March 22, 2026: “Before,” Sundays, “Lost on an Island”

Most faithful disciples of this blog know that I dislike Sundays intensely.  

This animosity has nothing to do with God or religion or faith.  I’m a cradle Catholic; play keyboard/pipe organ at several different denominational churches every weekend; and say prayers every morning and night (and at various times during the day).  The reason I dislike Sundays:  they come before Mondays and the start of another work week.  

Monday through Friday, I feel like Sisyphus—pushing that boulder uphill until I reach the summit on Friday.  On Sunday, that fucker rolls back to the bottom of the hill, and I start trudging down to start the whole process all over again.  

Marie Howe writes about a boulder . . . 

Before

by: Marie Howe

The boulder once dust, will be dust again,

but today, so filled with its own heaviness,

it can’t hear the grunts of the men who push and roll it

                                                                        to the mouth of the tomb,

and it can’t yet conceive how else it might be moved.

Howe is talking about mortality here, echoing the blessing that’s repeated every Ash Wednesday:  Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.  Howe’s boulder has consciousness.  It knows its own weight, but it doesn’t know all the back-breaking effort it took to get it to that tomb entrance.

I’m feeling the weight of that boulder tonight as I prepare to head into another week of teaching and library work, and I’m not excited.  It always feels as though I’m just starting to relax as the weekend comes to an end.  I even took a little nap this afternoon, which is a luxury I rarely allow myself.  Now it’s almost 10 p.m., and the boulder is starting its downward descent.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love working at the library, and there are aspects of teaching that really energize me.  However, the heaviness of the next five days is overwhelming.  Plus (and most church musicians can back me up on this fact), the Lenten/Easter season adds extra stress and weight to life. Palm Sunday is in seven days, and then Holy Week, with all the bells, whistles, smoke, and chants.  In two weeks, I will look like a refugee from a George Romero flick.

I guess the takeaway from tonight’s post is that I’m tired.  Tired of the daily grind.  And politics.  And President 47.  And Republicans.  And war.  And divisiveness.  47 has ruined basically the last ten years of life in the United States (and the world).  If I could just stay home, write poems, and take my puppy for walks, I would.  (With the price of oil and gas rising every day, that’s pretty much all I’ll be able to afford to do.)

This weekend, I watched a movie starring Michael Caine as a dying Thomas Pynchon-esque writer.  It was titled Best Sellers.  One of Michael Caine’s catchphrases in the film is “bullshite.”  (I don’t think I need to translate that for you.)

Allow me to say this:  I’m tired of all the bullshite going on in my country and around the globe.

The only bright spot this Sunday was the Zoom poetry workshop I led this evening, with some of my best friends participating.

Saint Marty wrote the following poem in workshop tonight.  It’s about being lost and found  . . . 

Lost on an Island

by: Martin Achatz

Some people think it’s impossible

to get lost on an island, with all

its coast to guide you home to

where you began.  I’m here to tell you

you it’s easy to get lost on a piece

of land surrounded on all sides

by water, fresh or salt, that water

isn’t a street sign or highway

marker telling you how far to

the next McDonald’s or gas station

or rest area.  Water encourages

lostness with its waves and currents

and horizons.  If anything, water

wants to turn us all into Odysseus

sailing 20 years before he crawls

onto Ithaca’s shores, driven

by a yearn for the arms of Penelope

or wet nose, rough tongue of Argos

waiting by the palace door those two

decades.  Even on an island, yes, 

it’s easy to get lost, be lost, stay lost.

See that beach there?  I bet it’s named

after somebody who got lost and built

a shack on the sands and called it

home.

March 16, 2025: "The One Girl at the Boys' Party," Sundays, "Resurrection X"

I'm not a fan of Sundays.  They fill me with melancholy.  I don't like the sound of church bells, and, even though I'm a church organist, I find traditional church hymns (even the happier ones like "Ode to Joy") depressing.

My wife and I have been slowly making our way through the television series The Crown on Netflix.  This afternoon, at lunch, we watched the final episode where Imelda Staunton, playing Queen Elizabeth, wrestles with existential questions about the meaning of her life and impending death.  It was incredibly moving.  (Yes, I did cry a little bit.)  

And it put me in a deeply thoughtful mood about my own place in life and the world.  I even made a comment to my wife about our daughter moving away for medical school and our son talking about getting an apartment with a friend when he graduates from high school next year.  "I think we're becoming obsolete," I said.

Sharon Olds feels her daughter slipping through her fingers like pool water . . . 

