May 27: Muscular Energy, Three-Day Weekend, Opera

There is a muscular energy in sunlight corresponding to the spiritual energy of wind.  On a sunny day, sun's energy on a square acre of land or pond can equal 4500 horsepower.  These " horses" heave in every direction, like slaves building pyramids, and fashion, from the bottom up, a new and sturdy world.

It is May, and Dillard is basking in sunlight.  Birds riot in the forest canopy.  Fauna and vegetation explode to life like popcorn.  Summer is coming to Tinker Creek, with all its potential energy.  As Dillard points out, in an acre of dirt or water, 4500 sun horsepower gallops.  The world is being rebuilt.

There wasn't a whole lot of sun today in my little square of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Mostly, fog in the morning and a whole lot of gray in the afternoon.  Thunderstorms are forecasted for tonight.  Not a really auspicious beginning for a three-day holiday weekend.  (For my international readers, the last weekend of May celebrates Memorial Day, a time set aside to honor fallen war veterans.  Also, it's sort of the unofficial start of summer.)

That's okay, though.  I didn't have much opportunity for the outdoors, anyway.  It has been a long week.  I'm exhausted.  My whole plan for tonight involves a little PBS and a little reading and a little wine.  I was thinking about going to see a movie with my wife, but it seems that the only things Hollywood has to offer are superhero flicks.  Not my cup of tea.  Since I didn't like The Angry Birds Movie the first time, I have no intention of inflicting that on myself again.  Thus, Plan
B:  opera, a novel, and white wine.

That sounds like a perfect way to start the summer for Saint Marty.  (Saint Marty's wife may not be too excited about the opera.)

May 21: Heron, "The Angry Birds Movie," Cartoon Universe

The heron was in calm shallows; the deepest water it walked in went two inches up its orange legs.  It would go and get something from the cattails on the side, and, when it had eaten it--tossing up its beak and contracting its throat in great gulps--it would plod back to a dry sandbar in the center of the creek which seemed to serve as its observation tower.  It wagged its stubby tail up and down; its tail was so short it did not extend beyond its folded wings.

Dillard does this a lot at Tinker Creek--watching things.  She watches muskrats and ice melting.  The moon rising above stands of trees.  She takes things home, like snake skins, and puzzles over shape and form.  In short, she does everything that a writer/poet does when she doesn't have to worry about money or teaching or taking care of kids.  So, on a warm summer day, Dillard interrupts the dinner of a heron, watches it wade through the water and slime.

The reason I chose to focus on a passage about a bird is that I went to see The Angry Birds Movie last night with my son, wife, and sister.  The best thing I can say about the movie is that the buttered popcorn was pretty good.  There's nothing like movie theater popcorn.  As for the film itself . . . well, to be quite honest, I dozed off during a portion of it. 

Now, let me say here that I am not a person who hates animated feature films.  I love animated films.  When I teach Intro to Film, I always include Toy Story or Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs on the syllabus.  Walt Disney is one of my heroes (overlooking the rumored antisemitism and cooperation with Joseph McCarthy and HUAC in the 1950s).  In fact, one of the few movies I will pay to see this summer will be Pixar's Finding Dory.  (Not being a superhero fanboy, I couldn't care less whether Batman kicked Superman's ass or Captain America and Iron Man work out their relationship issues.)

On our first date, I took my wife-to-be to see The Jungle Book, which had just been re-released.  I sat with her in the back row of the theater full of rugrats.  I sang along to all the songs.  Loudly.  (We did make out a little bit, too, much to the chagrin of some soccer moms.)  Surprisingly, she still married me.

One of my earliest memories of going to the movies is Mary Poppins, especially where Mary takes everybody into the chalk painting.  As a kid, I dreamed of being able to do that--jumping into an animated world.  Of course, Who Framed Roger Rabbit? sort of showed how dangerous being a real person in a cartoon universe can be.  But I still thought it would be cool.  Actually, I wouldn't mind spending a little time with Woody and Buzz or Peter Pan and the Lost Boys.

Now, as for being in a world where little bird balls battle green pigs--I don't think I'd sign up for passage on that boat.  Nothing really magical about that for me.

However, Marty wouldn't mind being a Lego saint.

Confessions of Saint Marty

May 20: Calmly Sipping Tea, Edward Herman, Lilac Bushes

Tulips had cast their leaves on my path, flat and bright as doubloons.  I passed under a sugar maple that stunned me by its elegant unself-consciousness:  it was as if a man on fire were to continue calmly sipping tea.

It is October.  Dillard is wandering through the woods where birds are rioting in the colored leaves.  She moves and watches, finds herself under this sugar maple.  Stopped in her tracks.  The maple can't call attention to itself.  It's simply on fire with beauty.

It is warm tonight.  Summer warm.  When I left work, I took off the coat I was wearing, threw it in the back seat of my car.  I rolled down the windows, turned on my CD player.  I'm listening to an audio recording of the book The Boys on the Boat.  I'm on disk 10, and the boys are on an ocean liner, headed to the Berlin Olympics.  It's a good book, and it was a good evening to be cruising down the highway, wind whistling through the car, listening to Edward Herman's baritone voice describing the art of crew rowing.

For me this weekend is blessedly clear of obligations.  There is no daughter's boyfriend spending the weekend on the couch.  No Saturday morning church retreats.  No reason to rush for anything these next two days.  I plan to avoid any kind of stress.  (My two Constant Readers know that I will probably fail miserably with this plan.)

So, it's Friday evening.  The verge of summer.  My lilac bushes are starting to green up, finally.  Soon, I'll be able to look out my back window and see them blazing purple.  A man on fire.  Purple fire.  (I know, I know.  I'm really stretching for a connection.  It's the best I got tonight.)

Saint Marty now has to go to see The Angry Birds Movie with his son.  Can't avoid all stress.

I never like playing Angry Birds