June 6: Yellow Brick Road, Kazim Ali, "Speech"

Really, writing these blog posts are some of my favorite moments of the day.  Usually, I am a little tired or a little rushed when I sit down to reflect on my life in the past 24 hours.  And, usually, I don't know what the hell I'm going to say when I start typing.  I just follow the Yellow Brick Road of my mind.

This blog is called Saint Marty.  Obviously, I am not a saint.  Anyone who's been reading my posts for any length of time knows this.  That striving for perfection, that's what this blog is all about.  It's also about the failure of achieving that perfection.  Failure is inevitable if perfection is the goal.

Through words, however, I can reach out and almost touch a little piece of sainthood.  It's all about the well-crafted thought, the beautiful image, the witty saying.  Words help me understand my place in the world.  That's why I write every day--to understand.  Maybe to improve, too, just a little.

Saint Marty is trying to climb his way to heaven, one sentence at a time.  Move over, Saint Peter.

Speech

by:  Kazim Ali

How struck I was by that face, years ago, in the church mural:
Eve, being led by Christ through the broken gates of Hell.
She's been nominated for the position of Featured Saint
on the Icon of Belief, up against the dark horse candidate—
me: fever-ridden and delirious, a child in Vellore, unfolding
the packet around my neck that I was ordered not to open.
Inside, a folk cure, painted delicately in saffron.
Letters that I could not read.
Why I feel qualified for the position
based on letters I could not read amounts to this:
Neither you nor I can pronounce the difference
between the broken gates and the forbidden letters.
So what reason do we need to believe in icons or saints?
How might we otherwise remember—
without an image to fasten in that lonely place—
the rock on which a Prophet flung himself into fever?
Without an icon or church, spell "gates of Hell."
Spell "those years ago unfolding."
Recite to me please all the letters you are not able to read.
Spell "fling yourself skyward."
Spell "fever."

October 24: Extra Work, Pulled in Different Directions, Tired Fairy Tale

Lurvy picked up a pitchfork and walked away to get some clean straw.  Having such an important pig was going to mean plenty of extra work, he could see that.

Lurvy, a hired hand, works his ass off on the Zuckerman farm.  He slops Wilbur, pitches hay, milks cows, builds crates, plants crops.  He does everything, probably for little more than a slice of homemade strawberry-rhubarb pie per day.   Basically, Lurvy is that thing that every employer wants:  a hard-working employee who works like an Oompa Loompa in a chocolate factory.

I'm very tired tonight.  I always am on Friday nights.  After five 12- and 14-hour workdays, I am running on empty.  Each one of the sentences I've typed tonight has taken me several minutes to compose.  My mind is firing on one piston.

Tonight, I received a phone call from a friend who leads the praise band at church.  She wants me to rehearse tomorrow morning at 10 a.m.  There's also a movie event at a local theater for my son at the same time.  And a clothing resale at a local school where my wife and I purchase birthday and Christmas presents every year.  Then I have to take my daughter to the dance store to purchase her pointe shoes.  And, of course, I have to stop at the local pumpkin patch to buy some Halloween pumpkins.  In the late afternoon, I have to play the pipe organ for the Saturday evening mass at the Catholic church.

I feel like I'm constantly being pulled in about a million different directions.  I start working before the sun rises, and I don't stop until well past sunset.  My medical office job gives me stress headaches.  My university teaching job is great, but only part-time with no benefits or perks or advancement to full time.  I have quizzes and midterm exams to grade.  The university bookstore wants my textbook orders for next semester.  My daughter has a boyfriend.  My son is taking a new medication that may or may not help with his tendency to cause bodily harm on the school playground.  I'm craving Chinese food, but all I have in the house that comes close is a bag of uncooked egg noodles.

I know I'm whining right now.  That's a byproduct of the exhaustion, along with a puzzling urge to watch It's a Wonderful Life and drink several bottles of Corona.  Where's Clarence when I need him?

Once upon a time, a farmhand named Linus worked so hard that he had a heart attack one afternoon and died in the cattle barn.

When Linus got to heaven's gates, Saint Peter looked at him and said, "Linus, you have been a good and faithful servant on Earth."

Linus smiled and said, "Thank you, sir."

Saint Peter handed him a broom and said, "My office needs cleaning.  Get to work."

"When do I get a break?" Linus asked.

Saint Peter shook his head.  "This is eternity, buddy.  You should have taken more breaks when you were alive."

Linus frowned, took the broom, and muttered, "No wonder Jesus liked John better."

Moral of the story:  I'm still hungry for Chinese food.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

When's the last time they had some time off?