November 20: It Committed Suicide, "Brokeback Mountain," Class Observation

"Simple.  I got very bored and depressed, so I went and plugged myself in to its external computer feed.  I talked to the computer at great length and explained my view of the Universe to it," said Marvin.

"And what happened?" pressed Ford.

"It committed suicide," said Marvin, and stalked off back to the Heart of Gold.

You will have to forgive me if this post sounds a little like Marvin the depressed robot blogging.  You see, I just finished watching Brokeback Mountain with my film class.  Whenever I reach my Brokeback week in this course, I have to brace myself. 

It's a great film.  One of my favorites.  Beautiful cinematography and music.  A stunning performance by Heath Ledger.  (His best, as far as I'm concerned.)  But . . . it's really depressing.  And, when I'm already in a somewhat down frame of mind, Brokeback Mountain pushes me over the edge.  This afternoon, I noticed a few people in class actually crying.

I apologize for my absence yesterday.  I spent most of last night preparing for my evening class tonight.  You see, I am being observed by another professor for my annual performance evaluation.  While I've been teaching at this university for close to 25 years, I still find peer observation very unsettling.  Perhaps it's the little Catholic boy in me, always expecting to be punished and told I'm not worthy.  Or it just may be my low self esteem.  Anyway, I'm kind of a nervous wreck this evening.

So, to sum things up--I am depressed and anxious tonight.  A little while ago, I was depressed and anxious and tired.  However, I drank a 5-hour energy drink, so I will be fully awake for whatever is going to happen in the next couple hours.  (No lectures on how bad those energy drinks are.  I know.  I work in a cardiology office.) 

The professor coming to visit me will only be staying for about the first hour of my class, long enough to witness me lead a class discussion about Brokeback Mountain and a chapter in our textbook.  Then, my students will take a quiz, and my colleague will go home and watch TV or read or book or type up his observation notes, excoriating me for my lack of effectiveness as an instructor.

If I sound paranoid, I am.  Although I think that I'm a good teacher, I always feel a little bit like a fraud when I'm standing in front of the classroom, like a student will stand up in the middle of my lecture on depictions of masculinity in Brokeback Mountain, point a finger at me, and shout, "You don't know what the fuck you're talking about!"  Then they will condemn me as a witch and burn me at the stake, or something like that.

I have about a half hour before this observation begins now.  I need to do some deep breathing, review my notes for class, and make sure there are no sharp objects on my person (in case things really don't go well).

Saint Marty is now depressed and anxious and a little panicked.  Maybe he should just jump on a horse and go hide on Brokeback Mountain for a couple days.

June 24: Using My Mind, Literature of Madness, a Rabbit

A revelation about Zaphod and his brain . . .

Zaphod paused for a while.  For a while there was silence.  Then he frowned and said, "Last night I was worrying about this again.  About this fact that part of my mind just didn't seem to work properly.  Then it occurred to me that the way it seemed was that someone else was using my mind to have good ideas with, without telling me about it.  I put the two ideas together and decided that maybe that somebody had locked off part of my mind for that purpose, which was why I couldn't use it.  I wondered if there was a way I could check.

"I went to the ship's medical bay and plugged myself into the encephalographic screen.  I went through every major screening test on both my heads--all the tests I had to go through under Government medical officers before my nomination for presidency could be properly ratified.  They showed up nothing.  Nothing unexpected at least.  They showed that I was clever, imaginative, irresponsible, untrustworthy, extrovert, nothing you couldn't have guessed.  And no other anomalies.  So I started inventing further tests, completely at random.  Nothing.  Then I tried superimposing the results from one head on top of the results from the other head.  Still nothing.  Finally I got silly, because I'd given it all up as nothing more than an attack of paranoia.  Last thing I did before I packed it in was take the superimposed picture and look at it through a green filter.  You remember I was always superstitious about the color green when I was a kid?  I always wanted to be a pilot on one of the trading scouts?"

Ford nodded.  

"And there it was," said Zaphod, "clear as day.  A whole section in the middle of both brains that related only to each other and not to anything else around them.  Some bastard had cauterized all the synapses and electronically traumatized these two lumps of cerebellum."

Ford stared at him, aghast.  Trillian had turned white.

"Somebody did that to you?" whispered Ford.

"Yeah."

"But have you any idea who?  Or why?"

"Why?  I can only guess.  But I do know who the bastard was."

"You know?  How do you know?"

"Because they left their initials burned into the cauterized synapses.  They left them there for me to see."

Ford stared at him in horror and felt his skin begin to crawl.

"Initials?  Burned into your brain?"

"Yeah."

"Well, what were they, for God's sake?"

Zaphod looked at him in silence again for a moment.  They he looked away.

"Z. B.," he said quietly.

At that moment a steel shutter slammed down behind them and gas started to pour into the chamber.

"I'll tell you about it later," choked Zaphod as all three passed out.

What Zaphod describes here is something that sounds very familiar.  I sometimes teach a class on the literature of madness (my term) at the university.  For the semester, we read novels, graphic novels, and memoirs by people who suffer from some mental illness.  Bipolar disorder,  Schizophrenia.  Major depression.  It's a heavy semester, and I often joke as I hand out the syllabus that I have a supplement of Prozac to go along with it.

