July 26: "Winter at Herring Cove," Retrospective Falsification, 1980s

Mary Oliver and a remembrance of seals . . . 

Winter at Herring Cove

by:  Mary Oliver

Years ago,

in the bottle-green light

of the cold January sea,

two seals 

suddenly appeared together

in a single uplifting wave--

each in exactly the same relaxed position--

each, like a large, black comma,

upright and staring;

it was like a painting

done twice

and, twice, tenderly.

The wave hung, then it broke apart;

its lip was lightning;

its floor was the blow of sand

over which the seals rose and twirled and were gone.

Of all the reasons for gladness,

what could be foremost of this one,

that the mind can seize both the instant and the memory!

Now the seals are no more than the salt of the sea.

If they live, they're most distant than Greenland.

But here's the kingdom we call remembrance

with its thousand iron doors

through which I pass so easily,

switching on the old lights as I go--

while the dead wind rises and the old rapture rewinds,

the stiff waters once more begin to kick and flow.

Memory is a tricky thing.  Oliver's recollection of these two seals could be completely factual.  Or not.  She acknowledges the slipperiness of the mind.  Every experience is both instant and memory.  The moment something happens, it becomes remembrance, and that remembrance is tinged with retrospective falsification, where the brain filters out the negative, leaving only the warm and fuzzy.  Retrospective falsification is the reason why women will endure childbirth more than once.  The pain and suffering of labor is erased by the joy of holding a newborn child.

Looking back on "the good old days" is something we all do.  I was a child of the 1980s.  That means the soundtrack of my youth was Michael Jackson, Madonna, Tina Turner, Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, and Simple Minds, among others.  Big hair, parachute pants, ripped jeans, and Miami Vice pastels.  E. T. the Extraterrestrial, Dead Poets Society, and The Breakfast Club.  In my nostalgic mind, it was a great decade to grow up in.

Of course, Ronald Reagan was President of the United States.  The AIDS epidemic killed millions.  The space shuttle Challenger exploded.  John Lennon was assassinated.  People were in a satanic panic.  And Betamax cassettes came and went.  So, not everything was sequins and moonwalking.  Retrospective falsification is hard at work.

I don't want to go back to the 1980s.  Being a teenager kind of sucked in all of its painful awkwardness.  I remember the constant feelings of inadequacy and low self-esteem.  My inability to ask the person I was crushing on to go to a movie.  I was a mess in a quiet, straight-A-student kind of way.  I didn't even get truly black-out drunk until my senior year of high school.

Tonight, when I got home from the library, it was around 9 p.m.  The houses in the neighborhood were bathed in a kind of golden summer light that appears only around dusk in July or early August.  I took my puppy for a trot around the backyard, and she flushed a rabbit out of the lilac bushes.  I could smell barbecue--someone had grilled some hot dogs.

I love this time of the year, when the hullaballoo of Independence Day subsides and what's left are long days of sun and blue, blue sky.  Is the world a perfect place tonight?  No, but it's really not about perfection.  It's about being content.  That's what I am tonight, Donald Trump and Canadian forest fires notwithstanding.

In short, for Saint Marty, it's the best of times, it's the worst of times.  Right here.  Right now.

May 27: Nothing to Worry About, Freedom, Deep Breaths

Merton tastes rebellious freedom for the first time . . .

In 1930, after I had turned fifteen, and before most of these things happened, the way began to be prepared for my various intellectual rebellions by a sudden and very definite sense of independence, a realization of my own individuality which, while being natural at that age, took an unhealthy egotistic turn.  And everything seemed to conspire to encourage me to cut myself off from everybody else and go my own way.  For a moment, in the storms and confusion of adolescence, I had been humbled by my own interior sufferings, and having a certain amount of faith and religion, I had subjected myself more or less willingly and even gladly to the authority of others, and to the ways and customs of those around me.

But in Scotland I had begun to bare my teeth and fight back against the humiliation of giving in to other people, and now I was rapidly building up a hard core resistance against everything that displeased me:  whether it was the opinions or desires of others, or their commands, or their very persons.  I would think what I wanted and do what I wanted, and go my own way.  If those who tried to prevent me had authority to prevent me, I would have to be at least externally polite in my resistance:  but my resistance would be no less determined, and I would do my own will, have my own way.

When Pop and Bonnemaman came to Europe again in 1930, they practically threw the doors of the world wide open to me and gave me my independence.  The economic crisis of 1929 had not altogether ruined Pop:  he did not have all his substance invested in companies that crashed, but the indirect effect on him was just as serious as it was on every other ordinary business man. 

