sky early this morning--the full lunar eclipse of the Super Blood Wolf Moon.  While it was going on, I was in bed, dosed with NyQuil, ibuprofen, cough medicine, and Trazodone.  Anything happening outside of my pillows and blankets meant nothing.

I saw a doctor today, and she diagnosed me with a raging sinus infection.  I am now on a strong antibiotic.  In addition, the doctor told be to take Claritin, to clear up my congestion.  I picked up my prescriptions, went home, took a Claritin, and went to bed for about an hour.

When I woke up, my head felt clearer, and I could breathe.  That's quite an improvement over the last six days.  I'm still coughing like crazy, but at least I can think.  Last night, I felt like my whole body was in a full lunar eclipse.

I like to think that I'm on the mend.  My goal is to have a voice by Friday when I head up to Calumet for the recording of a radio show.  Right now, I think that actually might happen.  I'm feeling somewhat human at the moment.

Saint Marty even noticed the sunset this evening (it wasn't a Super Blood Wolf Sunset, but it was pretty stunning).

January 18: Six Pints, Tomorrow Be Monday, Simple Pleasures

Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent have arrived at the Horse and Groom for a drink, and for Ford to share some information with Arthur . . .

"Six pints of bitter," said Ford Prefect to the barman of the Horse and Groom.  "And quickly please, the world's about to end."

The barman of the Horse and Groom didn't deserve this sort of treatment; he was a dignified old man.  He pushed his glasses up his nose and blinked at Ford Prefect.  Ford ignored him and stared out of the window, so the barman looked instead at Arthur, who shrugged helplessly and said nothing.

So the barman said, "Oh yes, sir?"  Nice weather for it," and started pulling pints.

He tried again.

"Going to watch the match this afternoon then?"

Ford glanced round at him.

"No, no point," he said, and looked back out of the window.

"What's that, foregone conclusion then you reckon, sir?" said the barman.  "Arsenal without a chance?"

"No, no," said Ford, "it's just that the world's about to end."

"Oh yes, sir, so you said," said the barman, looking over his glasses this time at Arthur.  "Lucky escape for Arsenal if it did."

Ford looked back at him, genuinely surprised.

The barman breathed in heavily.  "There you are, sir, six pints," he said.

Arthur smiled at him wanly and shrugged again.  He turned and smiled wanly at the rest of the pub just in case any of them had heard what was going on.  None of them had, and none of them could understand what he was smiling at them for.

A man sitting next to Ford at the bar looked at the two men, looked at the six pints, did a swift burst of mental arithmetic, arrived at an answer he liked and grinned a stupid hopeful grin at them.

"Get off," said Ford.  "They're ours," giving him a look that would have made an Algolian Suntiger get on with what it was doing.

Ford slapped a five pound note on the bar.  He said, "Keep the change."

"What, from a fiver?  Thank you, sir."

"You've got ten minutes left to spend it."

The barman simply decided to walk away for a bit.

Ford obviously knows something that no one else in the Horse and Groom knows.  The world IS about to end.  Arthur doesn't know this, just like he doesn't know that his friend, Ford, is from Betelgeuse.  For Arthur, it's just Thursday.  For Ford, it's the apocalypse.

It's Friday.  End of the first week of a new semester.  End of my first week back at work after my vacation.  End of a week of sickness.  I'm still sick.  My mind is still at Walt Disney World.  And, every once in a while, I check the Disney app on my phone to see what the wait times are at EPCOT and the Magic Kingdom.  (In case you're interested, there's a 70-minute wait at The Twilight Zone Tower of Terror.)

This week has seemed very long.  I've allowed myself to get swallowed in day-to-day struggles, just like Arthur.  I'm worried that my cough will develop into pneumonia, and Arthur is worried about the bulldozers waiting to demolish his house.  In the mean time, neither of us have any idea whether the world will be here tomorrow (or in the next ten minutes).  It's a matter of living in the present (enjoying a pint at the pub) or living in the possibilities of the future (serious illness, loss of house/home).

