March 26: Carol Dip, Show Me No More, Prizes

This morning, being Monday, and me, being exhausted, are not getting along very well.  Everybody drags after  the weekend, I know.  Nobody, after having a couple days off, willingly takes up the yolk of work again.  It would be unnatural.  Even my computer seems to be working at a slower pace after having a couple days at home.  However, return to work I must, even if only 35% of my brain is functioning correctly.

As a result of my total lack of motivation and energy, I will be doing a Carol dip this morning.  (For those of my disciples tuning in for the next installment of Project Memoir, do not despair.  It will be coming in the next day or so.)  I know this practice is cheap and easy, but sometimes I like cheap and easy.  I've already consulted my copy of A Christmas Carol on a couple of questions without very satisfying results.  Therefore, I'm not going to cheat.  I'm going to ask my question and accept whatever answer I get.

My questions is: 

Will this blog ever be named a Blog of Note (BON) by the people who run blogger.com?

And the answer from my copy of A Christmas Carol is:

"No more!" cried Scrooge.  "No more.  I don't wish to see it.  Show me no more!"

Well, that sucks.  I'm going to have to give up Carol dipping.  It's not good for my self esteem.  It never yields very positive results.  According to my interpretation of that quote, I'm not going to be named a BON.  Ever.  In fact, I should never ask or contemplate that question ever again.

It's true that I tend to invest a great deal of importance on awards and recognitions.  Any person who's read my posts at the beginning of October know that I tend to become very (some might say unhealthily) obsessed with the Nobel Prize in Literature.  I can't help it.  For some reason, I attach great importance to these kinds of accolades.  It's the reason I was a straight "A" student through high school and college.  It's why I graduated summa cum laude.  It's why I get pissed off every time the people at Blogger choose to recognize yet another food or fashion blog.

It's not that I think I'm better than everyone else.  I don't.  I think it stems from a need to be liked.  If I win an award, if somebody tells me I've done something exceptionally well, that means I've got admirers.  We all want to be liked.  Even Scrooge.  We all want to be surrounded by people who think we're great.  I know I do.  It's one of the reasons why I teach.  All my students have to pretend to like me for at least three or so months.  Perhaps I don't need a plaque or trophy to prove my worth, but it doesn't hurt.

I'm not going to say that simply writing this blog is the only reward I need.  Simply knowing there are people out there who might be benefiting from my nuggets of wisdom isn't tangible enough.  I want a title.  Blogger of Note, for starters.  Then maybe Blogger of the Year.  Pretty soon, I'll have a book deal.  Then I'll win the National Book Award.  In the same year, I'll win the Pulitzer Prize for something.  That will put me on the radar of the Swedish Academy.  After being nominated a few years in a row for the Nobel Prize for Literature, I will eventually be named the winner.  I will fly to Sweden in early December to collect my prize.  I won't be able to walk down the streets of Stockholm without being mobbed by admirers.  And when I return home, I will be asked to be Grand Marshall of my town's Fourth of July Parade.

It could happen.  OK, I might not get the Fourth of July thing, but the rest is totally realistic.  Blogger people take note:  my time has come.  Give into the inevitable.

God wants Saint Marty to be a Blogger of Note.

Why fight fate?  Give me the award.

March 25: Book Club, Project Memoir Tomorrow, New Cartoon

Spent the day cleaning my house, cooking chicken drumsticks, and reading.  My book club met today.  We usually meet on the fourth Thursday of every month.  This month, however, we had the author of the month's book join us.  John Smolens is a friend and colleague of mine from the university.  He teaches on Thursday nights this semester.  Hence , the matinee performance today.

We read The Schoolmaster's Daughter, John's most recent novel.  It's set in Revolutionary War Boston, just before and after the Battle of Bunker Hill.  It has all of the ingredients that make his books so great:  strong characters and setting, violence, a little sex, betrayal, suspense.  John's stuff is just so friggin' readable and smart.  I love it.  He makes me want to write.  That's why he's such a great instructor, as well.