In June 1930, they all came down to Oakham--Pop, Bonnemaman, and John Paul.  It was a quiet visit.  They no longer took towns by storm.  The depression had changed all that.  Besides, they were used to traveling in Europe now.  The fear and trepidation that had been so strong an element in their excitement in the old days were somewhat allayed.  Their voyages were comparatively--but only comparatively--serene.

They had a couple big rooms in the labyrinthine "Crown Inn" at Oakham, and one of the first things Pop did was to take me apart into one of them and talk to me in a way that amounted to an emancipation.

I think it was the first time in my life I had ever been treated as if I were completely grown up and able to take care of myself in everything, and to hold my own in a business conversation.  In reality, I have never been able to talk intelligently about business.  But I listened to Pop exposing our financial affairs as if I understood every word about it, and when it was over I had, indeed, grasped all the essentials.

No one knew what was going to happen in the world in the next ten or twenty years.  Grosset and Dunlap was still in business, and so was Pop:  but one could never tell when the business itself might fold up, or if he himself would be turned out.  But in order to make sure that John Paul and I would be able to finish school, and even go on to the university, and have something to keep us from starving while we were looking for a job afterwards, Pop had taken the money he had planned to leave us in his will, and had put it away for us where it would be as safe as possible, in some kind of insurance policy which would pay us so much a year.  He worked it out on a piece of paper and showed me all the figures and I nodded wisely.  I didn't grasp the details but I understood that I ought to be able to get along all right until about 1940.  And in any case, before a couple of years had gone by, Pop discovered that the big magic insurance policy did not work as nearly as he had expected, so he had to change his plans again, with a loss of a little money somewhere.  

When it was all done, Pop gave me the piece of paper with all the figures on it, and sat up straight in his chair, and looked out the window, running his hand over the top of his bald head and said:  "So now it's all settled.  No matter what happens to me, you will both be taken care of.  You've got nothing to worry about for a few years, anyway."

It is quite a gift that Merton's grandfather gives him:  economic independence.  At the age of around 15, Merton knows that, for about 11 years, he will not have to worry about school tuition or rent or food or travel.  He will be able to live the life he chooses, with very little in the way of limitations.  Merton isn't Jay Gatsby.  He won't be able to lease a mansion and throw extravagant parties every night for his rich friends.  Yet, he also won't be a starving artist (or writer or journalist or Trappist monk).  Freedom is his.

I have known that kind of economic freedom a couple times in my adult life.  When I enrolled in college, I did so with the knowledge that I had a full-ride scholarship.  I was given several thousand dollars each semester, which covered the costs of tuition and books and gas.  Not only that, but I received an overage check every semester, as well.  I had enough funds to simply go to school, live at home, and do pretty much whatever I wanted in my free time.  I would often save a sizable portion of my overage money and take a month-long vacation at my aunt and uncle's house in the Lower Peninsula of Michigan.  While there, I would buy clothes, sneak across the Blue Water Bridge into Canada to drink with my cousins, and go see every movie that was released.  I wasn't Jay Gatsby, but I also wasn't Tom Joad.

And right after I was married, my wife and I lived in Kalamazoo, where I was enrolled in a PhD program at Western Michigan University.  Once again, although we weren't by any means wealthy, my wife and I didn't struggle.  I taught at the college and took classes.  My wife was a substitute teacher at some of the inner-city schools.  We were happy.  Went out to eat a lot.  Traveled to the Upper Peninsula at least once a month to visit family.  Bought books and music and wines.  It was a good life, not limited by economic uncertainty.

I'm sure that I'm forgetting some hardships that I faced during these times in my life.  The human mind has this ability to whitewash the past, wipe away the grime of struggle and pain.  It's a process called retrospective falsification, coined by psychologist Donovan Hilton Rawcliffe in 1952.  It is defined as "the unconscious distortion of past experiences to conform to a person's needs in the present."

For the past couple years, I have faced some financial hardships.  I don't want to discuss the reasons for these difficulties.  That's not the point.  My current economic distresses have gilded those times from my past when money seemed much more abundant.  Now, my undergraduate and graduate years of higher education seem almost like a once upon a time.  I could call them my Roarin' Twenties or my Renaissance. 