Anyway, how Zaphod describes his condition--"that someone else was using my mind to have good ideas with, without telling me about it"--sounds a whole lot like schizophrenia.  The fact that he has two heads sort of enforces the metaphor.  Two brains.  Two heads.  Someone else controlling his thoughts.  I'm not a psychiatrist, but it sounds pretty textbook to me.

In the last couple months, I have felt a little driven by outside forces myself.  Things that I simply couldn't control.  (If you think I'm writing about my daughter's graduation again, you are mistaken.  My life has been in a state of upheaval for various other reasons, and I have been struggling to find my equilibrium.)  Some days, it literally feels as if somebody completely outside of myself is piloting the ship.  On those days, I have to wrestle my thoughts to the ground and pin them down.

Today has been a good day.  While not without stress, I have pretty much remained at an even keel.  I haven't chased the white rabbit down any holes.  In fact, when I got home from work today, there was a rabbit sitting in my backyard.  I got out of my car and slowly began walking toward it.  Step by step.  Not rushing,  For me, it was an exercise in meditation.  Deep breathing.  Slow movements.  Patience.  I got within a few feet of the rabbit before it moved.  It didn't bolt away from me.  Instead, it nonchalantly hopped just a few steps and then stopped again.  It wasn't panicked.  Just curious.

The rabbit and I simply occupied the same space together for a few minutes.  The same oxygen.  And then, as if by mutual agreement, with both turned away from each other and moved on with our lives.

Perhaps I sound a little insane here.  I might be.  But I think of my encounter with this rabbit as a victory.  A sign that, maybe, my life is regaining some balance and peace.  Either that, or I am one step away from the bell jar.

Now, if Saint Marty shows up for work tomorrow dressed as the Queen of Hearts, screaming "Off with his head!"--that's going to be a real problem.

March 22: Really Big, Weekend, Game Night

Ford and Arthur have just been launched into outer space as a new chapter begins . . .

The Hicthhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a wholly remarkable book.  It has been compiled and recompiled many times over many years and under many different editorships.  It contains contributions from countless numbers of travelers and researchers.  

The introduction begins like this:

"Space," it says, "is big.  Really big.  You just won't believe how vastly hugely mind-bogglingly big it is.  I mean, you may think it's a long way down the road to the chemist, but that's just peanuts to space.  Listen . . ." and so on.

(After a while the style settles down a bit and it begins to tell you things you really need to know, like the fact that the fabulously beautiful planet Bethselamin is now so worried about the cumulative erosion by ten billion visiting tourists a year that any net imbalance between the amount you eat and the amount you excrete while on the planet is surgically removed from your body weigh when you leave:  so every time you go to the lavatory there it is vitally important to get a receipt.)

It is the beginning of the weekend, and I have nothing really pressing to do.  No papers that HAVE to be graded, no poetry readings to attend, no birthday parties, no school events.  Nothing.  The weekend seems big.  Really big.  Vastly hugely mind-bogglingly big.  Of course, on Sunday night, I will probably be sitting on my couch wondering where all my time went.  Right now, however, it's a vast ocean of relaxation.  At least that's what I'm telling myself.

After a long week of work and teaching and grading and car troubles, I am ready to do . . . absolutely nothing tonight.  I will go out to dinner with my wife, daughter, and daughter's boyfriend.  Have a couple drinks.  Then I will come home and, if I'm not too tired, read a book or watch some Netflix.  This past week, a good friend and I watched the film Saving Mr. Banks.  I had never seen it before.  It was wonderful.  Maybe I'll try to talk my wife into watching it with me (or my daughter).

For the last month or so, it feels like I've been pulled in many directions.  I haven't had a whole lot of family time.  I missed one of my daughter's last chorus concerts because I had to teach.  I missed my son's last grade school carnival because I had to work.  My nights have been late, and my wife is usually asleep with my son when I get home.  I feel a little disconnected.

So, aside from wanting to watch a movie with my wife, I want to have a game night tomorrow with my whole family.  Maybe Trivial Pursuit.  Maybe the new game my wife just bought me called Bring You Own Book.  It's sort of like the game Apples to Apples.  I just have to get my kids to agree to sit down and play with me.  Granted, I'm not as cool as a video game or the latest binge-worthy television show, but I can be fun.  (If the "fun" thing doesn't work, I will resort of guilt.  I'm not proud.)

Those are my plans for the weekend.  I'm sure the coming week will hold surprises.  I'm sure I'll be pulled in a thousand different directions at once again.  Hopefully, I will find out whether I've secured employment for myself.  I have a couple prospects.  Interviewed for one job today.  But, for the next three days (I'm counting today, as well), it's deep breathing for me.  And time with my wife and family.

Saint Marty is getting back to the basics.

April 8: Deep Cuts, Insecurities, Finding Solid Ground

Then [Ives] shocked the priest, rolling up the sleeve of his bright red cashmere sweater, which he wore that day with a white shirt and a red bow tie, to expose his arm:  his skin was covered with deep cuts and scabs from tossing and turning and scratching himself at night until he bled.