The One Girl at the Boys' Party

by: Sharon Olds

When I take our girl to the swimming party
I set her down among the boys. They tower and
bristle, she stands there smooth and sleek,
her math scores unfolding in the air around her.
They will strip to their suits, her body hard and
indivisible as a prime number,
they'll plunge in the deep end, she'll subtract
her height from ten feet, divide it into
hundreds of gallons of water, the numbers
bouncing in her mind like molecules of chlorine
in the bright blue pool. When they climb out,
her ponytail will hang its pencil lead
down her back, her narrow silk suit
with hamburgers and french fries printed on it
will glisten in the brilliant air, and they will
see her sweet face, solemn and
sealed, a factor of one, and she will
see their eyes, two each,
their legs, two each, and the curves of their sexes,
one each, and in her head she'll be doing her
wild multiplying, as the drops
sparkle and fall to the power of a thousand from her body.

It's difficult when you realize that you can't protect your kids from all the cruelties of the world.  Olds can't save her daughter from becoming an object of sexual desire.  She has to let her daughter dive in and tread those waters alone.  Olds is on her way to becoming obsolete as a mother, and all she can do is write a poem about it.

My wife told me this afternoon that we won't every become obsolete as parents.  Speaking about our daughter, my wife said, "Who's the first person she calls if something good or bad happens to her?"  As for my son, my wife said, "Who did he come to for help with his English paper this afternoon?"

Thus, I guess it's not a matter of being unneeded.  It's a matter of feeling unneeded.  I've been a father for close to 25 years.  Frankly, I can't remember NOT being a father anymore.  However, that role is quickly shifting.  Pretty soon, my wife and I are going to be empty nesters.  (I hate that term, by the way.)  Then we're going to have to figure out who we are again.  It's almost like graduating from high school all over and deciding what my major in college is going to be.

Unless I live to be 114, I am well past the halfway point in my life, quickly sliding into my "golden" years, although, I'm not sure how golden they're going to be, thanks to the Dictator Tot.  I'm also not sure what, if any, legacy I will leave when I die.  A couple of poetry collections.  A whole lot of unpublished poems and essays.  My daughter.  My son.  A bunch of books that my kids will probably pitch or give to Goodwill.  And this blog, which currently stands at 5,858 posts.  

Aside from my kids and wife and family, nobody is going to remember me even five years after I'm gone.  And that's okay.

But I'm not dead yet.  I still have a chance, like Ebenezer Scrooge, to make the world a better, safer place for my children.  And to write a few more poems.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for today about becoming obsolete and extinct, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

On this day in 1850, Nathaniel Hawthorne published The Scarlet Letter.  To give a nod to this book, choose a letter of the alphabet plus an interesting color, and write a poem where the color and letter repeat throughout.  The poem can be about anything, but you're welcome to make it scandalous, perhaps about an affair.

Resurrection X

by: Martin Achatz

Christ is tall as Mighty Joe Young

in the painting behind the altar.

Haloed in resurrection gold, shaking

off the mold of the tomb, he towers

over the Roman centurion who stoops,

crab crawls away, afraid Christ's foot

will flatten him like Godzilla flattened

Tokyo or Little Boy flattened Hiroshima,

leaving behind just a smudge, an X marking

the spot where he once was.  Or maybe

the soldier isn't afraid of oblivion, but

the whirls, loops, arches in Christ's toes, 

a divine map of the universe showing 

just how insignificant he is--a sandstone

grave marker with its name eaten away

by wind and rain and time, now only

a rocky blank face, mouth open, ready

to accept anything from the heavens:

salvation, radioactive breath, or the tender

lips and tongue of an old, old lover.

April 19: Sundays, Melancholy, Poem from "Kyrie"

Sundays are strange right now. 

I wake up, watch a livestream of a local Catholic Mass.  Then I get dressed and drive to my wife's church, a United Methodist congregation.  There, my wife sings and I play the piano in an empty sanctuary for a Zoom worship service.  Later on today, I will watch a recording of a Sunday service led by one of my very best friends, who is a pastor of another United Methodist church downstate.

In my life, Saturday nights and Sunday mornings have been devoted to being around people, united in worship experiences.  It's how I grew up.  It's in my DNA.  So, being isolated in my own little box during Zoom worship feels more than a little artificial.  Yet, it still feeds that craving for community and faith that Sundays engender in me.

I will go grocery shopping later today.  While I am at Meijer, I will be wearing a mask and avoiding other shoppers as much as possible.  This evening, I will make a birthday dinner for my daughter's boyfriend.  He turned 18 yesterday.  I will take my dog for a walk or two.  I will hear birds piping in the cold April air.

Whether in pandemic or not, the birds return to the Upper Peninsula in April, and the sun starts showing its bright eye earlier and earlier in the morning.  These things are constant.  Eternal.  I try to stay in touch with these signs of God's grace every day, but on Sundays especially. 