Yet, I know my mind is working its retrospective falsification magic.  There were painful moments in that Renaissance.  Heartbreaks.  Sleepless nights.  Tears.  Just like now.  I've been wondering how this pandemic will be remembered in the future.  Will it be painted bleakly, with death statistics and Dorothea Lange-like photos of people at soup kitchens?  Or will it be remembered as a great deep breath--when the universe forced all of us to slow down, take stock, and start over?

Tonight, I am writing with a friend.  We have given ourselves permission to delve into our passions, without guilt or apology.  After I'm done writing this blog post, I may work on a new poem or revise poems from a chapbook manuscript.  Or, I just may go to my refrigerator, take out a wine cooler, and sit down and allow myself to just . . . be.

That is the great miracle of this evening.  This time in history.  Everyone is learning to just . . .be.  Without parades or graduations.  Without fireworks or parties.  Happiness isn't about all those things really.  It may take the graduates of 2020 half a lifetime to realize this, for retrospective falsification to do its work.  But, eventually, they won't remember all that they didn't have this year.

Hopefully, what they will remember are the important things.  A rainy evening.  A dog sleeping on the hardwood floor.  Family going about its nightly business.  No rushing.  No chaos.  No deadlines.  Just the slowness of deep breaths.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.  Time stretching out like a blank page, waiting for that first letter.  That first word.

For this, Saint Marty gives thanks.

April 18: Heart and Center, Walking with My Dog, Retrospective Falsification

Merton moves to England . . .

Before I was really able to believe that I was out of the Lycee for good, we were racing through Picardy on the Nord railway.  Pretty soon the atmosphere would take on that dim pearlish grey that would tell us we were nearing the Channel, and all along the line we would read the big billboards saying, in English, "Visit Egypt!"

Then, after that, the channel steamer, Folkestone cliffs, white as cream in the sunny haze, the jetty, the grey-green downs and the line of prim hotels along the top of the rock:  these things all made me happy.  And the cockney cries of the porters and the smell of strong tea in the station refreshment room spelled out all the associations of what had, up to now, always been a holiday country for me, a land heavy with awe-inspiring properties, but laden with kinds of comforts, and in which every impact of experience seemed to reach the soul through seven or eight layers of insulation.

England meant all this for me, in those days, and continued to do so for a year or two more, because going to England meant going to Aunt Maud's house in Ealing.

The red brick house at 18 Carlton Road, with the little lawn that was also a bowling green and the windows looking out on the enclosed patch of grass which was the Durston House cricket field, was a fortress of nineteenth-century security.  Here in Ealing, where all the Victorian standards stood entrenched in row upon row of identical houses, Aunt Maud and Uncle Ben lived in the very heart and the center of the citadel, and indeed Uncle Ben was one of the commanders.  

I spent a good portion of today walking with my dog.  According to my iPhone, I walked close to 21,000 steps.  That's 9.8 miles.  On my walks, I visited places where I had lived in the past.  I walked past the first apartment my wife and I had when we were married.  It was a duplex at the time.  We lived in the lower part.  It was large and spacious, with a nice-sized kitchen and a sun room that leaked in the winter.  I have fond memories of the place, even though the landlord eventually rented the upper level to her sister whose favorite pastime was having sex, loudly, with her weed-smoking boyfriend at 7 o'clock in the morning.

At first, I couldn't locate this duplex.  After circling the block once or twice, I realized that the building has been renovated, new siding and a two-car garage erected in the backyard.  It looked nothing like the place I remember, with its 1970s yellow paint and cluttered front porch.  That house has retreated into the golden light of nostalgia.

This evening, I walked by the building which used to house my father's small business--a plumbing supply store.  That building, on the outside, still looks the same.  Pastel green with brown trim.  Up above, the sign with my father's name on it still hangs.  When I pressed my face to the windows to peer inside, I could see displays, tables, and the counter with the cash register.  All stuff that I remember clearly from the days when I worked there.  I could tell there was a fine layer of dust over everything.

For all four years of high school, every Saturday, I worked at that store.  I sort of hated the fact that eight hours of my precious weekend time was taken up in that place.  Tonight, however, I found myself wanting to go inside, sit on the high stool that used to be behind the cash register counter, and return for a few moments to that time when all the members of my family were still alive and the future seemed like a bright and shining thing that I wanted to chase down.

This pandemic has forced me (everyone?) into thinking about the past, when you could put your arms around a relative or friend without worry.  Masks were reserved for Halloween.  Rubber gloves were only used to scrub the toilet.  Simpler times, although they didn't seem simple when I was living them.  Just as Merton seems to engage in a little retrospective falsification in the passage above, I've been indulging in a little of that myself today.  (Definition of retrospective falsification: the unconscious distortion of past experiences to conform to a person's needs in the present.)