Well, I have a lot of leftover drumsticks, but the get-together was very pleasant, and John was as gracious and fun as ever.  I highly recommend The Schoolmaster's Daughter.  I'm not a big Revolutionary War fan, but this book kept my interest.  I'm not quite finished with it yet, but I have every intention of finishing it.  I have to see if the British or Americans win the war.

Obviously, I don't have a new installment of Project Memoir ready to go tonight.  I'm hoping to have the next section done tomorrow.  I'm a huge Lenten loser this year.  I should be punished.  I say that because I'm Catholic, and we're big on guilt.  I also say that because I like getting spanked.

Therefore, bear with me.  Project Memoir Part 4 is coming tomorrow.  Or the next day.  Wednesday or Thursday at the latest.  Hopefully that's specific enough for you.

Saint Marty is waiting for his punishment now.  He's been a bad boy.

Confessions of Saint Marty

March 12: Dialogue in Horror, Wow, Criticism

Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror.  As they sat grouped about their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by the old man's lamp, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust, which could hardly have been greater, though they had been obscene demons, marketing the corspse itself.

Scrooge is referring to the conversation between Old Joe and the charwoman, laundress, and undertaker.  All three have come to Joe with the items they've stolen from Scrooge's death chamber.  I'm sure Dickens meant to evoke the image of the Weird Sisters from MacBeth with this little scene.  The characters are some of the most sinister of the novel, and they reflect the callous and desparate nature of extreme poverty.  Scrooge, having lived and died a miserable miser, is plundered after his demise.  Ransacked for anything worth pawning.  His burial shirt, bed curtains, a brooch, and the like.  Metaphorically, Scrooge is reduced to the status of a pauper in his future afterlife.

I sometimes worry over what will be said about me when I die.  I sometimes worry over what people  are saying about me right now.  I've tried to cultivate a thick skin about criticism.  As a poet/writer/blogger, criticism just comes with the territory.  It's necessary, something to accept and learn from.  That doesn't mean it's easy to hear negative feedback.  At times, I've felt like Scrooge in the passage above, horrified by what the "obscene demons" have said about my poem or story or blog post.  For example, I just sent out the manuscript of my new book of poems to a poetry contest.  I don't expect to win.  That will not take away the sting when I receive that envelope in the mail telling me who won the competition instead of me.  I will get bitter.  I will say some not very nice things about the judge, Rae Armantrout, a Pulitzer Prize winning poet.  That's my human nature.

I finished typing in my post last night close to 11 p.m.  When I clicked the publish button, I didn't expect anyone to read my next installment of Project Memoir overnight.  Well, maybe one or two people.  Between 11 p.m. and 6 a.m., twelve people have read that post.  Wow.  That might not seem like a lot of readers, but, really, it's the electronic equivalent of having the book I wrote checked out of the library a dozen times.  It's exciting that people are responding to those posts.  Of course, my readers may be making fun of my writing.  They may be telling their friends what a shitty job I'm doing.  I may be the blogging equivalent of Rebecca Black's "Friday" music video.  At the moment, however, I feel really popular, and I'm going to hold on to that feeling.

This morning, Saint Marty has been asked out to the prom twelve times.  He's, like, the quarterback of the football team or something.




Mr. Popularity--that's me!



March 8: No Excuses Tonight, Another Day Done, Weekend

In case you're wondering whether I worked on Project Memoir last night, don't ask.  I had every intention of sitting down when I got home and putting fountain pen to journal.  Instead, I grabbed a bag of Fritos and watched American Idol.  If it's any consolation, I feel incredibly guilty today.  Therefore, instead of making a promise to write tonight, I'll simply say that I'm going to do my best.  Really, that's all any of us can do all the time.

My day is almost done.  I have no obligations to be anywhere or do anything tonight.  I just need to feed and bathe my son; feed my daughter; make school lunches; and get my kids to bed.  That's it.  Pretty simple.  At 8 p.m., I have the poetry editor of the university's literary magazine coming over to look at a couple of poems.  That should take about half an hour.  Plenty of time to think and write after that visit.


