January 20: "Mute Potato," Quirky, My Niece

Billy Collins prepares dinner . . . 

Mute Potato

by:  Billy Collins

Before introducing it to a pot

of boiling water,

I caught a medium-size

Idaho potato

staring up at me

with several of its many eyes.

I've always imagined, since I was a child, that everything had feelings and emotions--dogs and goldfish, grass under our feet, the moon, and, yes, the potatoes we boil for food.  Perhaps this idea came to me watching cartoons--all those anthropomorphized animals, plants, and objects.  Bugs Bunny.  Dancing brooms in Fantasia.  Talking apple trees in The Wizard of Oz.  Not to mention Bambi and Thumper and gang.  Is it that far of a stretch that potatoes look up at us in horror as we peel them and drop them in boiling water?

That's a small glimpse into the convolutions of my mind.  If, after reading the above paragraph, you think I'm weird, that's okay.  I've been this way my whole life.  And by "this way," I mean a little . . . unhinged.  Yet, I've been able to build a career out of my weirdness--as a teacher and writer and poet and actor and musician.

There are politer terms that have been applied to my personality.  Two of my favorites are "eccentric" and "quirky."  I love being a little unpredictable.  (Some of my students at college have told me that they actually show up to class just to see what shit is going to come out of my mouth every day.)  I like to think my quirks make me loveable.

One of my favorite people in the world who completely gets me--in all of my strangeness--is my niece, Aubri.  We have always gotten along really well.  Perhaps we see the world similarly.  (I'm not saying that she imagines her potatoes staring up at her from her soup bowl, but she might.)  Aubri came over tonight to play games with my family.  We had pizza and drinks (I made her my version of a tequila sunrise with peach schnapps), and then we played Jackbox.tv for three hours.  I haven't laughed so hard in a really long time.  

The world is a much better place with Aubri in it.  Not a lot of people get my eccentricities/weirdness, but she is one of them.

Saint Marty is blessed to have her in his life.

October 7: Atoms and Molecules, Scarecrow, Algebra of the Heart

The Heart of Gold fled on silently through the night of space, now on conventional photon drive.  Its crew of four were ill at ease knowing that they had been brought together not of their own volition or by simple coincidence, but by some curious perversion of physics--as if relationships between people were susceptible to the same laws that governed relationships between atoms and molecules.

In some ways, I think that life would be so much easier if relationships between people were governed by the laws of physics.  It would save me (and millions of others) from a lot of sleepless nights.  If love were simply a matter of valences and formulas, the problems of my life could be solved almost algebraically.  It would be as simple as understanding a² + b² = c².  (For those of you uncomfortable with scientific or mathematical equations, I am saying that if life/love were as predictable as the Pythagorean theorem, it would be really easy to avoid heartbreak.)

Of course, it isn't quite that simple.  The Scarecrow learned that in The Wizard of Oz.  Even though he got his brain, he still couldn't figure out how not to be heartbroken when Dorothy left.  What I'm saying here is not very earth-shattering, but I think people tend to forget it, especially if they've been in long-term relationships for quite some time.  After 25 or 30 or 40 years, love can be taken for granted, until love climbs into the basket of an air balloon and disappears into the sky forever.

The love my wife and I share has been complicated by a lot of things--mental illness, addiction, and all the messy things that accompany mental illness and addiction.  If I were talking mathematically, I would say that a lot of unknown variables have entered the equation of our lives.  And, as of this night, I am still trying to figure out the value of those variables.  Solve the equation of our marriage, so to speak.

It's too late right now for me to fiddle around with the x and y and a and b and z (and probably quite a few other letters) of my relationship with my wife.  I'm tired, and the math simply makes me more tired.  What I want you to take away from this post is that the heart has its own algebra, and no mathematician has been able to figure out its rules.  Because they're transitive and associative and communicative all at once.

So, go with what the Beatles said, if you want:  "All you need is love."

Or Bette Midler:  "Some say love, it is a razor that leaves your soul to bleed."

Or Robert Palmer:  "Might as well face it, you're addicted to love."

Or go with what Saint Marty says:  Love can ruin and save your life at the same time.

