November 29, 2024: "Quandary," Sadness, My Brother

I found myself up late last night, reading and writing.  It's a bad habit since I don't really ever get a chance to sleep in.  Often, when the alarm goes off, I feel more tired than when I went to bed.

At about 2 a.m., I could feel myself getting sad for no apparent reason.  It just happened, like some kind of dark weather front moving in.  I couldn't fight it off, and suddenly I was just crying uncontrollably.  Not just sniffing and wiping my eyes, but big, gulping sobs that I was afraid would wake my wife or puppy.  It continued until I finally fell asleep, despondent and exhausted.

I'm not sure what triggered the tears.  Lack of sunlight?  Stress?  Impending holidays?  The Felon in Chief and his band of Merry Morons?  A piece of bad fruit?

Billy Collins takes a bite of an apple . . . 

Quandary

by: Billy Collins

I was a little disappointed
in the apple I lifted from a bowl of fruit
and bit into on the way out the door,
fuzzy on the inside and lacking the snap of the ripe.

Yesterday it was probably perfect,
I figured, as I held it out before me,
soft red apple bearing my tooth marks,
as if I were contemplating the bust of Aristotle.

I considered all the people
who would be grateful to have this apple,
and others who might find it in their hearts
to kill me before slipping it into a pocket.

And I considered another slice
of the world’s population, too,
those who are shielded from anything
as offensive as a slightly imperfect apple.

Then I took a second bite, a big one,
and pitched what was left
over the tall hedges hoping to hit on the head
a murderer or one of the filthy rich out for a stroll.

There's a lot going on in the world that is simply depressing.  Starving people for whom an apple would be a feast.  Refugees who have no homes or homelands.  Filthy rich people hell bent on making the poor even poorer by hook, crook, and lies.  Wannabe dictators and their brain-dead followers.  Willful ignorance and rampant hatred.

All of that is enough to keep the makers of Prozac in business until the next millennium.  

When I woke this morning, the sadness was still with me, and it has remained my constant companion all day long.  I tried to keep myself busy, picking out and rehearsing music for this weekend's church services.  Taking my puppy for a few long walks, despite bitter winds ad snow.  The distractions helped for a little while, but, as soon as I stopped playing keyboard or got home from a stroll, the sadness came back doubly strong.

I have a feeling this bout of melancholia is the beginning of one of the blue funks I've experienced off and on since I was a teen.  They can last a few days or a few months.  Today, I found myself obsessively thinking about my brother, Kevin, who passed in 2014.  He had a pretty difficult life, suffering a stroke that ended his career as a plumber and left him dependent on a walker during his final years.  Yet, he maintained his sense of humor to the last, quick with a new joke or pun.

An apple a day isn't going to keep this sadness away, even if said apple is ripe and sweet instead of soft and fuzzy.

So, dear disciples, please be patient with me in the coming days/weeks/months.  I will try to find light in the dark, joy in the bone-crushing cold.

Saint Marty will end this post with a picture of his puppy who crawled into his lap this morning, licked and licked his face until he couldn't help but laugh.

August 8: Bad News, Concert Reschedule, Vitamin D

Santiago gets better . . . 

He settled comfortably against the wood and took his suffering as it came and the fish swam steadily and the boat moved slowly through the dark water. There was a small sea rising with the wind coming up from the east and at noon the old man's left hand was uncramped.

"Bad news for you, fish," he said and shifted the line over the sacks that covered his shoulders.

Bad news.  It comes in many forms.  These past weeks, as all my faithful disciples know, I've been struggling with some blue feelings.  That's bad news coming from the inside.  Then there's bad news at a job.  Today, I spent a good portion of my time rescheduling a concert that was supposed to happen at the library.  It was a series of miscommunications between myself and the musician.  So, bad news--concert doesn't happen tonight.

Wherever bad news comes from--inside, outside, on the job, at home, in a classroom--it's tough.  It can knock you on your ass.  In fact, that's the first thing that any bad news does.  It lays you out flat.  It's the seconds and minutes following bad news that makes the difference.  You can stay on your back, staring up at the ceiling in a daze, or you can get back on your feet, say to yourself "that sucked," and do something about it.

Now, some bad news if more difficult to deal with than others.  The concert reschedule today was easy bad news.  A poster, four or five emails, a social media post, and personal notifications later.--Voila!  Bad news changed into a minor inconvenience.  The bad news of my blue funks are a little more problematic.  It knocks me down and takes me time to get back up.