I prefer "Merry Thanksgivoweenlentinetrick's Day"

I'm looking forward to the weekend.  I have some house cleaning tasks to complete.  Things that should have been done a while ago and can't really be put off any longer without the neighbors complaining.  They involve Christmas lights and decorations.  That's all I'm going to say.

My wife starts her new job on Monday.  She's excited/terrified.  Normal new job jitters.  I think she's going to do great.  (I know that statement isn't grammatically correct, but, in its colloquial way, it communicates my emotions very effectively.)  Once she gets into the swing of her new schedule and duties, she'll be much more relaxed.

Saint Marty is in a calm place in his life at the moment.  It's a good place to be.

March 7: Another Productive Day, Dammit!

Well, I've had another very productive day, doing everything but working on Project Memoir.  I've put together charts.  I've put together more charts.  Then, when I was done with that, I put together more charts.  My mind is absolutely jelly at the moment.  I don't know if I'll be able to concentrate enough tonight to get anything written.  I'm going to try, however.

I have to go to choir practice, as well.  That's at 7 p.m.  By the time all that's over and done, it will be past eight o'clock, and my mind will be beyond jelly.  It will be liquid slime.  However, I will still try to write. 

I'm finding that I make a lot of excuses this Lent.  I also find writing prose, that isn't a blog, very daunting.  Therefore, I make excuses.

Tonight, Saint Marty will make no excuses.  He will write.  Dammit.

Can't think of anything witty to say, either

March 5: Peculiar Flavour, Potluck, Memoir Reaction

Ghost peddles Christmas crack

"Is there a peculiar flavour in what you sprinkle from your torch?" asked Scrooge.

"There is.  My own."

"Would it apply to any kind of dinner on this day?" asked Scrooge.

"To any kindly given.  To a poor one most."

"Why to a poor one most?" asked Scrooge.

"Because it needs it most."

The Ghost of Christmas Present spends a good deal of his stave sprinkling incense from his torch of holiday revellers.  A few drops of his magic "water," and happy meals become joyous, angry encounters become good-natured conversations, and lonely miners/sailors/lighthouse keepers become Christmas carollers.  The Spirit never really identifies what he's spreading around with his torch.  I've always thought of it as a mixture of the milk of human kindness and liquid Christmas spirit.  Whatever it is, if it were bottled, my guess is that it would sell better than crystal meth.

I have a lot of work to complete today, but, for some reason, I'm in a great mood.  While the tasks are going to be a little tedious, I'm not exactly dreading them.  I'm not looking forward to them.  However, I don't hear the procrastination imp in my mind whispering, "Yeah, but don't you have a poem you want to write?" or "Yeah, but don't you want to get a blueberry muffin from the coffee shop?" or "Yeah, but don't you want to read that novel over spring break?"  Nope, the imp is pretty silent.  It's almost as if the Ghost of Christmas Present has emptied his entire torch on me.  Or beaten the shit out of the imp.

Part of my good mood I can attribute to the fact that I was able to post my first installment of Project Memoir last night.  I wasn't sure about its quality at the time I clicked on the "Publish" icon.  This morning, however, after rereading it, I'm pretty happy with what I've written.  However, I would really appreciate feedback on it.  If you haven't read it yet, please check out the March 4 post and leave a comment.  My main question for you, my disciples, would be, "Would you read an entire book of this shit?"  Give me your honest reaction.  I can take it.  Then I will curl up into the fetal position and suck my thumb.

Tomorrow, we have a potluck at work.  My former coworker is returning to her job with me.  I will no longer be a business office of one, and I will be able to stop referring to her as my "former coworker."  In celebration of this occasion, we will be having a potluck.  I will be making my soon-to-be former former coworker one of her favorites:  a pan of brownies with good, thick frosting, topped with a layer of M&Ms.  Sprinkled with a lot of the Ghost's incense, as well, of course.

Saint Marty is determined to have a good day.  Bring on the torch.

March 4: Project Memoir Part 1, New Cartoon

Well, today I'm stepping away from A Christmas Carol to make good on my Lenten obligation.  Not to worry.  Tomorrow I will return to Ebenezer and Fred and Jacob and all the ghosts.

