March 5: Poet of the Week, Maggie Nelson, Section 1 from "Bluets"

I found myself searching for Maggie Nelson's Bluets on my bookshelf this morning before I left for work.  For some reason, I feel drawn to this book today, possibly this week. 

Of course, Bluets is about loss and the color of loss and recovering from loss.  That could have something to do with it.  I'm feeling a little blue, I guess.

Yes, I have featured sections of Bluets before in this blog.  There's really no rhyme or reason how I choose Poets of the Week.  Usually, it's instinctual, like riding a bike or eating chocolate.

Speaking of chocolate, Saint Marty is going to eat some blue M&Ms now in honor of Maggie Nelson.

Section 1 from Bluets

by:  Maggie Nelson

Suppose I were to begin by saying that I had fallen in love with a color.  Suppose I were to speak this as though it were a confession; suppose I shredded my napkin as we spoke.  It began slowly.  An appreciation, an affinity.  Then, one day, it became more serious.  Then (looking into an empty teacup, its bottom stained with thin brown excrement coiled into the shape of a sea horse) it became somehow personal.

August 24: Blue was Beating, Father's Eyes, Maggie Nelson

22. Some things do change, however. A membrane can simply rip off your life, like a skin of congealed paint torn off the top of a can. I remember that day very clearly: I had received a phone call. A friend had been in an accident. Perhaps she would not live. She had very little face, and her spine was broken in two places. She had not yet moved; the doctor described her as “a pebble in water.” I walked around Brooklyn and noticed that the faded periwinkle of the abandoned Mobil gas station on the corner was suddenly blooming. In the baby-shit yellow showers at my gym, where snow sometimes fluttered in through the cracked gated windows, I noticed that the yellow paint was peeling in spots, and a decent, industrial blue was trying to creep in. At the bottom of the swimming pool, I watched the white winter light spangle the cloudy blue and I knew together they made God. When I walked into my friend’s hospital room, her eyes were a piercing, pale blue and the only part of her body that could move. I was scared. So was she. The blue was beating.
                    --from "Bluets" by Maggie Nelson

My father's eyes are blue.  Not an easy blue.  More like a hard, cold, steel blue.  He's still in the hospital downstate, asking every now and then when he's going to be able to go home.  He's too far away for any family member to visit him, and he's too angry at us to accept any phone calls.  He refuses to talk to any of us.

That's okay.  I understand.  I have to believe he's a little frightened.  I would be.  He's hundreds of miles away, surrounded by strangers, and he has no idea when or if he's going to be able to return home.  For all he knows, he may live out the rest of his life in that hospital, and I think that's probably his greatest fear.

As I've said before, my father and I have a complicated relationship.  I love him.  I think he loves me.  That's about the only thing we have in common, aside from a pretty strong work ethic and devotion to family.

Saint Marty is his father's son, and he is not his father's son.

October 1: Curtis Weintraub, My Son Again, Giving Thanks

"This boy, Curtis Weintraub, that's in my class pushed me while I was going down the stairs in the park," she said.  "Wanna see?"  She started taking the crazy adhesive tape off her arm.

Holden's sister, Phoebe, is in elementary school, and this kid, Curtis Weintraub, is making a nuisance of himself.  Phoebe thinks Curtis hates her.  Holden tells her that Curtis "probably likes you."  Phoebe doesn't care for that idea too much.

When my daughter was in kindergarten, she didn't have Curtis Weintraub troubles.  She didn't get pushed or shoved on the playground.  She was friends with everybody.  She still is, and she's a seventh grader now.

In his first month of kindergarten, my son has gotten into more trouble than my daughter got into during her entire elementary school career.  This week, I'm trying something new.  Instead of worrying all day, expecting a phone call from the principal any minute, I'm saying a little prayer (something like "Please watch over him, God"), and then I'm letting him go.  It's difficult, and I've failed a few times.  But God gave me a present this afternoon.

When I asked my son how school was today, he looked at me and smiled.  "I got blue today," he said.

Behavior is measured by colors in his class.  The bad scale goes from yellow (I was a little bad) to orange (I nearly caused bodily harm to someone) to red (the teacher had to call in the S.W.A.T. team).  The good scale goes from green (I didn't eat the glue stick) to blue (I didn't eat my neighbor's glue stick) to pink (I let my neighbor use my glue stick) to purple (I used my glue stick to create a Popsicle-stick model of the Vatican).

My son didn't eat his neighbor's glue stick.  And that's better than he's done since the beginning of the school year.  God watched over him today, and I want to thank Him.

Dear God,

Thanks for having my son's back today.  You know he's been struggling for a while.  But today, he got blue.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I know You've always had my son's back.   You just reminded me of that fact today.  So, thanks for the little lesson in faith and trust, as well.  I think I needed Your help as much as my son did.

God, You rock.

Your loving child,

Saint Marty

My son didn't do this today