August 10: "Fool Me Good," Busy Life, Paris Olympics

I never do one thing at a time.  I'm a multitasker.  So I guess that would make me a terrible Buddhist.  My busy life, however, requires me to work on two or three tasks at once.  Tonight, I'm watching the Paris Olympics, typing this blog post, and making a grocery list for shopping tomorrow.

I wonder, if I hadn't divided my mind like this, whether I would have published more books by now or accrued more money in my savings account or painted oil landscapes (a skill I've always admired).  Or maybe I would have read a lot more.  Been a better cook.  Learned how to change the oil in my car.  I'll never know.  There are no do-overs in life.

Billy Collins multitasks in today's poem . . . 

Fool Me Good

by: Billy Collins

I am under the covers
waiting for the heat to come up
with a gurgle and hiss
and the banging of the water hammer
that will frighten the cold out of the room.

And I am listening to a blues singer
named Precious Bryant
singing a song called “Fool Me Good.”

If you don’t love me baby, she sings,
would you please try to fool me good?

I am also stroking the dog’s head
and writing down these words,
which means that I am calmly flying
in the face of the Buddhist advice
to do only one thing at a time.

Just pour the tea,
just look into the eye of the flower,
just sing the song —
one thing at a time

and you will achieve serenity
which is what I would love to do
as the fan-blades of the morning begin to turn.

If you don’t love me, baby,
she sings
as a day-moon fades in the window
and the hands circle the clock,
would you please try to fool me good?

Yes, Precious, I reply.
I will fool you as good as I can,
but first I have to learn to listen to you
with my whole heart,
and not until you have finished

will I put on my slippers,
squeeze out some toothpaste,
and make a big foamy face in the mirror,

freshly dedicated to doing one thing at a time —
one note at a time for you, darling,
one tooth at a time for me.

So, my goal at the end of this post is to concentrate on one thing at a time.

Right now, it's watching the men's 10,000 meter final race at the Paris Olympics.

Then eating a Hershey's nugget.

Perhaps going outside to see if I can spy any Perseids (depending on cloud cover).

Eating another nugget.

Brushing my teeth, one tooth at time, like Collins.

Reading some Neruda odes, which is sort of like praying.

Trying to go to sleep, which is always a struggle.

Eating another nugget, because why not?

Counting Bigfoots until I finally drift off.

Saint Marty may be a Buddhist by tomorrow morning.

July 26: "Constellations," Paris, Perfection, "Perseids"

Billy Collins stargazes . . . 

Constellations

by: Billy Collins

Yes, that's Orion over there,

the three studs of the belt

clearly lined up just off the horizon.

And if you turn around you can see

Gemini, very visible tonight,

the twins looking off into space as usual.

That cluster a little higher in the sky

is Cassiopeia sitting in her astral chair

if I'm not mistaken.

And directly overhead,

isn't that Virginia Woolf

slipping along the River Ouse

in her inflatable canoe?

See the wide-brimmed hat and there,

the outline of the paddle, raised and dripping stars?

It is late.  I just finished watching the Opening Ceremony of the Paris Olympics and stepped outside to do a little stargazing myself.

It was really dark, and the stars weren't really visible.  I wandered around for 15 or 20 minutes, staring upward, breathing the muddy night air.  Not sure what I was looking for.  Maybe inspiration or peace of mind.  I've been struggling these last few weeks with some insomnia, so going for a walk at 1 a.m. isn't all that strange for me at the moment.

I found the Opening Ceremony in Paris quite inspiring.  Lots of weird performance art,  Great music.  The Parade of Nations happening with boats of athletes sailing down the Seine.  And, to cap it all off, Celine Dion singing "L'Hymne à l'mour" by Edith Piaf from the Eiffel Tower.  If the organizers had simply lit the Olympic cauldron and had Dion sing, it would have been enough for me.

I'm sure there's going to be a lot of criticism tomorrow.  There's always people who want to compare and bitch.  Beijing was better.  Or Rio.  Or Seoul.  For me, that's sort of like saying, "Oh, the moon last month was so much brighter," or, "The Perseids were so much better four years ago," or, "Edith Piaf sang that song so much better."  