However, I have the first part of the introduction to my memoir complete.  I've been working on it all weekend.  Remember, this is a rough draft.  When I say rough, I mean rough.  Be kind to it.

Saint Marty presents Project Memoir Part 1.

Confessions of Saint Marty

Prelude

January 1:  Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God

Don't expect any of that Saint Augustine crap about praising God and restless hearts here.  It was the end of one of the best and worst years of my life, and I felt like shit.  I was forty, and a finger of pain was digging into my stomach.  It was probably muscular, a reminder of an hour-and-a-half-long sled ride I gave my seven-year-old daughter, Celeste, earlier in the day.  We were delivering some late Christmas presents to friends.  As the two-mile trek dragged on, my daughter got heavier and heavier, as if all the laws of inertia and friction, all the Newtonian principles governing the universe, were riding in the sled with her.  By the time we got home, I was drenched in sweat, and my arms felt strangely light, as if they were floating in water.  By nine o'clock at night, I couldn't rise from the couch without grunting like an eighty-year old man with bad circulation and emphysema.

In my more paranoid moments during the evening, I diagnosed myself with the early symptoms of a heart attack or some fatal abdominal aneurysm that was preparing to unleash a comet of blood into my body.  My maternal grandfather died of stomach cancer.  My mother, a no-nonsense woman of Pennsylvania-Dutch stock, told me stories about how she would bring him a bowl of soup when she was my daughter's age.  My grandfather would eat the soup, laughing and joking with her.  When she left his bedroom and closed the door, she'd hear him throwing up in a metal bucket.

I looked over at my daughter, sleeping next to me on the couch, her auburn hair nested around her head, her cheeks flushed, her breaths deep and even.  A jolt of pain in my belly, and I thought of my grandfather and the bucket.  I wanted to see my daughter grow up, her already long limbs stretching, reaching like a crocus toward spring sun.

Another muscle spasm.  The previous evening, my sister had phoned me.  "So, we're decorating for the New Year's Eve party tomorrow morning."

I waited for her to say something more. The party, an annual event at my parents' house, required a few hours of hanging streamers and inflating balloons.  We cooked pizzas, chopped fruit, and wrapped pigs in a blanket.  I was usually in the thick of all these preparations, had been every year since I was about thirteen.

"I'm not coming," I said.

"That's what I kind of figured," my sister said.

My wife, Beth, and I were struggling back from the brink of divorce, and my parents and siblings weren't making it any easier.  On Christmas day, my father, a tiny granite of a man, stood next to me in St. John's while I took a picture of my daughter in her dress in front of the manger scene.  He said, so only I could hear him, "This is a one-time deal.  Your wife can come over to the house for Christmas for your daughter's sake."  He sounded like Don Corleone.  If I violated the terms of his offer, I'd wake up with a horse head at the foot of my bed.

That was why I was sitting at home with my daughter on New Year's Eve, alone, sore and tired, waiting for my wife to get off work.  Mother Teresa, in a letter to a friend, once wrote, "Jesus has a very special love for you.  As for me, the silence and the emptiness is so great that I look and do not see, listen and do not hear."  As the clock approached ten o'clock, I understood the silence, the emptiness she was talking about.

A few days earlier, I'd gone to a local Catholic bookstore and bought an illustrated copy of the Lives of the Saints.  I couldn't completely explain my impulse for the purchase.  It had something to do with the Lives of the Saints I read as a child.  That one was burgundy-covered with the title embossed in gold letters.  Inside were portraits of men and women, boys and girls, in hues of red, white, and brown.  The sky was always Easter egg pink; the sun, bright as salt.  The saints themselves were always smiling, suffused with a gauzy happiness, like Donna Reed staring up at Jimmy Stewart in It's A Wonderful Life.  The illustrations made being stoned to death or shishkabobbed with arrows seem almost orgasmic.  They looked so goddamned happy.  All the time.  That's what I was looking for.