It is the Sabbath.  A day set aside for rest.  Reflection.  Thanksgiving.  I have never been a big fan of Sundays or Sabbaths.  I can't explain why, but a deep melancholy fills me, morning to night.  It may have something to do with the weekend ending, another five days of stress impending.  These past five or six Sundays, I have struggled even more with this sense of melancholy.  I have come to realize that being around other human beings on Sundays lifts my spirits, makes me feel not quite so alone.

It is a historic time right now in the world.  A time that will be recorded in history books, studied by economists and medical doctors, written about by poets for years to come.  Perhaps, in 50 or 75 or 100 years, someone will be reading these very words that I'm typing right now.  I will become part of a Covid-19 pandemic archive, filed under "Blog Post, Sundays, Covid-18 Pandemic, April 19, 2020."  Because it is important to remember the past.  It's how we learn from out mistakes.  Become better.

Greetings, academic of the future, from me, pandemic blogger and thinker of the past.  This Sunday, I lift this message up to you.  Take care.  Learn from it.  Say a prayer for the people of this time.  Know that, on this Sunday, I am sitting at my kitchen table, thinking about the meaning of Sundays and birds and eternity.

Because that's all we have right now.  Some idea of a distant future Sunday, where we can all gather together again, without fear, and sweep away all the crumbs of darkness and melancholy.

Saint Marty is ready with his broom.

poem from Kyrie

by:  Ellen Bryant Voigt

Dear Mattie, Did you have the garden turned?
This morning early while I took my watch
I heard a wood sparrow--the song's the same
no matter what they call them over here--
remembered too when we were marching in,
the cottonwoods and sycamores and popples,
how fine they struck me coming from the ship
after so much empty flat gray sky,
on deck winds plowing up tremendous waves
and down below half the batallion ill.
Thirty-four we left behind in the sea
and more fell in the road, it's what took Pug.
But there's enough of us still and brave enough
to finish this quickly off and hurry home.

January 20: The Hang of Thursdays, Sundays, 15 More Hours

Ford Prefect is about to explain that the planet Earth is about to be demolished at the Horse and Groom pub.  Arthur is wondering if he's somehow done "anything wrong today" to warrant this craziness . . .

"All right," said Ford, "I'll try to explain.  How long have we known each other?"

"How long?"  Arthur thought.  "Er, about five years, maybe six," he said.  "Most of it seemed to make some sense at the time."

"All right," said Ford.  "How would you react if I said that I'm not from Guildford after all, but from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse?"

Arthur shrugged in a so-so sort of way.

"I don't know," he said, taking a pull of beer.  "Why--do you think it's the sort of thing you're likely to say?"

Ford gave up.  It really wasn't worth bothering at the moment, what with the world being about to end.  He just said, "Drink up."

He added perfectly factually, "The world's about to end."

Arthur gave the rest of the pub another wan smile.  The rest of the pub frowned at him.  A man waved at him to stop smiling at them and mind his own business.

"This must be Thursday," said Arthur, musing to himself, sinking low over his beer.  "I never could get the hang of Thursdays."

There you have Arthur's explanation for the events of the day--it's Thursday.  That's why bulldozers are sitting outside his house, waiting to demolish it.  And why Ford Prefect somehow convinced Mr. Prosser, the man in charge of demolishing Arthur's house, to lie down in the mud for Arthur.  And why Ford is telling him that the world is about to end.  It's Thursday.

I've never had a problem with Thursdays.  For some reason, the day that's always bothered me is Sunday.  I've never gotten the hang of them.  They've always made me a little sad.  Maybe it's the sound of church bells tolling.  They've always struck me as a little mournful.  Maybe it's the end of the weekend, start of a new week--work, school, late nights, early mornings, never enough time to get everything done.  Or maybe something happened to me as a kid, some weird Sunday trauma that I'm still repressing.

Whatever the reason, Sundays fill me with angst.

This Sunday, I'm still battling the Florida cold/bronchitis/cough.  My chest hurts,  My eyes water.  My DayQuil has worn off.  I want to take a nap.  Woke up this morning with my right eye crusted over with some kind of snot.  (My eye isn't pink, and, once I washed off the crust, I haven't had any other problems with it today.)  I've decided to go to my doctor tomorrow.  I've got work and teaching.  On Thursday, I'm conducting a poetry workshop.  Next Saturday, I've got a show in Calumet.  I have to get better.  Soon.

Yes, I know I sound a little like I'm from a planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse.  That's what Sundays do to me.  They make me think and obsess over everything I have to do in the coming week.  Monday, work and go to the doctor.  Tuesday, work and meet with a friend and get better.  Wednesday, work and teach.  Thursday, work and run poetry workshop.  Friday, work and travel to Calumet for rehearsal at 5 p.m..  Saturday, rehearse and perform in show.  Sunday, return home and host my book club and start freaking out about the following week.

