September 2: Earsplitting Din, Labor Day, Surrender

Arthur is about to be de-brained . . .

"Yes, an electronic brain," said Frankie, "a simple one would suffice."

"A simple one!" wailed Arthur.

"Yeah," said Zaphod with a sudden evil grin, "you'd just have to program it to say What? and I don't understand and Where's the tea?  Who'd know the difference?"

"What?" cried Arthur, backing away still farther.

"See what I mean?" said Zaphod, and howled with pain because of something that Trillian did at that moment.

"I'd notice the difference," said Arthur.

"No, you wouldn't," said Frankie mouse, "you'd be programmed not to."

Ford made for the door.

"Look, I'm sorry, mice, old lads," he said.  "I don't think we've got a deal."

"I rather think we have to have a deal," said the mice in chorus, all the charm vanishing from their piping little voices in an instant.  With a tiny whining shriek their two glass transports lifted themselves off the table, and swung through the air toward Arthur, who stumbled farther backward into a blind corner, utterly unable to cope or think of anything.

Trillian grabbed him desperately by the arm and tried to drag him toward the door, which Ford and Zaphod were struggling to open, but Arthur was deadweight--he seemed hypnotized by the airborne rodents swooping toward him.

She screamed at him, but he just gaped.

With one more yank, Ford and Zaphod got the door open.  On the other side of it was a small pack of rather ugly men who they could only assume were the heavy mob of Magrathea.  Not only were they ugly themselves, but the medical equipment they carried with them was also far from pretty.  They charged.

So--Arthur was about to have his head cut open, Trillian was unable to help him and Ford and Zaphod were about to be set upon by several thugs a great deal heavier and more sharply armed than they were.

All in all it was extremely fortunate that at that moment every alarm on the planet burst into an earsplitting din.

Arthur is still, understandably, in a state of complete panic.  Benjy and Frankie want to remove and dice his brain.  Zaphod seems all for the idea, but Zaphod also performed surgery on his own brain some time in the past.  Things seem to be reaching a crisis point in the book.  What will our heroes do?  Will they escape the bloodthirsty white mice?  Will Arthur be able to save his brain?  Or get his tea?  Stay tuned.

It is Labor Day in the United States, a Monday set aside to celebrate the contributions of the labor movement and unions in the United States.  Of course, few people actually even think about organized labor history on this day.  Mostly, it's about having a three-day weekend and barbecuing one last time before we admit that autumn has arrived.

There usually isn't a whole lot of panic on Labor Day (certainly not on the scale of battling brain-hungry mice).  It's a lazy time.  Unless you're like me.  I just spent several hours preparing for teaching this week.  Lesson planning.  E-mailing.  Tidying up my online course materials.  Labor Day has been about actual labor for me.

Now, however, I feel very prepared for the coming work days.  I don't have to spend hours this evening getting my shit together, which is normally my style.  I tend to procrastinate.  A lot.  This character flaw usually gets me in a lot of trouble during the academic year.  I am determined not to let that happen this semester.  We will see if I'm able to stick to it.

Writing my post last night (actually, early this morning), I said that I felt a real sense of peace in my heart, something that I haven't experienced in a while.  Of course, as I said last night, that kind of peace only comes when you've really reached the end of your rope.  You've exhausted all of your energies to try to change things.  That's when you throw up your arms and surrender.

And that's where I was last night.  Waving the white flag at God and submitting to His will.  God always wins this battle.  Yet, it's a very human thing, trying to take control and run the show.  We all like to believe that we're in charge of our own lives.  In a way, we are.  We make choices which determine the courses of our lives.  Some of those choices are good.  Some of those choices are bad.

God doesn't interfere with freewill.  He just takes the mess that we make of things and transforms it into something beautiful, if we let Him.  Of course, if we continue to make bad choices, God's work is a lot harder.  Some people are more stubborn than others.  They hold onto their "power," refusing to admit their mistakes.  In a situation like that, God doesn't have much to work with.  He has to sit back, watch everything fall apart, and then start putting the pieces back together again.