After I took care of rescheduling the concert this morning, I played catch-up from my vacation.  Answered my emails and messages.  Talked to a few performers to schedule new programs.  At lunchtime, I stepped outside, sat on the steps of the library, and enjoyed the blue sky and smell of the flower gardens.  Watched clouds drift past the spires of the Methodist church across the street.  Let the sun fill me with vitamin D.

For a few minutes, I felt free and happy.

Saint Marty's blessing of the day:  sun, blue sky, and a church.

April 11: Just Part of Life, Blue Funks, a Balm

Marvin the depressed robot experiences some guilt over bringing his companions down . . .

"No, don't worry about that," the lilt continued, "you just act as comes naturally and everything will  be just fine."

"You're sure you don't mind?" probed Marvin.

"No, no, Marvin," lilted Trillian, "that's just fine, really . . . just part of life."

He turned hopelessly on his heel and lugged himself out of the cabin.  With a satisfied hum and a click the door closed behind him.

"I don't think I can stand that robot much longer, Zaphod," growled Trillian.

Dealing with mental illness is not easy for anyone.  Not for the person with the mental illness.  Not for the person's family or friends.  It's draining for everyone.  I speak as a person who has experienced this from both sides.  It can be all-consuming.

One of the common misconceptions about mental illness (like depression) is that it is easily remedied.  Old school advice:  "just snap out of it" and "pull yourself up by your own bootstraps" and "go exercise."  If those words have come out of your mouth when speaking to somebody suffering from depression, you clearly don't understand mental illness.  A person doesn't choose to be depressed.  Think about it.  That would be like choosing to be diabetic because of all the cool injections you get to take.

I say this tonight as an individual who is in the throes of depression right now.  For the last month or so, the weather in the Upper Peninsula has been spring-like.  The snowbanks have been dwindling, and sun has been in abundant supply.  That kind of weather helps combat some of the effects of my "blue funks"--a term I coined as a teenager for these periods in my life.  Tonight, however, winter has returned (sort of like Game of Thrones).  Big fat flakes outside my window, with the promise of strong winds later.  Just like that, I'm in deep again.

Last night, I did something that truly lifted my spirits.  I gave a poetry reading for National Poetry Month.  It was at one of my favorite places in my home town--the Joy Center, a yoga/art/writing retreat located in the woods.  In the audience were some of my favorite people in the whole world, as well.  Friends whom I dearly love.  They showed up.  We ate kumquats and guacamole and chocolate, and they listened to me tell stories and read poems.  It was a balm.

For the reading, I sort of went on a journey of how I became a poet, which was circuitous at best.  Started out as a computer science major as a undergraduate.  Then, through a series of fortunate events, ended up in a Master's program, studying fiction writing.  That immediately catapulted me into a PhD program in literature, which I found thrilling.  I left that program after three years (I was practically ABD), and returned to my home by Lake Superior, where I worked part time in a bookstore until school came calling again.  This time it was an MFA program in poetry.  Two years later, I had a terminal degree in an eminently competitive job market.  And I just kept writing, husbanding, fathering, teaching, and working.  Along the way, I was elected Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula.  Twice.  Like I said, it was a long and winding road, made easier by good friends and family.

So, I told this tale through a series of poems, a short story, and an essay.  It was a reading that I'd been shaping in my head for quite some time.  And the audience last night (as I said before, some of my best friends) seemed to really like it.

This morning, as I left for work, I was greeted by a brilliant sky of pink and orange and yellow.  As I stood on my front steps, I felt like everything was going to be okay.  Like my life, which has always been filled with detours and side roads, is simply finding another path to something wonderful.  I felt hope, which has been a term that I've been thinking about quite a bit recently.  Weighing its benefits and dangers.  I think that hope, for me, really rests in my ability to accept the present as a gift.  After all, in the Lord's Prayer, the line is NOT "my will be done" but "Thy will be done."  I get in trouble when I forget that little distinction.

My life is not turning out the way I anticipated right now.  I've gone through years of loss recently.  I'm not where I want to be professionally.  Yet, I have joy.  Moments of poetry each day.  Friends who will listen to me and applaud my accomplishments, hug me closely, and say, "You really are wonderful."

Saint Marty couldn't ask for much more.  Thy will be done.  Amen.

March 13: Wouldn't Enjoy It, Drinking the Kool-Aid, Blueness

The poetic Vogon captain is contemplating Ford and Arthur's praise of his work . . .