Mrs. McDonald, my first grade religion teacher, once saw me reading the story of Saint Stephen.  "You could be a saint, too," she said, "if you try hard enough."  At the time, I didn't have the heart to tell Mrs. McDonald I was just looking at the pictures, Stephen's forehead bloody and crushed by stones thrown by a pagan mob.  This December 31, though, I wanted to believe Mrs. McDonald.  I was desperate to believe her.

My daughter and I had driven to Wal-Mart earlier in the evening to have dinner with Beth, who was working the late shift at the deli.  The store was busy, people picking up last-minute beer and booze and ham for their parties.  Every customer seemed to radiate anticipation, as if they were all about to sprout wings and soar off to Times Square.  Anything seemed possible under the fluorescent lights.  I chalked it up to alcohol consumption, or the anticipation of alcohol consumption, as my wife finished slicing some roast beef and emerged from behind the meat case.

She gave me a quick kiss and whispered in my ear, "Just to let you know, I'm dropping an egg right now."

To be continued...

Confessions of Saint Marty

February 23: Another Unaccountably Good Mood, Fooling Students, Project Memoir

I'm in another unaccountably good mood.  That makes two in one week.  I don't know what's going on.  Usually, I'm not this positive of a person.  Ask anyone who knows me.  If you walked up to one of my best friends and said, "Give me one adjective to describe Saint Marty," my friend may come up with several possibilities.  Loyal.  Funny.  Dark.  Twisted.  Creative.  Loving.  I could go on, but I can guarantee you that positive would not be one of my friend's adjectives.  But, here I sit, good mood and all.

I'm just faking it...

It's the end of another week of teaching.  I've fooled my students again.  They still think I know what the hell I'm talking about.  It's a terrible thing, sometimes, to always feel like a fraud.  The longer I've taught college-level writing and literature (and I've been at it for more than half of my adult life), the more I've realized that I don't know anything.  It's not an uncommon to feel this way, I think.  If you surveyed a lot of college professors (the real ones--the adjuncts--who teach all the crap courses), I'd bet a majority of them would make a confession similar to the one I just made.  This streak of low self-esteem keeps me on my toes as an instructor.  I always have more I can learn.

If you're wondering about Project Memoir, I can tell you that I plan to start writing my first chapter tonight.  I just have to cull through the material I have already written in my journals.  There should be a lot of writing from which to draw.  If I'm going to get a chapter finished by Sunday, however, I really need to get my ass in gear.  That's one of my projects for tonight.

Lent is breathing down Saint Marty's neck.

February 21: Fat Tuesday, Paczkis, Wonderful Party

Let him in!  It is a mercy he didn't shake his arm off.  He was at home in five minutes.  Nothing could be heartier.  His niece looked just the same.  So did Topper when he came.  So did the plump sister, when she came.  So did every one when they came.  Wonderful party, wonderful games, wonderful unanimity, won-der-ful happiness!

Fat Tuesday.  Paczkis.  King Cake.  Beads.  As the saying goes:  today we feast, for tomorrow we famine.  Or something like that.  Of course, I'm working and teaching all day, so I won't have much chance to join in the bacchanalia.  The closest I'll probably come is eating a lemon and a chocolate paczki.  (Yes, I know how many calories that is.  I know how bad that particular pastry is for you.  I.  Just.  Don't.  Care.)  There aren't too many Mardi Gras opportunities in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan at the end of February.  Too cold for a parade.  Too cold for naked or half-naked people on the streets.

The quote with which I chose to start this post comes from the end of A Christmas Carol.  It's when Scrooge works up the courage to go to his nephew Fred's house for Christmas dinner.  I love the expansiveness of the end of the paragraph, the repetition of the word "wonderful" four times, stretching it out, syllable-by-syllable.  It's almost as if Dickens doesn't want the fun to end, either.

For Scrooge, the fun doesn't end.  According to the book, he does keep Christmas in his heart all year long.  I imagine him, for the rest of his life, being just one, giant party wherever he goes.  If he was in New Orleans right now, I'm sure he'd be down to his underwear, dancing to some jazz version of  "YMCA."