God doesn't give up on anyone, though.  He may stand back and shake His head when you sneak out at night like a teenager to get drunk or meet up with a girlfriend/boyfriend.  Yet, He will always welcome you home, when you make the choice to return.  Ask the prodigal son.  God's love and forgiveness are infinite.

People make mistakes.  Lots of them.  Including me, believe it or not.  Early this morning, as I was sitting at my laptop, typing a blog post about loneliness, I felt overwhelmingly comforted.  As if God was sitting in the chair beside me, nodding His head, putting His arm around my shoulders.  Before that moment, I had been tired, a little beaten down, and I said aloud, "I give up.  I can't do this anymore.  It's in Your hands, God."  Everyone else was in bed, asleep, and I was sitting at the kitchen table at one in the morning.  Yet, I didn't feel alone anymore. 

I'm sure that I'm not done with despair, or despair's not done with me.  Tonight, though, I hold on to that peace of complete surrender.  I'm going to read a good book this evening.  Maybe play a game with my son before he goes to bed.  Then, when the house is asleep, I will say a prayer of surrender for everyone I love.  I will give them over to God.  My son for his first day of school tomorrow.  My daughter for her second week of college.  My wife for her struggles with mental illness and addiction.  And myself.

As Psalm 55 instructs, Saint Marty is casting all his burdens on the Lord, and the Lord will sustain Saint Marty and everyone he loves.

August 18: The Face of God, Two Beautiful Young People, Happiness and Hope

"To love another person is to see the face of God."

-- Victor Hugo

I am sorry for my prolonged absence from posting regularly.  I have been traveling and performing and wedding-ing.  I have not had much time to simply pause and reflect until this moment.

Yesterday afternoon, I attended the wedding of two beautiful young people.  My nephew and his fiance.  It was a day of sun and warmth and joy.  They got married in a garden filled with the sound of laughter, waterfall, insects.  I love being witness to the beginning of something wonderful.  It provides me with a healthy dose of happiness and hope.

Life is all about choices.  We choose what time to get up in the morning.  What to have for breakfast.  What the day will entail--working or reading or poet-ing or walking the dog.  We also choose who to spend those 16 or 18 waking hours with.  Children or coworkers or family.  Most importantly, as the day draws to a close, a lucky person returns home to someone who gives meaning to everything, even the smallest moments.  Making a bed.  Tying shoes.  Opening mail.

Of course, having this kind of day/life is a choice.  Finding love is about opening yourself up.  And it's also about making the choice to persevere, even in the face of incredible trials.  Marriage is not a sprint.  It's not always filled with the first blush of passion.  Those hot, breathless hours of infatuation.  No.  Marriage is a ultra-marathon, filled with meadows and mountains.  Cool streams in which to swim naked.  Desert roads to walk down. hand-in-hand

It is important to make the choice to say "I do" to someone you love.  It's even more important to stick by that person, in the face of anything--loss, temptation, depression, despair.  To keep saying "I do."  Because "I do" doubles the joys life provides, and it halves the sorrows.  I realize that this is a cliche, but it is a cliche that I firmly believe.  You simply don't give up on love.

That is why being witness yesterday when my nephew and his now wife said "I do" makes me happy.  Hopeful.  Love is sacred.  Even after close to 25 years, I still feel the same way about my wife.  Those years have been filled with pain and heartache.  But they've also given me so much joy, so much laughter.

When I look into my wife's eyes, feel her arms around me, I really do see the face of God.

I wish the same thing for my nephew and his beautiful bride today.  Hold each other tight, in times of joy and in times of tremendous loss.  Look into each other's eyes.  You will see God looking back at you.

Saint Marty sends you his love.

June 7: Put Their Weapons Down, Anger and Bargaining, Choices

Now the head Englishman came into the hospital to check on Billy.  He was an infantry colonel captured at Dunkirk.  It was he who had given Billy morphine.  There wasn't a real doctor in the compound, so the doctoring was up to him.  "How's the patient?" he asked Derby.

"Dead to the world."

"But not actually dead."

"No."

