August 16, 2026: “The Last Time,” Mortality, “Card Trick”

Most young people don’t think about death a whole lot.  They’re too busy worrying about popsicles and grades and crushes and friends.  I even see this attitude in my college students.  Their whole focus is the future, what they’re going to be when they grow up.  It’s my job somehow to prepare them for the “real world.”  The problem is that they think they’re going to live forever and have plenty of time to deal with all of life’s brokenness and need.  

Marie Howe receives a lesson in mortality . . . 

The Last Time

by: Marie Howe

The last time we had dinner together in a restaurant 

with white tablecloths, he leaned forward

and took my two hands in his and said,

I’m going to die soon.  I want you to know that.

And I said, I think I do know.

And he said What surprises me is that you don’t.

And I said I do.  And he said, What?

And I said, Know that you’re going to die.

And he said, No, I mean know that you are.

Only people facing impending death really get it.  Whether they’re ten or 75 years old, they understand how brief our time on this planet is, and they also understand how meaningless most of life’s distractions are.  Think about it.  When you’re breathing your last breath, are you going to give a shit whether you own a Lamborghini or a ‘75 Dodge Dart?  And, if you’re lucky enough to reach old age, will it matter if you live in a condo in Boca Raton or an assisted living facility?  Mortality has a way of boiling down life to its essentials:  are you loved?  are you happy?  are you at peace?

In the end, love and happiness and peace are what it’s all about.  A person can be loved by a dachshund in a secluded cabin, and a person can be loved by three generations of family living in a Brooklyn townhouse.  A person can be happy living in a Spanish villa with a billion-dollar bank account, and a person can also be happy living in a studio apartment while working a minimum-wage job.  Finally, a person can find peace watching a Lake Superior sunset, and a person can find peace at a Kendrick Lamar concert at Ford Field in Detroit.

Love.  Happiness.  Peace.  That’s all that really matters.

It’s Sunday night.  My puppy is sleeping on the floor next to me.  An episode of Portrait Artist of the Year is on the TV.  My wife made a delicious dinner of meatballs and gravy.  In a little while, I’m going to be leading a virtual poetry workshop from my home office.  This is definition of a perfect evening for me.  I feel blessed because I’m surrounded by love in a safe space.  And I’m sort of dreading leaving this safe space tomorrow morning to go to work, where love and happiness and peace are much more difficult (if not impossible) to find.

After last night’s post, I think most of you understand my anxiety about reentering the “real” world.  Most weekends, I try to curate an environment where love, happiness, and peace exist freely because the rest of my life is so chaotic and pressured.  I’ve especially embraced this cocoon of serenity this weekend, and the idea of breaking out of it tomorrow is . . . well . . . almost painful.

Many friends and family members have reached out to me with messages of love and support in the 24 hours since I posted yesterday.  That has lifted my spirits so much (and made me cry on a few occasions).  The reading in church today was about the Gentile woman begging Christ to cure her daughter of demonic possession.  Jesus says to the woman, “It isn’t right to take food from the children and throw it to the dogs.”  And the woman responds that even dogs eat the crumbs from their master’s table.  Jesus heals the woman’s daughter because “. . . your faith is great.”

I have faith that I’ll make it through this blue period because I’ve done it before.  Lots of people think the antonym of faith is doubt.  It isn’t.  It’s fear.  Now, I’m not that brave of a person.  I’m afraid of a lot of things.  Rodents.  Heights.  Bad poetry.  Green bean casserole.  The trick is not to let fear rule your life.

I will wake up tomorrow morning, get dressed, and go to work, despite my anxieties.  Or maybe because of my anxieties.  I don’t know.  If I just called in sick and curled up on the couch tomorrow, fear wins.  Anxiety wins.  Sadness wins.  Plus, I might never leave my house again.  So, to paraphrase the advice of a therapist friend, I’m going to fake it ‘til I make it.  

I will have love and happiness and peace in my life again.  Eventually.

Saint Marty wrote this poem today.  It’s about conquering fear . . . 

Card Trick

by: Martin Achatz

My dog doesn’t like lightning, scoots

into the dark bathroom at the first pang

and rumble of electricity in the sky.  There

she stays, curled tight as a fist on the bath mat

while the clouds are stitched with jagged

flame.  I don’t bother her as she cowers

in there, leave her to find some sense

of safety to uncoil the springs of her body.

Sometimes, though, I go and sit next

to her, put my hand on her heaving flanks,

leave it there until she relaxes, looks up at me

as if I’ve just shuffled the deck of her fur,

turned the lightning into the ace of hearts.

August 3, 2025: “Killing My Sister’s Fish,” Regrets, “”My Dad Haunts a House Where Nobody Knows Him Now”

We all do things we regret, especially when we’re youngsters.  (Just typing the word “youngsters” makes me feel like I’m a fugitive from the cast of Cocoon.)  When you’re a kid, you don’t have common sense, and you do things that seem like a really good idea at the time.  Hence, the seemingly inevitable stories of high schoolers getting drunk and then trying to drive home with disastrous results.  

Sharon Olds writes about a bad decision she made as a young girl . . . 

Killing My Sister’s Fish

by: Sharon Olds

I picked up the bottle with its gladiator shoulders—

inside its shirred grayish plastic

the ammonia, more muscular than water, pungent—

I poured one dollop, gleaming genie,

into the bowl with my sister’s goldfish

just because they were alive, and she liked them.

It was in the basement, near the zinc-lined sinks

and the ironing board, next to the boiler,

beside the door to the cellar from which

I could get into the crawl space

under the corner of the house, and lie

on the dirt on my back, as if passed out.