I'm sitting in the living room of my family's house, watching my sister eat dinner.  She's 53-years-old and has Down syndrome.  Like most people with Down syndrome her age, my sister's memory is failing.  She gets up from her chair about ten or 15 times during dinner, wanders out into the kitchen, and then sometimes forgets why she's gone out to the kitchen.  I see her stop, look back at the dining room table with a confused look on her face.

Food is important to my sister.  So is Diet Coke.  And her latch hook rug.  These are my sister's present.  The only things she thinks about.  She tries to keep track of the days of the week, but she can't.  She just got up from her dinner, walked over to the calendar on the refrigerator, and said, "Tomorrow be Monday."  As I said, she really has no concept of anything but right here, right now.

Perhaps this is a blessing.  She doesn't think every minute about things she's lost.  About my sister who died four years ago.  My father who died a year ago.  She doesn't think every minute about things she could lose.  My mother, who wanders back and forth through the living room, looking for something that she's can't remember she's misplaced.  None of these things enter her mind daily.

Her pleasures are pretty simple.  Her grilled cheese sandwich.  The Diet Coke sweating on the table in front of her.  The yarn for her latch hook lined up in a row.

Saint Marty's pleasures tonight are going to be simple, too:  NyQuil, a cool pillow, warm blankets.

January 15: Some Kind of Dream, NyQuil, Realm of Dream

Ford Prefect is still working his Betelgeuse-alien magic on Mr. Prosser . . .

"So," continued Ford Prefect, "if you would just like to come over here and lie down . . ."

"What?" said Mr. Prosser.

"Ah, I'm sorry," said Ford, "perhaps I hadn't made myself fully clear.  Somebody's got to lie in front of the bulldozers, haven't they?  Or there won't be anything to stop them driving into Mr. Dent's house, will there?"

"What?" said Mr. Prosser again.

"It's very simple," said Ford, "my client, Mr. Dent, says that he will stop lying here in the mud on the sole condition that you come and take over from him."

"What are you talking about?" said Arthur, but Ford nudged him with his shoe to be quiet.

"You want me," said Mr. Prosser, spelling out the new thought to himself, "to come and lie there . . ."

"Yes."

"In front of the bulldozer?"

"Yes."

"Instead of Mr. Dent."

"Yes."

"In the mud."

"In, as you say it, the mud."

As soon as Mr. Prosser realized that he was substantially the loser after all, it was as if a weight lifted itself off his shoulders:  this was more like the world as he knew it.  He sighed.

"In return for which you will take Mr. Dent with you down to the pub?"

"That's it," said Ford.  "That's it exactly."

Mr. Prosser took a few nervous steps forward and stopped.

"Promise?"

"Promise," said Ford.  He turned to Arthur.

"Come on," he said to him, "get up and let the man lie down."

Arthur stood up, feeling as if he was in a dream.

Ford beckoned to Prosser, who sadly, awkwardly, sat down in the mud.  He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it.  The mud folded itself round his bottom and his arms and oozed into his shoes.

Ford looking at him severely.

"And no sneaky knocking down Mr. Dent's house whilst he's away, alright?" he said.

"The mere thought," growled Mr. Prosser, "hadn't even begun to speculate," he continued, settling himself back, "about the merest possibility of crossing my mind."

So, Ford Prefect gets to take Arthur Dent to the pub for a drink.  Mr. Prosser is lying in the mud, thinking that his life is some kind of dream.  And Arthur Dent's house is safe from the bulldozers for the time being.  Everybody gets what they want.

This morning, I would have paid money to be able to just lie down in some mud and go back to sleep.  I was exhausted.  Plus, I think I'm coming down with some kind of cold.  I've been coughing all day.  I don't know if it's the result of flying in airplanes, breathing reconstituted air all Saturday.  It could be the cold weather.  Or, maybe, just ten days of warmth and sun and exercise and little sleep.  Whatever the cause, I will be taking a bottle of NyQuil to bed with me tonight.

