December 23: Yule Love This Poem, Done, Magic 8-Ball

Yes, my Christmas poem is finished.  I worked on it for another four hours this morning.  That's after four hours on Friday, eight hours on Saturday, and two hours on Sunday.  In total, 18 hours of writing.  Now, that may sound horrible to some of you.  For me, it was the best part of the holiday season.  I actually accomplished something of value, which hasn't happened for a long time.

With that task accomplished, I can now turn my attention to the minutiae of Christmas Eve.  Wrapping presents.  Getting a haircut.  Practicing music.  Shoveling snow for a friend who recently had surgery.  Feeling bitter and devalued.  Going to therapy appointments.  You know, the usual.

Not to worry, my disciples.  You will get a chance to read my poem soon.  I will be posting it on Christmas day, along with my essay.  That's my present to you guys.  Please note that over the next two days (Christmas Eve, and Christmas day) I will be posting only once a day.  That's my Christmas present to myself.  A little time to relax.

I'm at the point with my poem where I'm not sure it's actually any good.  I've been working on it too long.  I've lost my objectivity.  Words and images have started to run together.  Plus, I'm really tired.  So, I'm going to turn to Holden to answer the question:

Is my Christmas poem good?

And Holden's response is:

Naturally, I never told him I thought he was a terrific whistler.  I mean you don't just go up to somebody and say, "You're a terrific whistler."

So Holden thinks his former roommate at Elkton Hills, Harris Macklin, was a really good whistler.  He never tells Harris.  But, if Harris is a good whistler, then, by extrapolation, I must be a good poet.  I know that logic isn't quite foolproof, but I'm going with it.

Saint Marty's poem is "terrific."

Ho, ho, ho!

April 3: Terrific Whistler, Choir Practice, Stress and More Stress

...He could even whistle classical stuff, but most of the time he just whistled jazz.  He could take something very jazzy, like "Tin Roof Blues," and whistle it so nice and easy--right while he was hanging stuff up in the closet--that it could kill you.  Naturally, I never told him I thought he was a terrific whistler.  I mean you don't just go up to somebody and say, "You're a terrific whistler."  But I roomed with him for about two whole months, even though he bored me till I was half crazy, just because he was such a terrific whistler, the best I ever heard...

Holden has an appreciation for people who have talent.  He loves his brother D. B.'s short stories.  He loves that Jane is a ballet dancer.  He loves the drummer in the Radio City Music Hall orchestra.  He loves the writer Isak Dinesen.  And he loves this guy's whistling.

I appreciate people with talent, too.  I play keyboard in a praise band at church.  The lead singer has been performing professionally for over thirty-some years.  The guy who plays guitar has over forty years as a professional musician.  The drummer can play guitar, bass, and cello, as well.  All of them have perfect pitch.  When we're practicing vocals, the guitarist will look at me and say something like, "It's just a third down," and I'll nod as if I understand him.  I love playing with these people.  They're crazy talented.  But I also walk a tightrope of inadequacy.  I know that I'm like the red-headed stepchild of the group.  Sometimes I think they simply include me out of pity.

Tonight, I have to play the pipe organ for the chancel choir practice.  These are people who know music, and they know I'm not a terrific whistler, if you get my meaning.  I will stumble through whatever sheet music the choir director places in front of me.  It will be an hour of complete humility.  And when I make a mistake, the choir members will all shake their heads.  Stress will build on more stress.  By time the rehearsal is over, I'm going to look like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  One big knot of tension.

That's my worry today.  Choir practice.  Not being the most terrific whistler in the world.

Saint Marty will put his lips together tonight and blow, but what comes out of his mouth will sound more like "Tin Roof Collapsing" than "Tin Roof Blues."

The mother of the most terrific whistler in the world