"How nice--to feel nothing, and still get full credit for being alive."

Derby now came to lugubrious attention.

"No--no--please--as you were.  With only two men for each officer, and all the men sick, I think we can do without the usual pageantry between officers and men."

Derby remained standing.  "You seem older than the rest," said the colonel.

Derby told him he was forty-five, which was two years older than the colonel.  The colonel said that the other Americans had all shaved now, that Billy and Derby were the only two still with beards.  And he said, "You know--we've had to imagine the war here, and we have imagined that it was being fought by aging men like ourselves.  We had forgotten that wars were fought by babies.  When I saw those freshly shaved faces, it was a shock.  'My God, my God--' I said to myself.  'It's the Children's Crusade.'"

The colonel asked old Derby how he had been captured, and Derby told a tale of being in a clump of trees with about a hundred other frightened soldiers.  The battle had been going on for five days.  The hundred had been driven into the trees by tanks.

Derby described the incredible artificial weather that Earthlings sometimes create for other Earthlings when they don't want those other Earthlings to inhabit Earth any more.  Shells were bursting in the treetops with terrific bangs, he said, showering down knives and needles and razorblades.  Little lumps of lead in copper jackets were crisscrossing the woods under the shellbursts, zipping along much faster than sound.

A lot of people were being wounded or killed.  So it goes.

Then the shelling stopped, and a hidden German with a loudspeaker told the Americans to put their weapons down and come out of the woods with their hands on the top of their heads, or the shelling would start again.  It wouldn't stop until everybody in there was dead.

So the Americans put their weapons down, and they came out of the woods with their hands on top of their heads, because they wanted to go on living, if they possibly could.

The American soldiers--babies, as the colonel calls them--have a choice.  They can either live as prisoners of war or die as casualties of war.  Neither choice is very appealing.  Like most political elections, it's a matter of the lesser of two evils.  There is a good possibility that, once they surrender, the Americans will be killed by the Germans anyway.  But, if they come out of the woods with their hands on top of their heads, the Americans have the hope of survival.  They go with hope.

My brother returned from the Grand Rapids hospital on Saturday night, and he's currently staying at my parents' house.  He is wearing a vest which monitors his heart rate and, if any problems arise, will administer shocks to restart his heart.  He is also toting around a pump which supplies medication to combat his congestive heart failure.  In other words, he's doing better, but he is greatly limited in what he can do.

I think my brother is having a difficult time with his situation.  This is a guy who likes being alone.  In fact, I would say that he needs to be alone.  At the moment, this kind of independence is not really realistic for him.  He's a very sick man, and he needs to be looked after.  And he hates it.

In the little time that I've been able to be around him, he's been argumentative and bullying.  He picks fights for the sake of picking fights.  He's looking for excuses to run away, be by himself, even if he knows that it might kill him.  It's a combination of two stages of grief--anger and bargaining, I think.  Anger's winning at the moment.

My brother is a grown man.  He's no baby.  He can make his own choices and live with their consequences.  A lot of people have gone to great lengths to keep him alive.  Now it's up to him whether he wants to continue with his treatment properly.  If he stays angry and belligerent, he will shorten his life even more, I think.  Stress can kill healthy people, and my brother is not healthy.

I love him.  I want him to take care of himself.  But, sometimes, he's kind of an asshole.  That's the way he's always been, and he's too old to change.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for possibility and choices.

Septmeber 8: Working Late, Trade-Offs, Juidth Minty, "Walking with the Bear," Adventures of Stickman

For years he [Ives] found working late dispiriting, for he lived to see his kids.  On his desk, among the piles of mechanicals, memoranda, purchase orders, magazines, and page proofs, and upon his walls were a number of photographs:  a shot of himself and his father and brother and sister taken years ago in front of their house on Carroll Street; a picture of Robert, ten years of age, shaking hands with Pope John XXIII during a general audience at the Vatican, "the greatest moment of my son's life," Ives used to think; and a third and favorite shot, of himself and Annie and the kids when they were small, about 1956, posed in the park before Grant's Tomb...

