November 23: Fatal Pride, Black Friday, Yellow Brick Road

In his fiery eyes of scorn and triumph, you then saw Ahab in all his fatal pride.

If you haven't ever been in a crowd of Black Friday shoppers, this description pretty much nails it.

Welcome to the flip side of Thanksgiving--Black Friday, the day where everyone forgets how grateful they were just to be surrounded by family and friends, counting their blessings, and hit Walmart to kill someone for that $199 flat screen television.  American life at its best.

For those of my disciples who are not American, let me provide some context.  The day after Thanksgiving is the busiest shopping day of the year in this country.  All the major retail stores send out newspaper flyers with insanely discounted merchandise.  People literally stand in line for hours in subzero temperatures simply to purchase laptops and printers and TVs and watches and fleece blankets and chocolates and . . . It's a feeding frenzy of shopping.

I do not partake in this day of the holiday season.  I've never been a big fan of crowds, and crowds that are rabid with retail sort of frighten me.  That's a funny thing coming from a guy who worked retail for almost ten years.  That's right.  On Black Friday, I was the guy behind the cash register at a local chain bookstore, answering questions, directing traffic, ringing up sales, and wishing customers "Happy holidays!"

Perhaps that explains my aversion to this particular day.  Watching people engage in blood sport for the latest Christmas Beanie Babies would turn anybody off day-after-Thanksgiving shopping.  So, right now, while my wife is working at Office Max (she left for work at 6:30 this morning), I am sitting in my pajamas in my living room with my son, staring at our Christmas tree and thinking about the future.

I have been awake for several hours.  Had a hard time getting back to sleep once my wife's alarm went off.  It's the whole uncertain job thing.  Not knowing whether I'll be employed after the end of the year has been giving me some sleepless nights.  This morning, I found myself really dreading the coming December.  I don't really want to be a part of shutting down a medical office where I've been employed for close to 20 years.  A medical office that my sister built and managed until she got sick.  She literally gave her life for the place.

If you are getting tired of hearing me talk about this subject, I apologize.  I love the holiday season.  All the lights and warmth.  The focus on hope and joy.  But this time of year also makes me think about things that I've lost, as well.  This will be the first Christmas without my father.  The third without my sister.  Fourth without my brother.  If my sister were alive, I know she would be able to calm my worries about the future.  She had that way about her.  Always had a plan that seemed to make sense.  (By the way, my sister was a huge Black Friday shopper.  She spent most of Thanksgiving night poring over the sales papers.  This day always makes me think of her.)

Again, I know that life has a way of working out.  It's the path getting to the future that can be a little frightening.  It ain't no Yellow Brick Road, and I can't even see the Emerald City from the couch right now.

Saint Marty is looking for his rainbow.

June 6: Yellow Brick Road, Kazim Ali, "Speech"

Really, writing these blog posts are some of my favorite moments of the day.  Usually, I am a little tired or a little rushed when I sit down to reflect on my life in the past 24 hours.  And, usually, I don't know what the hell I'm going to say when I start typing.  I just follow the Yellow Brick Road of my mind.

This blog is called Saint Marty.  Obviously, I am not a saint.  Anyone who's been reading my posts for any length of time knows this.  That striving for perfection, that's what this blog is all about.  It's also about the failure of achieving that perfection.  Failure is inevitable if perfection is the goal.

Through words, however, I can reach out and almost touch a little piece of sainthood.  It's all about the well-crafted thought, the beautiful image, the witty saying.  Words help me understand my place in the world.  That's why I write every day--to understand.  Maybe to improve, too, just a little.

Saint Marty is trying to climb his way to heaven, one sentence at a time.  Move over, Saint Peter.

Speech

by:  Kazim Ali

How struck I was by that face, years ago, in the church mural:
Eve, being led by Christ through the broken gates of Hell.
She's been nominated for the position of Featured Saint
on the Icon of Belief, up against the dark horse candidate—
me: fever-ridden and delirious, a child in Vellore, unfolding
the packet around my neck that I was ordered not to open.
Inside, a folk cure, painted delicately in saffron.
Letters that I could not read.
Why I feel qualified for the position
based on letters I could not read amounts to this:
Neither you nor I can pronounce the difference
between the broken gates and the forbidden letters.
So what reason do we need to believe in icons or saints?
How might we otherwise remember—
without an image to fasten in that lonely place—
the rock on which a Prophet flung himself into fever?
Without an icon or church, spell "gates of Hell."
Spell "those years ago unfolding."
Recite to me please all the letters you are not able to read.
Spell "fling yourself skyward."
Spell "fever."