I did work today, 6 a.m. to 2:30 p.m.  Then I walked down to the cemetery with one of my best friends to pay my sister a visit.  Haven't done that since Christmas Eve.  Her stone was crusted with snow.  Had to brush and scrape it off.  It was a fairly mild day, and the walk invigorated me.  It was the best I felt all day.

On my drive home, the tireds hit me again.  By the time I pulled into my driveway, I was ready for a nap.  Of course, I didn't take one.  Have too much to do this evening.  Lesson plan.  Quiz to prepare.  E-mails to send and answer.  Yes, Walt Disney World is quickly fading in the realm of dream for me, just the way Mr. Prosser thinks his life is a dream.  I found myself looking at the camera roll on my phone several times today, just to remind myself of the sun and palm trees.  To prove that it was real.

Two weeks ago, it was New Year's Day.  I was packing my suitcase.  One week ago, I was at EPCOT Center, eating at an Italian restaurant in the World Showcase, waiting for the fireworks/laser show to begin.  Four days ago, it was the Rivers of Light show at the Animal Kingdom.

Tonight, Saint Marty is dreaming about a box of Wheat Thins and bottle of Easy Cheese that's in his kitchen cupboard.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

September 19: The Whale Watch, Autumn Cold Again, Poetry Workshop

The four whales slain that evening had died wide apart; one, far to windward; one less distant, to leeward; one ahead; one astern. These last three were brought alongside ere nightfall; but the windward one could not be reached till morning; and the boat that had killed it lay by its side all night; and that boat was Ahab's.

The waif-pole was thrust upright into the dead whale's spout-hole; and the lantern hanging from its top, cast a troubled flickering glare upon the black, glossy back, and far out upon the midnight waves, which gently chafed the whale's broad flank, like soft surf upon a beach.

Ahab and all his boat's crew seemed asleep but the Parsee; who crouching in the bow, sat watching the sharks, that spectrally played round the whale, and tapped the light cedar planks with their tails. A sound like the moaning in squadrons over Asphaltites of unforgiven ghosts of Gomorrah, ran shuddering through the air.

Started from his slumbers, Ahab, face to face, saw the Parsee; and hooped round by the gloom of the night they seemed the last men in a flooded world. "I have dreamed it again," said he.

"Of the hearses? Have I not said, old man, that neither hearse nor coffin can be thine?"

"And who are hearsed that die on the sea?"

"But I said, old man, that ere thou couldst die on this voyage, two hearses must verily be seen by thee on the sea; the first not made by mortal hands; and the visible wood of the last one must be grown in America."

"Aye, aye! a strange sight that, Parsee!- a hearse and its plumes floating over the ocean with the waves for the pall-bearers. Ha! Such a sight we shall not soon see."

"Believe it or not, thou canst not die till it be seen, old man."

"And what was that saying about thyself?"

"Though it come to the last, I shall still go before thee thy pilot."

"And when thou art so gone before- if that ever befall- then ere I can follow, thou must still appear to me, to pilot me still?- Was it not so? Well, then, did I believe all ye say, oh my pilot! I have here two pledges that I shall yet slay Moby Dick and survive it."

"Take another pledge, old man," said the Parsee, as his eyes lighted up like fire-flies in the gloom- "Hemp only can kill thee."

"The gallows, ye mean.- I am immortal then, on land and on sea," cried Ahab, with a laugh of derision;- "Immortal on land and on sea!"

Both were silent again, as one man. The grey dawn came on, and the slumbering crew arose from the boat's bottom, and ere noon the dead whale was brought to the ship.

Another uplifting little chapter about the promise of death.  In particular, Ahab is contemplating his own demise and what form it will take.  Of course, he believes that he will live long enough to see the death of Moby Dick.  In fact, Ahab intends to administer the killing blow himself.  The Parsee makes a different prediction:  "Hemp only can kill thee [Ahab]."

Day two of an autumn cold, and I'm still feeling like that dead whale.  Last night, after a two-hour nap and a dose of Claritin, I was feeling much better.  However, today, I've been pushing through tar.  I've already worked eight hours and taught one class.  Now, I'm trying to muster enough energy for three hours of composition tonight.  I'm not being very successful. 