Above all, Ives is a family man.  Nothing gives him more pleasure than spending time with his wife and kids.  Working late is something that fuels his melancholic disposition.  It means time away from the people and things that give his life meaning.  Work, for Ives, is simply a way to provide for his family.  Work isn't his passion, although he enjoys it.  It is a necessary distraction.

Today was the first day of school for my daughter (a high school freshman this year) and son (a second grader now).  It was also my first day back at work since my sister's funeral.  After I dropped my kids off at the bus stop, I drove to the medical center.  I must admit that walking into the medical office where I work filled me with more than a little dread.  Not because I don't like the people with whom I work.  I just didn't feel ready to face nine hours of phones and patients.

I survived, but now I'm in my office at the university, waiting to attend a reading being given by visiting writer Leslie Jamison, author of The Empathy Exams.  This morning, I was looking forward to hearing her.  Now, sitting in my office, I find myself simply wanting to jump in my car and go home.  Like Ives, as I sit at my desk, I'm thinking about my daughter, who texted me that she was "really tired."  About my son, who, according to my wife, had a great day.  About my wife, who seemed more than a little down for some reason when I spoke with her on the phone.

Any time I take time away from my family, I feel guilty.  Yes, I will enjoy Leslie Jamison this evening, but I should be at home, listening to my daughter tell me about high school and my son rambling about his classmates.  Guilt.  My wife is upset about something, but I will not see her for at least another couple of hours.  More guilt.

Happiness for me is always a matter of trade-offs.  When I met poet Judith Minty once a long time ago, she struck me as a supremely happy, successful woman.  Confident in the choices she had made with her life.  Yet, I knew that she had made sacrifices, for her work, for her art.  She had lived a life of trade-offs, too.

This evening, Saint Marty isn't sure he made the right choice.

Walking with the Bear

by: Judith Minty

New Snow, and I follow
the dim path through woods, sink
into silence.  Meadow vole, squirrel,
snowshoe hare, fox:
my tracks walk next to theirs.
If it still falls tonight, by dawn
none of us have traveled here.

Adventures of STICKMAN

June 16: Health, Not Wealth, How 'Bout Happiness, "Web" Dip

It's been a good day.  I got off work early this afternoon for a doctor's appointment.  I was so happy to be able to leave my job that I literally could have been having a rectal probing without anesthesia, and I still would have had a great afternoon.

My doctor's appointment was great.  I have been an insulin-dependent diabetic for 33 years.  I have no diabetic complications.  My feet are fine.  My eyes are fine.  My blood pressure is great.  My cholesterol is normal.  I'm pretty healthy, for an overweight poet.  I celebrated this news by going for a run.  It was 80 degrees, and I stopped at a kids' lemonade stand to buy a drink and a cookie after I was done.

So, I've got health.  I don't have wealth.  Happiness?  Well, that depends on the day.  Tonight, I have happiness.  I just finished a great novel, and I'm enjoying writing this post.  Soon, I'll brush my teeth and go to bed with my wife.  We'll read our nightly devotions together.  Then, my happy day will be over.

Happiness really is a choice.  I woke up convinced that I was going to thoroughly enjoy myself today.  I did.  Now, if I can do that all the time, I wouldn't have to take a sleeping pill every night.  I'd wake up excited for the day's challenges.  Choices.

My question this Web dip Monday is:

Will I have happiness this week of my life?

And the answer from Charlotte:

...Charlotte had finished her web.  The word HUMBLE was woven neatly in the center.  Nobody noticed it in the darkness.  Everyone was tired and happy.

Message received.

Saint Marty has some positive choices to make.

I'm not sure, either

January 30: "Life After Life," Book Club, To the Fair

A great book

I just finished up with my book club meeting tonight.  My guests have left.  The leftovers are in the fridge.  The dishes are done.  The house is back in order.  And now, I have two blog posts to type.  I'm pretty tired, so don't expect anything too deep or funny.