Ives tortures himself for years.  At night, when he sleeps, his grief-stricken heart takes control, and all the mental and spiritual anguish manifests itself.  He tears at his skin in his sleep, leaving his body covered with wounds and sores.  Like Job, Ives endures his afflictions, not understanding, struggling to trust God's will.


I've been struggling a lot recently.  Feeling a little stupid.  Unqualified.  Each time I stand in front of a classroom this semester, I have this sensation that my students think I'm some kind of fraud.  That they're sitting there, questioning everything I say and do.  Now, I know that I'm a good teacher.  I have the student evaluations to prove it.  However, I can't shake my insecurities.  I get knots in my shoulders before every class.

Usually, by this time in the semester, I've hit my stride, know what I'm doing.  This time, I'm still trying to find solid ground.  I'm beginning to believe I'm never going to feel comfortable.  It has a lot to do with the poetry workshop I'm teaching.  Brand new class and syllabus.  I have graduate students.  A lot smarter than the freshmen and sophomores I'm used to.

I know poetry.  I'm good at it.  I've been nominated for the Pushcart Prize twice.  I've been nominated to be the U. P. Poet Laureate.  Twice.  I've published a book.  I'm the poetry editor of a respected literary journal.  That means people respect my opinion.  I don't think I've just been lucky.  Well, maybe luck had a little something to do with it.  I've worked hard, really hard, for what I've got right now.

I need to relax.  Stop doubting myself.  Take some deep breaths.

Saint Marty's really good at self-torture.  Not so much at deep breathing.

Maybe I was Sylvia in a former life

November 16: Christmas Essay, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

I don't have much time tonight.  For five hours this afternoon, I was in a recording studio, putting together a Christmas album with my band.  It's the first time I've done a project like this.  I did learn one thing:  I am not meant to be a professional musician.  I can't stand the two hours of work for three minutes of music.

I am going to work on my Christmas essay after I'm done typing this post.  I've been really struggling with this essay.  I can't seem to get the right tone or format.  I know it will eventually fall together, but I'm at the panic phase right now.

I need to practice my deep breathing.  And relax.  And pray for a little Christmas inspiration.

Today's Classic Saint Marty first aired two years ago, and--no surprise--it's about writing my annual Christmas essay.

November 16, 2012: A Visitation, Bell Tolled One, P.O.E.T.S. Day

Scrooge lay in this state until the chimes had gone three quarters more, when he remembered, on a sudden, that the Ghost had warned him of a visitation when the bell tolled one.  He resolved to lie awake until the hour was passed; and, considering that he could no more go to sleep than go to Heaven, this was perhaps the wisest resolution in his power.

Scrooge is awaiting the appearance of the first of the yuletide spirits.  He's not sure what he's in for.  Marley's Ghost was not a pleasant apparition, wrapped in chains and bellowing at the top of his vapory lungs.  This second ghost could be anything, and Scrooge is a little terrified, I think.

Today is P.O.E.T.S Day.  Some time in these next 24 hours, I vow to post a new, original poem.  The problem is that I'm sort of like Scrooge right now.  I'm waiting for my poem to appear.  I have no idea what shape or form it's going to take.  It could be a sonnet or haiku.  It could be free verse or iambic pentameter.  It could come screaming into my head, fully formed, or it could approach like a mouse, nibbling away until it is revealed or trapped.

Scrooge isn't sure the next spirit is even going to show up.  I, on the other hand, will post whatever crap I'm able to get down on paper.  Even if it's a bad poem, it will appear on this blog.  It's that threat that keeps me focused.  I do not want to be embarrassed by whatever I come up with.

I have another writing project to complete this weekend, as well. It's my annual Christmas essay.  I've already got a strong start, but I haven't had a chance to return to it in the last day or so.  I have to record this essay for the local Public Radio station soon, so I must get it done.  The goal I have set for myself:  Sunday night it will be finished.

For now, though, Saint Marty is all about poetry.  He wonders if posting a poem by Robert Frost would be cheating.  Something obscure, not having to do with snowy woods or broken walls or forking roads.

I didn't write this.

Confessions of Saint Marty

February 12: Waking Up on the Wrong Side

I woke up this morning on the wrong side of the bed.

I've always wondered where that phrase came from.  I thought it had something to do with falling out of bed because you're sleeping on a side that is unfamiliar to you.  I've also thought it had something to do with getting drunk and waking up with somebody you don't know.  Perhaps it refers to waking up too early or too late.

Whatever the source of this phrase, I can honestly say that I did wake up on the wrong side of the bed today.  I was in a horrible mood for most of the a.m.  Everybody was ticking me off.  The most innocent questions and requests from people instilled an urge in me to make the questioner or requester cry.

Things have gotten better this afternoon.  My compulsion to inflict pain has subsided.  It took quite a few hours, however.  I'm not sure what kind of mood I'm going to be in when I hit the classroom to teach.  Thank God all I have to do is pop Pulp Fiction into the DVD player and press play.  I think that the film's blood and profanity will improve my disposition, as well.

Perhaps Saint Marty needs to do some deep breathing.  Or kick a puppy.

See what I mean?