Now, I've just come back from a ten-day vacation in Florida, which was wonderful and full of joy.  So, I'm not going to say that I need a vacation.  I'm simply going to say that I'd like about 15 more hours in every day.  Then I could get everything done that I need to do, take a nap, and go see a movie or something.

Marty is one tired saint.  Don't pray to him.  His prayer answering machine is full.

March 6: Cartoon Hiatus, End of Spring Break, Classic Saint Marty

My two Constant Readers may have noticed the absence of original cartoons lately.  No Stickman.  No Saint Marty.  Yes, I am taking a cartoon hiatus for a few weeks.  I have gotten a little burned out recently, with school and work.  Frankly, I'm a little surprised that I've been able to keep up with this blog.  Not to worry.  I will soon be putting my cartooning skills back to work.

I just finished putting together a midterm exam for my Good Books class. That took a few hours this afternoon.  After I'm done with this blog, I will go on to correct some response papers.  I may check to see if I have any new assignments in the online class I'm taking.  It's just going to be a working day.  All day.  Possibly all night, as well.

Sundays have never been my favorite day of the week.  Despite being the Sabbath, dedicated to worship and rest, Sundays make me sad.  They don't feel like the beginning of something new.  They feel like an ending.  Of freedom.  Of being my own boss.  For the next five days, I am not in charge of myself.  I remember, as a kid, hearing the church bells tolling on Sunday afternoons and being overwhelmed with melancholy.  That's when I was five and six years old.  My dislike of this day has only strengthened over time.

It's the end of the weekend.  End of spring break.  Beginning of a work week.  Beginning of five days of labor.  Plus, next weekend, my family is going to the Wisconsin Dells for my daughter's dance competition.  Without me.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired four years ago, on a day of sunshine and happiness.  Four years later, well . . .

March 6, 2012:  Light Low Upon My Brow, Happiness

Anybody got a snuffer?

 "What!" exclaimed the Ghost, "would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light I give?  Is it not enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow!"

The Ghost of Christmas Past is a little put out with Scrooge here.  Scrooge has asked the Ghost to put on his cap.  There is a bright light issuing from the Spirit's head, and Scrooge has a "special desire to see the Spirit in his cap..."  Of course, the light has something to do with the light of Christmas, and the Ghost chides Scrooge for his request to dampen the light.

I kind of understand where Scrooge is coming from.  Yesterday morning, I was in a great mood, looking forward to a busy, productive day.  This morning, I just wanted to crawl back into bed and pull the pillow over my head, and it had nothing to do with feeling tired.  The energy and happiness I experienced yesterday just aren't there for me today.  If the Ghost of Christmas Present showed up at my front desk right now, I'd probably ask him to put on the cap, too, or at least wear it low upon his brow.  (I'm generally a person who keeps windows closed and curtains drawn.  I'm not a vampire.  I just don't like being that open and free with myself all the time, literally and figuratively.  Believe it or not, I don't blog about every detail of my life.)

Don't tell me all I need is a positive attitude.  I've heard all the lectures.  I've even taught a Sunday School class using a book titled something like Attitude Is Your Paintbrush or Attitude Makes You Paint Better or Brush Up Your Bad Attitude.  It was all about choosing to be happy and positive.  It was a stretch for me.

My former former coworker comes back to work today.  There's a potluck.  I made brownies.  It's going to be over forty degrees by this afternoon.  My wife has a new job.  Things are looking up.  Really up.  Although the first thing my former former coworker is going to do when she shows up is open the blinds to the office.  She likes sunshine.  In fact, my Ghost of Christmas Past would probably look a lot like her.

Saint Marty needs to find a good cap for his Ghost of Christmas Past.

Okay, it has nothing to do with my post, but it's really funny . . .

January 27: New Cartoon

Sundays are my most favorite and least favorite days of the week.

I love Sundays because I get to go to church and participate in worship.  I sing with the chancel choir.  I play and sing with the praise band.  I get to experience some real God moments, when the Holy Spirit fills my heart.  That's what I love about Sundays.

I hate Sundays because it means the end of the weekend.  All the tasks I've been putting off need to be completed.  I grade quizzes.  I write up lesson plans.  I read textbooks.  I set out my work clothes for Monday morning.  I prepare myself for another five days of early mornings, late nights, and lots of work in between.  That's what I hate about Sundays.

Tonight, I will set out my outfit.  I will pack up my books for school.  I will try to hold on to the God moments for a little bit longer.  The SAG Awards are on tonight.  I plan to watch them with my wife and daughter.  We will have some special snacks and spend time together.  Then, when the last award has been handed out, we will brush out teeth and go to bed.

Saint Marty isn't quite ready for another week to begin.  He's ready for some Fritos and vapid banter between shallow actors.

Confessions of Saint Marty