I don't know how long I'm going to last this evening.  Maybe the full three hours.  I'm thinking less probably.  There are things I must accomplish:  1) collect an essay; 2) listen to group presentations; 3) hand out the next writing assignment; and 4) maybe talk about a chapter in the textbook.  If I get through all of that, it will be a miracle.

Frankly, I'm less concerned about teaching tonight than about a poetry class I'm leading this weekend.  For one hour on Saturday morning, I have to guide kids through the writing of a poem.  It's for the homecoming festivities at the university where I teach.  I'm looking forward to it, but I don't want to look like a refugee from The Walking Dead. 

So, after tonight, it's all about rest and recuperation. 

Saint Marty will be thankful tonight for his bed and Nyquil.

September 17: The Dying Whale, Friggin' Cold, Nyquil

Not seldom in this life, when, on the right side, fortune's favorites sail close by us, we, though all adroop before, catch somewhat of the rushing breeze, and joyfully feel our bagging sails fill out. So seemed it with the Pequod. For next day after encountering the gay Bachelor, whales were seen and four were slain; and one of them by Ahab.

It was far down the afternoon; and when all the spearings of the crimson fight were done; and floating in the lovely sunset sea and sky, sun and whale both stilly died together; then, such a sweetness and such plaintiveness, such inwreathing orisons curled up in that rosy air, that it almost seemed as if far over from the deep green convent valleys of the Manilla isles, the Spanish land-breeze, wantonly turned sailor, had gone to sea, freighted with these vesper hymns.

Soothed again, but only soothed to deeper gloom, Ahab, who had sterned off from the whale, sat intently watching his final wanings from the now tranquil boat. For that strange spectacle observable in all sperm whales dying- the turning sunwards of the head, and so expiring- that strange spectacle, beheld of such a placid evening, somehow to Ahab conveyed a wondrousness unknown before.

"He turns and turns him to it,- how slowly, but how steadfastly, his homage-rendering and invoking brow, with his last dying motions. He too worships fire; most faithful, broad, baronial vassal of the sun!- Oh that these too-favoring eyes should see these too-favoring sights. Look! here, far water-locked; beyond all hum of human weal or woe; in these most candid and impartial seas; where to traditions no rocks furnish tablets; where for long Chinese ages, the billows have still rolled on speechless and unspoken to, as stars that shine upon the Niger's unknown source; here, too, life dies sunwards full of faith, but see! no sooner dead, than death whirls round the corpse, and it heads some other way.

"Oh, thou dark Hindoo half of nature, who of drowned bones hast builded thy separate throne somewhere in the heart of these unverdured seas; thou art an infidel, thou queen, and too truly speakest to me in the wide-slaughtering Typhoon, and the hushed burial of its after calm. Nor has this thy whale sunwards turned his dying head, and then gone round again, without a lesson to me.

"Oh, trebly hooped and welded hip of power! Oh, high aspiring, rainbowed jet!- that one strivest, this one jettest all in vain! In vain, oh whale, dost thou seek intercedings with yon all-quickening sun, that only calls forth life, but gives it not again. Yet dost thou darker half, rock me with a prouder, if a darker faith. All thy unnamable imminglings float beneath me here; I am buoyed by breaths of once living things, exhaled as air, but water now.

"Then hail, for ever hail, O sea, in whose eternal tossings the wild fowl finds his only rest. Born of earth, yet suckled by the sea; though hill and valley mothered me, ye billows are my foster-brothers!"

So, this chapter is about Captain Ahab meditating on the death of a whale.  Tonight, my head is full of mucous; my nose is plugged; I'm sneezing like crazy; and my partner in bed tonight is going to be a bottle of Nyquil. 

That's what I have tonight.  I've been battling this friggin' cold all day long, and, currently, I'm losing the battle.  There's half a box of used Kleenexes sitting on the couch cushion beside me.  If all these details are disgusting you, I apologize.  The feeling is mutual.

I'm ready to turn my belly up to the sun and call it a day.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for Claritin.