Humans love to criticize.  Maybe that's why van Gogh only sold a few paintings before he committed suicide.  Or why Emily Dickinson only published ten poems during her lifetime.  I, myself, haven't really pushed myself to release a lot of my poems.  I'm pretty hard on myself when it comes to my writing.  I revise and revise and revise.  Perhaps that's why I've been working on my Bigfoot manuscript, off and on, for around 20 years.  I have a hard time letting go of a poem that's not as perfect as I can make it.  

Of course, perfection is unrealistic.  I'm sure. over the next 17 or so days, there are going to be a lot of athletes who, under the pressure of Olympic competition, will crumble, for many reasons.  I've seen poets who release fantastic debut collections and then fall flat with their sophomore collections.  Great singers go sharp or forget lyrics.

It's the idea of perfection that fucks you up.  If you think you are capable of perfection, you will constantly be disappointed.  It's really about doing the absolute best you can do at a particular moment.  That's it.  

Tonight, this blog post is the best Saint Marty has to offer.

Perseids

by: Martin Achatz

A poet friend tells me they

have come early this year, streaking

between the stars in cat whisker

flashes so instant that I don't

want to blink as I gaze up

into the black bowl of night.

I wonder if those Greek gods

and heroes and monsters up there

even notice them in their annual

game of hide-and-seek, if those

ancients raise their scaled heads, aim

their arrows, grumble at the spirited

young'uns too full of energy to find

a spot to sit down, read a book, catch

their cosmic breaths, let us humans

with our feeble minds give them

a name and a story that explains

their existences.  Maybe, one day,

a group of them will band together

in the shape of me, and I will join

Hercules in that bright living room,

gazing down on the earth, wondering

where the remote is to change the channel,

find something more interesting to watch 

August 11: All His Greatness and His Glory, Poetry Workshop, Perseids

Santiago feels much better, but is still suffering . . .

With his prayers said, and feeling much better, but suffering exactly as much, and perhaps a little more, he leaned against the wood of the bow and began, mechanically, to work the fingers of his left hand.

The sun was hot now although the breeze was rising gently.

"I had better re-bait that little line out over the stern," he said. "If the fish decides to stay another night I will need to eat again and the water is low in the bottle. I don't think I can get anything but a dolphin here. But if I eat him fresh enough he won't be bad. I wish a flying fish would come on board tonight. But I have no light to attract them. A flying fish is excellent to eat raw and I would not have to cut him up. I must save all my strength now. Christ, I did not know he was so big."

"I'll kill him though," he said. "In all his greatness and his glory."

Santiago admires the fish in all its greatness and glory, but he is still determined to kill it.

I'm not sure if that is just normal human instinct--to see something wondrous and somehow need to subdue and conquer it.  That's what we've been doing since we crawled out of the primordial ocean ooze.  If there's a mountain, we want to climb it.  If there's a large body of water, we want to sail across it or drill for oil in it.  Forests are cut down for roads, and animals are killed for sport or money.

Humankind is a pretty destructive force on this little blue rock of a planet.  Just ask the next glacier you see.

Tonight, I led a poetry workshop that was all about wonder and mystery in the universe.  Currently, the Perseid meteor shower is lighting up the night sky.  There's nothing like lying on your back in the grass, staring up into the heavens, and seeing lights spark and zip in that black bowl.  That was the inspiration for tonight's writing.

Only a few people showed up.  That's fine.  It's mid-August, and residents of the Upper Peninsula know that our warm days and nights are numbered.  We have to take advantage of them.  I guess writing poetry is my way of subduing the mystery of the universe.  Maybe a better word would be "understanding."  But isn't the comprehension of mystery a way of controlling it?  

Very few people can live with negative capability--just accepting a situation without having to explain it fully.  It's not comfortable to live next door to mystery without going over and introducing yourself.  That's why things like lunar eclipses and meteor showers were historically seen as omens or portents.  I'm sure, in times past, the Perseids were seen as precursors to something wondrous or catastrophic.  That belief, however misguided, gave those zagging celestial sparks meaning and purpose.  Because everything that exists should have a purpose, right?  Beauty for beauty's sake or mystery for mystery's sake is an alien concept for most human beings.

Perhaps I'm being a little too deep tonight.  Wouldn't be the first time.  My point is fairly simple:  embrace mystery and wonder.

Saint Marty's blessings for tonight:  a beautiful sunrise and writing poetry with friends.