I may have been on my way there

when I saw the bowl, and the ammonia curled

for a moment in the air like a spirit.  Then I crawled up

under the floor-joists, into the tangent

where the soiled curved up, and I lay there,

at the ends of the earth, as if without

regret, as if something set in motion

long before I had been conceived

had been accomplished.

I try not to dwell on regrets.  In fact, unlike Olds, I can’t think of much from my younger days that I look back on with shame.  (There are a few things, but I’m not going to go full-blown therapy session with this post.)  But I didn’t kill any fish intentionally.  (Notice the word “intentionally.”  I have had my fair share of accidental fish murders.)

Today, I’ve been thinking a lot about my daughter and son.  Tomorrow, my daughter has her first day of medical school.  This September, my son starts his senior year of high school.  Both of those facts make me feel a little outmoded, as if I’m an old iPhone and everyone wants the newest model.  

I’ve made tons of mistakes as a parent.  Any person who has raised a child (and is being completely honest) will admit to fucking up.  A lot.  It goes with the territory.  In case you haven’t noticed, children don’t come with user manuals or warranties.  You get one shot.  If you’re successful, your child will still talk to you as an adult.  If you’re a failure, your child will be talking to a licensed therapist as an adult.

On the whole, though, regrets are useless.  All they do is make you feel bad about something that you can’t change.  Yes, I’ve made mistakes with my kids.  I own those fuckups and have learned from them.  The sad thing is, just when I think I’m getting the hang of this father gig, my kids are growing up, and my wife and I will be empty nesters soon.

I’ve had arguments with my kids.  Yelled at them.  Cussed them out.  Guilted them.  I regret each of those moments.  But I’ve also cheered my kids on, comforted and celebrated them.  In the end, the celebrations outnumber the degradations.  That’s what matters.  More happiness than sadness.  More joy than sorrow.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about regrets today, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Close your eyes and imagine yourself holding five things in your hand:  a person, a building, a weapon, and two other items of your choosing.  Write a poem that incorporates all five items.  For extra credit, use one item three times throughout the poem.

My Dad Haunts a House

     Where Nobody Knows Him Now

by: Martin Achatz

Dad used to plant tomatoes every spring,

lined the sidewalk to the front door

with them so that, come August,

visitors were greeted by orange and red

fireworks as they knocked or rang the bell.

There are no tomatoes at the old house

now, the new family who lives there

more interested in remodeling, tearing

out, installing, while Dad’s ghost watches

dandelions overtake the lawn and shakes

his spectral head.  He wishes he still had

his cane, the one he almost used on my skull

near the end of his life, him frustrated, 

diminished by the vacation his body was taking.

At night, Dad hovers over the boulder

at the bottom of the driveway, waving 

his candle flame arms in the dark, as if

he’s some kind of lighthouse guiding

cars safely home, that place where

everyone knows you and says

your name like an amen at the end

of a prayer.

January 18: Adventure with Death, Back-and-Forth in Time, Stimulation

One time on maneuvers, Billy was playing "A Might Fortress Is Our God," with music by Johann Sebastian Bach and words by Martin Luther.  It was Sunday morning.  Billy and his chaplain had gathered a congregation of about fifty soldiers on a Carolina hillside.  An umpire appeared.  There were umpires everywhere, men who said who was winning or losing the theoretical battle, who was alive and who was dead.

The umpire had comical news.  The congregation had been theoretically spotted from the air by a theoretical enemy.  They were all theoretically dead now.  The theoretical corpses laughed and ate a hearty noontime meal.

Remembering the incident years later, Billy was struck by what a Tralfamadorian adventure with death that had been, to be dead and to eat at the same time.

Toward the end of maneuvers, Billy was given an emergency furlough home because his father, a barber in Ilium, New York, was shot dead by a friend while they were out hunting deer.  So it goes.

A Tralfamadorian adventure in death.  Remember, death is not an ending on Tralfamadore.  It is simply another moment to experience.  So, you can be dead and eat a noontime meal at the same time.  That's all part of being unstuck in time.

I am currently writing this blog post and texting with two of my friends.  It sort of feels like I'm in three separate times, being pulled back and forth.  I'm not exactly a corpse, but I'm pretty doggone tired this evening.  I'm still adjusting to my new semester schedule of teaching and work.  It usually takes me a few weeks to feel human at the beginning of a new semester.  Think of it as being in between moments--my mind is still on Christmas break while my body is marching forward.  Eventually, my brain will catch up with my legs.

I'm not sure that multi-media is a healthy thing all the time.  Now that I have an iPhone, I feel obligated to be available constantly.  I can't simply ignore calls or texts or responses on Facebook.  So, hear I sit, typing these words, answering messages, and, like Billy, floating back-and-forth in time.

I am not complaining.  I sort of relish the stimulation.  It keeps my mind agile.  Don't have too much opportunity to slow down and brood.  Now, at night, however, I do unplug a little bit.  Once I publish my blog posts, put a few pictures on Facebook, I am ready to cocoon.  Recharge.

Pretty soon, I am going to have to pick up my daughter at her dance studio.  I'm just waiting for my phone to honk at me with her command:  "I'm ready.  Come get me."  That will be the beginning of the end of my day.  We will drive home.  I'll change into my pajamas.  Help my son with his shower.  Get him in bed.  Then, I will watch a couple episodes of American Horror Story with my daughter.  (We are currently working our way through the entire series.)

 My friends have stopped texting.  I'm almost at the end of this post.  My day is slowing down.

This Saint Tralfamadorian is ready to get stuck in time for a while.

Me as a Tralfamadorian