September 17: "The Order of the Day," Night Owl, Failure

I am more of a night owl than a morning crow.  Those late hours when the day's work is done and everyone has gone to bed are precious to me.  Nothing pressing to accomplish.  No crisis or tragedy to handle.  Just me and my neuroses.  

I have writer friends who get up at 3 a.m. and stumble to their desks/laptops/journals.  One friend, in particular, has finished his daily writing before my alarm even goes off in the morning.  Every once in a while, I have been known to scribble in my Moleskine before I leap into the day's activities, especially when my brain is cluttered with worries and anxieties.

For the most part, however, I cherish moonlight over sunlight.

Billy Collins's morning routine . . .

The Order of the Day

by: Martin Achatz

A morning after a week of rain
and the sun shot down through the branches
into the tall, bare windows.

The brindled cat rolled over on his back,
and I could hear you in the kitchen
grinding coffee beans into a powder.

Everything seemed especially vivid
because I knew we were all going to die,
first the cat, then you, then me,

then somewhat later the liquefied sun
was the order I was envisioning.
But then again, you never really know.

The cat had a fiercely healthy look,
his coat so bristling and electric
I wondered what you had been feeding him

and what you had been feeding me
as I turned a corner
and beheld you out there on the sunny deck

lost in exercise, running in place,
knees lifted high, skin glistening—
and that toothy, immortal-looking smile of yours.

As I've said before, I make lists every morning of things I need to get done.  Then I prioritize the list, using a complicated method of letters and numbers.  (I blame my math/computer science background for this habit.)  Sometimes, the list is short, ranging from A1 (most important) to A4 (get it done before the end of the day).  Other times, the list gets a little . . . long and messy, moving from A1 to B1 (try to get to this, but it's not urgent) to C3 (think way into the future, if you have time).  

So, I spell out my order of the day pretty explicitly.  That's why, when something truly unexpected occurs, I have a difficult time recalibrating.  One minor fluctuation can cause me unease, and one major glitch can send me into a tailspin from which I can't recover easily.

If all this sounds slightly control-freakish, it is.  I admit it.  Yet it works for me, giving me a sense of control, however false that sense may be.  In truth, I know that I'm not in the driver's seat when it comes to my life.  As a Christian, I've been taught to believe that God is my chauffeur.  (Cue Carrie Underwood singing "Jesus, Take the Wheel.")  When I get lost on some backroad through a swamp, I'm supposed to slide into the passenger seat, close my eyes, and trust.  That's difficult for me.

Today had a few twists and turns.  Things I didn't expect.  My life was never in peril, but I did have to alter my order of the day several times to compensate for these not-so-welcome surprises.  Now, sitting on my couch, my night owl self takes over.  I have this blog post to finish and poems to revise (A5 on B2 on my list).  If I don't get too tired, I will tackle both of these items because I hate unfinished business.  If my brain decides not to cooperate, I will fall asleep feeling that I have failed today.

Saint Marty's prediction:  failure.

July 25: "The Order of the Day," Rituals, "Backyard"

Billy Collins' morning routine . . 

The Order of the Day

by: Billy Collins

A morning after a week of rain

and the sun shot down through the branches 

into the tall, bare windows.

The brindled cat rolled over on his back,

and I could hear you in the kitchen

grinding coffee beans into a powder.

Everything seemed especially vivid

because I knew we were all going to die,

first the cat, then you, then me,

then somewhat later the liquefied sun

was the order I was envisioning.

But then again, you never really know.

The cat had a fiercely healthy look,

his coat so bristling and electric

I wondered what you had been feeding him

and what you had been feeding me

as I turned a corner

and beheld you out there on the sunny deck

lost in exercise, running in place,

knees lifted high, skin glistening--

and that toothy, immortal-looking smile of yours.

We all have our morning routines like Collins.  Some people get out of bed and immediately light up (tobacco or cannabis).  Other people stumble to the coffee maker.  I usually take a shower, get dressed, and take my puppy out for a spin around the backyard.

Rituals are important in life.  They give our days and nights order and meaning.  I know that my daily/nightly rituals allow me to have a semblance of control over what is happening around and to me.  (This sense of control may be fictional, but it makes me feel less anxious about the possibility of having a stroke or being the victim of a violent crime or lapsing into major depression.)  Perhaps this affinity for ritual comes from my Catholic upbringing.  If there's one thing that Catholics do well, it's ritual--all the bells and smoke and chants.

I like to know, when I get out of bed, exactly what my day holds in store for me.  No nasty, unexpected surprises.  I have been the victim of exactly one surprise birthday party in my life, when I reached a certain milestone age.  It was lovely, filled with joy and gathering together so many people I love.  However, in my life, most of the surprises I've experienced have been less than pleasant.  So, my days are full of rituals to avoid undue misery.

Even when I sit down to write a blog post or draft of a poem or lyric essay, I depend on certain things--a nice fountain pen, a Moleskine journal, maybe a book by my current poetic obsession.  (If you haven't figured it out by now--it's Billy Collins this year.)  If my pen runs out of ink or I forget my journal, I have a very difficult time getting anything down on the page.  

So, if you see Saint Marty sitting in a restaurant or laundromat, surrounded by books, scribbling away, don't bother him.  He's in the middle of a ritual, giving meaning to his life.

A poem Saint Marty wrote a couple days ago . . .

Backyard

by: Martin Achatz

I write about my backyard

a lot, its lilac bushes and bees,

how dandelions overtake the grass

with shouts of yellow and gold.

I write about my dog a lot,

the brindled map of her back,

how she stands like a coiled

cobra when she spies a squirrel

tightrope walking a power line

above her, moving like a stone

skipped across a still lake.  And I write

about my son a lot, how he is one

of those construction sites

I drive by every day, noting 

the lack of visible progress until,

one morning, a new building

appears, its glass flashing 

with light.  Why do I write about

these three elements of my life

so much?  I don't know.  But,

when I'm done writing these 

words, I know I will make myself

a cup of coffee, stare out a window,

give thanks for the breath I just

took, and the next.  And next.

Photo courtesy of Abby Berry