The Vogon perused them.  For a moment his embittered racial soul had been touched, but he thought no--too little too late.  His voice took on the quality of a cat snagging brushed nylon.

"So what you're saying is that I write poetry because underneath my mean callous heartless exterior I really just want to be loved," he said.  He paused, "Is that right?"

Ford laughed a nervous laugh.  "Well, I mean, yes," he said, "don't we all, deep down, you know . . . er . . ."

The Vogon stood up.

"No, well, you're completely wrong," he said, "I just write poetry to throw my mean callous heartless exterior into sharp relief.  I'm going to throw you off the ship anyway.  Guard!  Take the prisoners to number three airlock and throw them out!"

"What?" shouted Ford.

A huge young Vogon guard stepped forward and yanked them out of their straps with his huge blubbery arms.

"You can't throw us into space," yelled Ford, "we're trying to write a book."

"Resistance is useless!" shouted the Vogon guard back at him.  It was the first phrase he'd learned when he joined the Vogon Guard Corps.

The captain watched with detached amusement and then turned away.

Arthur stared round him wildly.

"I don't want to die now!" he yelled.  "I've still got a headache!  I don't want to go to heaven with a headache, I'd be all cross and wouldn't enjoy it!"

The guard grasped them both firmly round the neck, and bowing deferentially toward his captain's back, hoicked them both protesting out of the bridge.  A steel door closed and the captain was on his own again.  He hummed quietly and mused to himself, lightly fingering his notebook of verses.

"Hmmm," he said, "counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor . . ."  He considered this for a moment, and then closed the book with a grim smile.

"Death's too good for them," he said.

Now there's a guy who really doesn't like commentary on his poetry, whether positive or negative!

I find myself quite alone tonight.  My daughter is at her boyfriend's, and my wife and son are at my son's dance studio.  The silence is strange in a house that usually contains a 10-year-old ADHD child.  It's a silence that my mind wants to fill with noises.  Groans from the roof.  The snake hiss of cars going down the street outside.  Clicks and knocks from the living room (maybe the furnace).  The refrigerator cracking its knuckles.

It has been another tired day for me.  Got to bed late last night, and, when I finally put my head on the pillow, I couldn't fall asleep for another hour or so.  I think I finally drifted off around 12:30 a.m.  And my alarm went off at 4:45 this morning.  If you do the math, that's a little over four hours of sleep.

While I'm not about to be tossed into outer space like Ford and Arthur, I find myself consumed with gloomy thoughts.  I try to shake them off.  Christmas music (which usually lifts my spirits) doesn't do it for me.  Mindless entertainment on Netflix--just finished Black Panther yesterday.  I liked it, but it, also, didn't do it for me.  I'm seriously thinking of having a drink tonight.  However, I'd be alone and using alcohol as a coping mechanism.  That doesn't seem like a healthy choice, either.

As I said in my post from yesterday, I don't function well in periods of upheaval and change.  I know there are some people who thrive on this shit.  I have a best friend who embraces it--she has been constantly saying to me, "There's something better for you that's coming."  I wish I could drink that Kool-Aid and get a good night's slumber, but I can't.

(SIDE NOTE:  If you are getting tired of my complaining, let me assure you that tomorrow I will post something that will be so Pollyanna-ish that, if you are a diabetic, you may need to take extra insulin.  This evening, however, I find myself drawn to ideas of space and time and poetry and turmoil.)

I remember watching my father at night when I was young.  My dad worked hard every day of his lift.  Nine-, ten-, eleven-, and twelve-hour days.  At night, he would sit in his chair, watch sitcoms, and drink himself to sleep.  (Eventually, when I was in high school, he gave up drinking.)  But that is the image of my father from my childhood--worn out and smelling of Canadian Mist and 7-Up.  He drank it from a blue-striped cup.  I'm sure he was wrestling with his own host of worries all the time.

I have always been prone to these blue funks.  That's what I called them as a kid.  They were times when the world was just too much for me, and I just wanted to read The Catcher in the Rye, listen to Billy Joel albums, and watch River Phoenix films.  I'm in one of these blue funks at the moment, and I'm not my father.  Can't drink it away.

Blueness.  I am reminded of this passage from writer Maggie Nelson:

It is easier, of course, to find dignity in one's solitude.  Loneliness is solitude with a problem.  Can blue solve the problem, or can it at least keep me company within it?--No, not exactly.  It cannot love me that way; it has no arms.  But sometimes I do feel its presence to be a sort of wink.--Here you are again, it says, and so am I.

And so is Saint Marty.