What do I need in this present that my distorted memory of the past offers?  Take your pick.  No bills.  No mental illness.  No coronavirus.  No worry.  A future that seemed limitless--college, job, wife, kids, books to write, dreams to chase, happily ever after.  Everything seemed possible back then.

I know what I did today wasn't necessarily healthy for my state of mind.  But it brought me comfort to remember, even if my mind whitewashed those memories so that they shone like agates in lake water.  It was medicine.  Sweet and good tasting.  Yet, it also filled me with an ache for all the things/people/times that I've lost, as well.

Tomorrow, I will be changing the routes of my walks.  Avoiding those places that drag me back to the past so strongly.  Instead, I will try to be thankful for my present life, where all of my family is together in my home.  Safe.  Healthy.  Warm.  Loved.

Saint Marty is going to go have an adult beverage now.  That's something he didn't do when he was in high school.  Much.

January 16: Fondly Remember, End of Long Week, Nostalgic Fairy Tale

Thinking about [his son] Robert, Ives would always fondly remember those evenings he spent in 1948, at the Art Students League on West Fifty-seventh Street, where he took classes several nights a week.  After a day freelancing, he'd walk in and sit in the back, his sketchbook, charcoals, and pencils set out before him...

If Mr. Ives' Christmas is about anything, it's about nostalgia.  Ives is always fondly remembering better times, happier days.  The majority of his time is spent thinking about his dead son, trying to recapture every last moment of Robert's life.  These remembrances bring him a great deal of comfort, but, in the end, they also cause him a great deal of suffering.  By trying to keep his son's memory alive, Ives is slowly smothering any chance of happiness for himself and his wife.


I'm a pretty nostalgic person myself.  There's a reason why my Christmas tree is still glowing in the corner of my living room and my favorite TV show when I was younger was The Wonder Years (aside from the fact that Winnie Cooper was really cute).  I enjoy tripping down memory lane.  The present is always so complicated, and the past was so much simpler.  Granted, I'm indulging in a little bit of what they call "retrospective falsification."   That means I'm sort of editing my memories.  Leaving out the bad parts, and focusing solely on the happy ones.  It's sort of like eating a pizza but picking off the anchovies.

It has been a very long week.  Late nights teaching.  Early mornings working.  I'm beat.  I just finished snowblowing my driveway and cleaning my bathroom.  Writing this post is the last thing I need to complete before I can put my head on a pillow.  Of course, I'm thinking of simpler times when my daughter was a toddler, how she would lie in her bed and listen to me read Charlotte's Web or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, hanging off my every word.  (These days, I'm lucky if I get more than a grunt in the morning when I drop her off at her school bus stop.)  Of course, I'm completely ignoring the mental illness and sexual addiction that almost ended my marriage.  That's the power of retrospective falsification.  Every memory is a happy one.

Once upon a time, an old man lived near a lake.  The old man was so old that every member of his family had already died.  The old man was quite alone in the world.  He spent his days staring at photo albums, remembering the better times of his life.

The old man eventually died and went to heaven.  As he was standing at the Pearly Gates, the old man met Saint Peter.  "Saint Peter," the old man said, "how come I lived as long as I did?'

Saint Peter shook his head and said, "We forgot about you."

Moral of the story:   Winnie Cooper was really cute.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

See what I mean?

May 19: Retrospective Falsification

When someone dies, there's a certain amount of retrospective falsification that goes on.  "Retrospective falsification" is a term coined by author Mario Puzo to describe the process of erasing bad memories.  We've all done it.

Retrospective falsification is inevitable.  My brother who recently passed was not a saint.  (Spoiler alert:  Saint Marty really isn't a saint, either.)  We all have things we've done in the past that make us cringe, blush, and hide our faces.  That's what being human is all about.  Making mistakes.  Learning from those mistakes.  Becoming a better person.

My brother made mistakes.  He smoked.  He didn't take care of his diabetes.  Because of those mistakes, he had a stroke.  Yet, he learned from his mistakes.  After his stroke, he worked hard at his recovery, became an active church-goer, and became a really good person.  At his funeral, I was amazed by the number of people who stood up and told stories about my brother.  Wonderful stories full of laughter and love.

I love my brother, warts and all.  He had his failings.  But he also had his victories.

Saint Marty prefers to remember his brother that way.

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