January 27: Nothing to Say, Bert Lahr, "Gone With the Wind"

My daughter is waiting impatiently for me to finish typing this post.  She wants to do something called Minecraft on my laptop.  She's been stomping and whining for about an hour.  Thank God she's quieted down a little.  She's watching Minecraft videos on my iPad, I think.

I don't really have anything left to say today.  I just saw a guy on Antiques Roadshow (who happens to be the great grandson of actor Bert Lahr--the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz) have the Oz script used by his great grandfather appraised at $150,000.  I nearly crapped myself.

None of my stuff is that important or valuable.  I have a few signed additions of books, but nothing of real importance.

Saint Marty wishes his great grandfather was Clark Gable.  Then Saint Marty would have a Gone With the Wind script that could get his kids college educations.

This guy can send his kids to college because of his great grandfather's script

July 16: Popcorn in the Afternoon

I've fallen into the habit of having popcorn in the afternoon at work.  I prefer good kettle corn, but I'm kid of a popcorn tramp.  As long as it's white with a little salt and butter, I'm happy.

When I was a kid, I remember popcorn being a huge treat, usually reserved for watching the annual TV broadcast of The Wizard of Oz on CBS.  On those nights, my mother wold make several huge batches of popcorn (with oil on the stove), and we would gather in the living room at the appointed hour to watch Dorothy and company.  Out hands would get greasy; any little cut on my fingers would sting with the salt.  I would eat bowl after bowl of it, until my face was coated in popcorn oil residue.

Maybe that's why having popcorn every afternoon makes me happy.  It reminds me of simpler times, when all I worried about was whether the Tin Man would get a heart or Dorothy would find her way back to Kansas.  When all I feared were monkeys with plastic faces swooping out of the clouds to snatch me away.  When the popcorn was unending.

And Saint Marty's troubles melted like lemon drops.

Somewhere over the rainbow pass the salt...

March 16: Always Something, Bluebird of Happiness, According to Plan

I just spoke to my wife a few minutes ago.  She was late to her new job for the second day in a row this morning.  Nobody at the bank said anything to her, but this was her first week in the position.  She's been late twice already.  On both days, my daughter made her late.  Yesterday, my daughter forgot her shoes.  My wife had to bring her the shoes.  This morning, my daughter missed her bus.  My wife had to drive her to school.  I was really hoping that this week was just going to go so smoothly for my wife.  It hasn't.

To top it all off, my wife got a call from another bank she submitted her resume to.  She was supposed to call them back this morning.  She tried and never got through to the manager.  I really hate it when things don't go according to plan.  I should amend that statement:  I hate it when things don't go according to my plan.  Things didn't go according to my plan this week.

In a lot of ancient and not-so-ancient cultures, the bluebird has been used to represent happiness.  That doesn't surprise me.  I have rarely seen a bluebird in the wild.  In fact, I've only seen one wild bluebird in my life.  It was beautiful and fierce at the same time.  Because of its color, because of its rarity, I imagine bluebirds would cause quite a stir when they appeared in the olden days.  In one European tale, a boy and a girl are sent by a fairy on a quest to find the bluebird of happiness.  They travel through many lands, but return empty-handed.  When they get home, they find that the bluebird has been in a cage in their home the whole time.  The moral of the story is that the quest for happiness is never-ending, and the only place to really find happiness is within your own self.  (Thanks to Wikipedia for that little synopsis.)

It's true.  Happiness is really difficult to find and hold on to.  When I depend on other people/things for my happiness (my wife's job, my wife, my daughter, poetry editors, my job), I don't always end up happy.  However, when I look inward for happiness (in poetry, in writing, in reading, in blogging), I generally am never disappointed, unless I look to other people to tell me how good my poetry/writing/blogging is.  (I still haven't been named a Blog of Note.)

I guess the bluebird is inside all of us.  Even Dorothy learns that in The Wizard of Oz.  She goes where happy little bluebirds fly, beyond the rainbow.  She meets some witches, a lot of weird little people, flying monkeys, and a few really good friends.  In the end, she has to return to Kansas to find her bliss.  The bluebird has been at her house all along.

I guess I need to stop looking for that goddamned bluebird.

It's already at Saint Marty's home, probably in the bathroom, on the toilet, reading a magazine.

This is about right for my bluebird!