February 22: Toothless as Carp, Catching a Cold, Nyquil

The Germans and the dog were engaged in a military operation which had an amusingly self-explanatory name, a human enterprise which is seldom described in detail, whose name alone, when reported as news or history, gives many war enthusiasts a sort of post-coital satisfaction.  It is, in the imagination of combat's fans, the divinely listless loveplay that follows the orgasm of victory.  It is called "mopping up."

The dog, who had sounded so ferocious in the winter distances, was a female German shepherd.  She was shivering.  Her tail was between her legs.  She had been borrowed that morning from a farmer.  She had never been to war before.  She had no idea what game was being played.  Her name was Princess. 

Two of the Germans were boys in their early teens.  Two were ramshackle old men--droolers as toothless as carp.  They were irregulars, armed and clothed fragmentarily with junk taken from real soldiers who were newly dead.  So it goes.  They were farmers from just across the German border, not far away.

The Germans and dog that Billy and Roland encounter sound like they're barely soldiers, drafted into service despite their obvious military deficiencies.  They're too old.  Too young.  Too cold.  In the case of the dog, too domesticated.  And they are tired of war.

I am sitting in my office at the university, killing time before I have to pick up my daughter from her dance studio.  I sort of feel like the Germans that Vonnegut describes--tired and cold, ready to go home.  This morning, I started sneezing.  The sneezing progressed to an alternating runny nose/stuffed-up nose.  Now, my head feels like it's about to explode.

My whole family has been battling this virus.  My wife had strep throat a couple weeks ago.  My daughter was home sick for three days last week.  The previous week, my son was home for a couple of days.  I guess it's my turn.  I thought that I had dodged this particular snotty bullet.  It appears that I have not.

That has not stopped me, however, from being fairly productive, work-wise, today.  These two blog posts are the last things that I have to accomplish.  Then, I can just sit, read my book, and leak mucus from my nose.  I have not done anything Poet Laureate-ish today.  Yesterday, I had an interview with a reporter from the local newspaper.

I had intentions of getting more done, but my mind is a little fogged tonight.  I may shoot a couple of e-mails to publicize a reading that I'm doing next Tuesday evening.  That's about all that I have the energy for.  Aside from that, I'm curling up with a bottle of Nyquil when I get home.

Saint Marty is thankful for Kleenex.

December 30: Italian Cold Cuts, New Year's Eve Party, Letter of Recommendation, Calvin and Hobbes

Earlier in the day Ives had walked over from the office to Ninth Avenue during lunchtime, to buy boxes of Italian cold cuts and pastries, and these were set out on a table as a buffet...

Ives is buying Italian cold cuts and pastries for his annual Christmas tree decorating party.  Family and friends and children come to his apartment, and, while the adults eat and drink, the kids decorate his Christmas tree.  It's an Ives' family tradition.

This evening, I went shopping with my sister for our annual New Year's Eve party.  We have been having this party at my parents' house since I was a twelve or thirteen.  I sort of started the tradition because I got tired of seeing my parents and older siblings disappearing on December 31st and coming back well after midnight wearing party hats and blowing horns.  I was missing out on something.  So I decided that, if I couldn't go to the party, the party was going to come to me.

It used to be a much bigger shindig, with almost fifteen or so people attending.  But, because of relocation and choice and death, the party tomorrow night will be a much smaller affair.  Seven adults and three kids.  There will be food and games.  At midnight, we will put on hats and blow horns and gather around the piano to sing "Auld Lang Syne."  It will be a good time.

This evening, I had to write a letter of recommendation for a former student of mine.  She is applying to graduate schools, and my recommendation was due on January 1.  I really didn't want to take time out of my New Year's Eve party to write my recommendation, so I did it tonight.  Just submitted it.

Now, I am going to take some Nyquil and go to bed.  Long day.  Long night.  Short time to sleep.

Don't forget to vote in Saint Marty's book poll.

What will next year's book be:

• The Road  by Cormac McCarthy?
• The Color Purple by Alice Walker?
• Pilgrim at Tinker Creek by Annie Dillard?
• The World According to Garp by John Irving?

Are you perfect?