My wisdom for today is to have a won-der-ful Fat Tuesday.  Celebrate.  Do something special for yourself, even if it's just taking an extra helping of peas at dinner tonight.  If that's your idea of celebration, indulge yourself.  That's what I'm going to do.  (Not the peas thing.  The indulge myself thing.)  Because tomorrow is Ash Wednesday, and Project Memoir kicks off.

Saint Marty is craving a paczki now.  Lemon.  Or Chocolate.  Or raspberry.  Or blueberry.  Or all of the above.

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner

February 20: Old Dog, Project Memoir, Learnt a Lesson

When he agrees to go with the Ghost of Christmas Present, Scrooge makes this little speech:

"Spirit," said Scrooge submissively, "conduct me where you will.  I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which is working now.  To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it."

Scrooge is the ultimate example of being able to teach an old dog new tricks.  Of course, he has to be scared shitless in order for the lesson to sink in, but he does learn.  That's all that matters.

I'm almost as bad as Scrooge when it comes to accepting change/new things.  It has been one of my most frequent subjects since I started this blog:  change sucks, change is bad, change is a gift from Satan, change is about as comfortable as a rectal exam.  Take your pick. 

I like sameness.  I cherish sameness.  Sameness is a warm shower.  Sameness is Godiva chocolate.  Sameness is God's way of giving you a hug.  If you can't tell, I'm a big fan of sameness.

That being said, I know that many people, including several therapists I've seen, view this attachment to habit as possibly unhealthy.  I've heard the term pathological a couple of times.  Long time disciples of Saint Marty know, however, that every Lent I try to do something that breaks down the walls of my little kingdom of comfort.  A couple years ago, I decided to pray for people who had/have hurt me in some way.  It was an exercise in forgiveness, and it was a bitch.  I grew as a person, let go of some long-held pain.  I changed.  Last Lent, I decided to write a "happy" poem every day, from Ash Wednesday to Easter Sunday.  That also stretched me as a poet and person.  I tend to be a little on the morose/dark side in my disposition and writing.  Last Lent, I learned that happiness really is a choice.  Even the darkest of times have rays of light.  Last year, I wrote a book of "happy" poems, and I changed.

Just like Scrooge, I have "learnt a lesson" from the Ghosts of Lent Past.  So, where is the Ghost of Lent Present going to lead me this year?  I've been kicking around a few ideas.  Last year, I've invited my disciples to volunteer suggestions, and someone suggested that I give up sarcasm for Lent.  This person pointed out that the word "sarcasm" means "to cut, to rend (flesh)."  While I agree that sarcasm can be harmful when directed toward other people, most of the sarcasm I employ is directed toward myself or Republicans.  Therefore, I will not be giving up sarcasm any time soon (especially during an election year). 

But I have come up with an idea.

Saint Sebastian doesn't look too unhappy

I first started this blog a couple of years ago to focus on the feast days of Catholic saints.  As a child, I was always drawn to these holy women and men who seemed so happy in the most painful of circumstances (torture and terminal illness, that sort of thing).  I wanted that kind of peace in my life.  Looking at hagiography through the ages, in literature and art, I thought I could do something interesting with the saints and the sinners of the ages.  And, by communing with the saints, I could also learn something about the big struggles of my life.  Mental illness.  Sexual addiction.  Family dysfunction.  Suicide.  Spiritual abandonment.  Out of all this mess, my blog, Saint Marty, was born.

This Ash Wednesday, I think the Ghost of Lent Present is leading me back to the roots of this little blog endeavor.  I'm thinking about finally putting all the raw ingredients of my original reflections of the saints into book form.  It will be a memoir about my personal struggles with all of the crap I just mentioned.  I'll tackle bipolar disease, sexual obsession, marital anguish, and spiritual loss.  I'll look through the lens of the saints' lives.  For Lent, I will work on chapters of this memoir, which I'll call, for lack of a better title, Saint Marty.  Each Sunday, I'll post a new chapter, and, hopefully, I'll learn something about myself and my life and God.

That's my idea for this Lent.  I could call it something catchier, like Project Memoir.  Either title would work for me.  Drop me a comment and let me know what you think of this year's Lenten challenge.

If Scrooge can learn a lesson from the ghosts of his life, so can Saint Marty.