The novel we read this month was Kate Atkinson's Life After Life.  I didn't suggest the book.  However, it turned out to be one of my favorite reads of the last twelve months.  It's an enthralling story of birth, life, death, and then birth again.  Over and over, Ursula Todd lives her life, and, over and over, her life changes in subtle and not-so-subtle ways.  It's an amazing work of imagination and heart.

Most of the usual suspects showed up for tonight's book club, despite today's really crappy weather.  We ate, laughed, talked about the book, and ate some more.  We had a lively discussion about the choices we make, and how seemingly insignificant decisions can lead to life-altering events.  The main conceit of the book is summed up with this quote:

"What if we had a chance to do it again and again, until we finally get it right?  Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

I'm not sure I'd want to relive my life.  There are a few years that really sucked.  Of course, nobody's taking me out to the smokehouse to turn me into Christmas ham and bacon.  Wilbur only has one shot at surviving past Thanksgiving:

"Everybody in!" called Mr. Arable.  He started the motor.  The ladies climbed in beside him.  Mr. Zuckerman and Lurvy and Fern and Avery rode in the back, hanging onto the sideboards.  The truck began to move ahead.  The geese cheered.  The children answered their cheer, and away went everybody to the Fair.

If Wilbur had a choice, maybe he wouldn't go to the Fair.  He'd stay at home with his beloved manure pile,  eat his slops, and watch the seasons change.  I understand the little pig.  Change is not something Wilbur values.  He prefers all his days to be the same, sunrise to sunset.  So do I.

However, I know I have to step outside my comfort zone, accept new challenges.  This morning I submitted some poems to a contest.  That's really outside my comfort zone.  In fact, I almost talked myself out of it a few times.  But, I finally gave in.

I'm 99% sure I don't stand a chance of winning the poetry contest.  Maybe in one of the threads of my life out there, I do win first prize.  That would be $100 and the right to brag a little bit.  I think I could handle that.

And that's a piece of Saint Marty's mind, at least in this alternate universe.

December 9: Late, Grading, Magic 8-Ball

It's quite late.  I got home about an hour-and-a-half ago.  I've been trying to work up the energy for doing this post.  I haven't been very successful.

I've been grading exams all day long.  I finished around 8:30 tonight.  All that's left to do is the math.  I think that why I'm so beat.  My mind has been doing overtime all day long.

I was talking to my office mate at the university this evening.  We were talking about the choices we've both made in our lives.  We're both parents of two kids.  Her sons are the same ages as my daughter and son.  And we're both contingent faculty at the university. That means neither of us can afford to get our kids anything for Christmas without going into debt.  Basically, we discussed the bad career choices we've made.  Teaching part-time at a university doesn't put a whole lot of food on the table.

That's are really good Magic 8-Ball question:

Am I an idiot for teaching part-time at the college?

And Holden's answer is:

"Well, no, not exactly.but I can usually get them on account of my heighth," I said...

So, Saint Marty is "not exactly" an idiot.  That's sort of like being "kind of" pregnant, isn't it?

I really am sleepy

December 28: P.O.E.T.I.O.V. Day, Getting Work Done, Choices

Yes, today is P.O.E.T.S. Day.  That’s Piss On Everything Tomorrow’s Saturday Day.  This morning, however, it’s actually P.O.E.T.I.O.V. Day.  That would be Piss On Everything Tomorrow I’m On Vacation Day.  Yes, I’m off for two weeks after I complete my work this Friday.  

I haven’t had this much time off in years, so I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do with myself.  I’m sure I’ll figure it out pretty quickly.  There are still tasks I need to complete during my vacation (like finishing my syllabus for the winter semester).  For the most part, though, the next two weeks are blank pages.  Now, as I writer, I can’t stand blank pages.  I have to fill them with something.  A poem.  A short story.  A dirty limerick.  Something.  But the great thing is that I have a choice of what I want to do.

That’s one of the things I struggle with a lot in my current job at the medical office.  I don’t have a whole lot of choices.  The place is owned by a fairly large health care organization, so the welfare and happiness of one tiny, insignificant employee does not make a huge blip on its radar screen.  Pretty much, the company asks, “Can we make money with this office/person?”  If the answer if “yes,” then you’re safe.  If the answer is “no,” start packing up the pictures of your kids on your desk.

