September 9: "The Long Day," Recuperating, Workaholic Habits

It has been a long day.  But Mondays usually are.

I did library stuff, taught film at the university, did more library stuff, and went over my Bigfoot manuscript one last time, looking typos and misplaced commas and clunky passages.  I just finished that process.  It's a little past 10 p.m. now, and my body is now officially telling me it has been a long day.

Billy Collins writes about his long day . . . 

The Long Day

by: Billy Collins

In the morning I ate a banana
like a young ape
and worked on a poem called “Nocturne.”

In the afternoon I opened the mail
with a short kitchen knife,
and when dusk began to fall

I took off my clothes,
put on “Sweetheart of the Rodeo”
and soaked in a claw-footed bathtub.

I closed my eyes and thought
about the alphabet,
the letters filing out of the halls of kindergarten

to become literature.
If the British call z zed,
I wondered, why not call b bed and d dead?

And why does z, which looks like
the fastest letter, come at the very end?
unless they are all moving east

when we are facing north in our chairs.
It was then that I heard
a clap of thunder and the dog’s bark.

and the claw-footed bathtub
took one step forward,
or was it backward

I had to ask
as I turned
to reach for a faraway towel.

I am still recuperating from the virus I caught last week.  My nose continues running, and, every once in a while, I experience a coughing fit that would have landed me in a tuberculosis sanatorium a hundred years ago.  I'm staring at my laptop screen right now through a veil of teary water, another lovely symptom.

Tomorrow promises to be even longer.  I have a library program in the evening, so I won't be getting home much before 9 p.m., just in time for the big showdown between Kamala Harris and the felon.  I really love the work I do, but my workaholic habits are catching up with me.  In the next few days, I have a feeling I'm going to crash, take to my bed, and sleep for about 12 or 13 hours.  I've been through this cycle more than once.

So, forgive Saint Marty if he doesn't wax philosophic tonight.  His store of wisdom is a little dry, and his head is full of mucous. 

July 11: "The Long Day," Call Me Crazy, Jobs

Billy Collins catalogues his day . . .

The Long Day

by: Billy Collins

In the morning I ate a banana

like a young ape

and worked on a poem called "Nocturne."

In the afternoon I opened the mail

with a short kitchen knife,

and when the dusk began to fall

I took off my clothes,

put on "Sweetheart of the Rodeo"

and soaked in a claw-footed bathtub.

I closed my eyes and thought

about the alphabet,

the letters filing out of the halls of kindergarten

to become literature.

If the British call z zed,

I wondered, why not call b bed and d dead?

And why does z, which looks like

the fastest letter, come at the very end?

unless they are all moving east

when we are facing north in our chairs.

It was then that I heard

a clap of thunder and the dog's bark,

and the claw-footed bathtub

took one step forward,

or was it backward

I had to ask

as I turned

to reach for a faraway towel.

Call me crazy, but Collins' day doesn't seem all that stressful.  Working on a poem.  Opening the mail.  Taking a bath.  Contemplating the alphabet.  Does all that constitute a long day?  Perhaps, for him.  For me, the days he describes seems like a walk in the proverbial park.

Most of my days are pretty long.  This morning, I was in my office by 7:30 a.m., tapping away at my keyboard.  I don't think I looked away from my computer until about 10:30 a.m., when I'd scheduled a meeting with someone.  The rest of morning and afternoon were taken up by busy work.  Necessary, but pretty brainless.  In the evening, I led a meeting of the Marquette Poets Circle.  Left the library around 8:30 p.m.  If you're keeping track, that's about a 13-hour day.

When I got home, I had to pack my suitcase for a weekend trip to Calumet where I'm performing.  I pretty much feel brain dead at the moment, and my life isn't going to slow down until Sunday evening, after I get back from Calumet and a quick trip to Mackinaw City.  A lot of time behind the wheel in the next 72 or so hours.

I don't always enjoy this busyness, especially when it barely allows me time to take a breath.  If I could afford it, I would love to have Collins' long day.  However, I don't think anybody would pay me $20,000 to give a poetry reading or lead a writing workshop.  (Don't laugh!  I can name at least five or six poets who command a fee that big, if not bigger.)  So, I live a fragmented life, moving from one job to another to another to another, sometimes in the space of just a few hours.

Am I tired?  Yes, I am.  Do I enjoy my various jobs?  For the most part, yes, I do.  Would I like to have fewer jobs?  Yes, I would.

But this is all I know.  I can't remember any point in my life (besides high school) when I wasn't holding down at least two occupations.  Currently, I have one full-time job and six part-time jobs.  Yes, six.  Don't feel bad for me, though.  Lots of people do the same thing in order to pay the bills.  I'm not the exception.

I'm just weary tonight, that's all.  It has been a long week, and it's going to be an even longer weekend.

Saint Marty is a little tired in his bones.