I don’t resent the company for being that way.  They’re huge, and they’re in it for the money.  It’s as simple as that.  It leaves little room for individuality or autonomy.  I’m a good employee.  I was named Employee of the Month a couple of years ago.  For the past few years at the university, I’ve been nominated for Adjunct of the Year by the English Department.  I work hard for my employers.  That mentality was pretty much driven into me by my parents.  I always try to do my very best at my jobs.

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve noticed the jobs I enjoy the most are the ones that allow me a lot of freedom.  I think that’s why I love teaching at the university.  I’m assigned classes and have to follow a certain curriculum.  However, there’s this little thing called academic freedom.  I can decide how I want to teach.  I can choose the textbooks, the movies, the novels for my classes.  I can shape the entire semester to my liking.  I even get to decide when I want to hold my office hours.  I appreciate the ability to make choices.

For the next two weeks, I can pretend that I’m a full-time professor at the university.  Set my own hours.  Prepare for the upcoming semester at my leisure.  I won’t have to get up at 4 a.m. to leave for work by 5 a.m.  I’ll be able to see my kids in the morning.  I’ll be able to drive my daughter to dance, visit my son’s Head Start classroom.  I might even do some pleasure reading.

Saint Marty is ready to live on the edge.  He may even sleep in until 6 a.m.

Which way do I go?

June 14: Neglected Grave, Mortal Coil, Last Day

Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name, EBENEZER SCROOGE.

Most of my disciples can probably guess where this little paragraph occurs in A Christmas Carol.  It is the culmination of the visit of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.  In it, Scrooge is given the unpleasant revelation of his imminent demise.  Judging from all the evidence, Scrooge's death is fast approaching.  Not ten years down the line.  Not five years down the line.  The impression I've always gotten from reading the book is that Scrooge is going to die within a year. 

The main clues for this assumption come from the death of Tiny Tim.  The Ghost of Christmas Present predicts, "If these shadows remain unaltered by the Future, none other of my race...will find him here."  That means that Tiny Tim will be dead within a year.  In the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come stave, Scrooge sees Bob Cratchit mourning over his son's body.  A few scenes later, the paragraph above appears.  That means that Scrooge is already planted in the ground by the time Tiny Tim shuffles off this mortal coil.  Scrooge has less than a year to live at this point in the narrative.

I've posed this scenario to my Good Books students in the past:  if you suddenly heard God's voice in your ear, and God's voice told you, "You will die next Tuesday at 3:17 p.m. EST," what would you do?  The answer I invariably receive is not sit in a classroom with me, talking about Great Expectations or The Grapes of Wrath.  They would be out with their family or girlfriends or boyfriends.  They would spend their remaining time with their kids.  They wouldn't worry about their finances.  In fact, 100% of my students don't even mention money, unless they intend to purchase gifts for loved ones.  That last mortgage payment for J. P. Morgan Chase doesn't even make a blip on the radar.  It doesn't even make the top 100 list of things to do.

Certainly, when Scrooge is faced with the reality of his untimely end, it changes him.  Actually, it scares the shit out of him.  He can no longer go back to his old life and old habits.  He must embrace a different way of thinking and acting.  I know, if I were in the position of knowing my final dance was approaching, I wouldn't be blogging.  I wouldn't be working.  I wouldn't be doing a lot of the things I normally do every day.

That's what makes the difference for Scrooge.  It should make a difference for everybody.  There's no guarantee, when you eat that bowl of Rice Krispies this morning, that you will be around to finish off the box of Rice Krispies tomorrow.  That should make us hug our daughters a little longer.  Enjoy that Milky Way bar a little more.  Listen to those birds singing for a few extra minutes.  I know it would change my day(s) drastically.

Maybe I should live today like it is my last day.  Make choices that really count, that make me happy.

Saint Marty needs to go.  He has a family-size bag of Cheetos and a pan of brownies to eat.

Judgement Day is here.  Grab a spoon.