July 5: Plenty of Things, Little Overwhelmed, Willows and Horsetails

Santiago wishes for help . . . 

"I wish I had the boy," the old man said aloud. "I'm being towed by a fish and I'm the towing bitt. I could make the line fast. But then he could break it. I must hold him all I can and give him line when he must have it. Thank God he is travelling and not going down."

What I will do if he decides to go down, I don't know. What I'll do if he sounds and dies I don't know. But I'll do something. There are plenty of things I can do.

Santiago never gives up.  Sure, he may wish every once in a while that his circumstances were different, but he never allows himself to despair completely.  As he thinks, "There are plenty of things I can do."

Returned to work today after a three-day holiday weekend.  It was rough getting up this morning and working up enthusiasm to return to the office.  Because I knew the length of my list of things I needed to do.  Plus, I am teaching this second summer session at the university, so there are Discussion Forums to grade and panicked students to calm.

I must admit that I allowed myself to get a little overwhelmed.  However, I took my cue from Santiago, and I just concentrated on the task in front of me.  Task by task, I chipped away at my piles.  Plus, I had three meetings, as well.  I finished what needed to get done.  Then, I screened a documentary at the library about the Trail of Tears, a film I picked out for its close proximity to the celebration of Independence Day.  Just to provide a little counterpoint and balance to the strain of rampant patriotism that takes over the country this time of year.

I didn't get everything accomplished.  However, tomorrow's pile of tasks in substantially smaller than today's.  I count that a win.  Last night's fireworks were rained out in Marquette, Michigan, so the plan was to set them off this evening.  At 6 p.m., there was a fine mist settled in the city, with thick fog hovering over Lake Superior.  As I headed down to start screening the documentary, I had my doubts about fireworks going off at dusk.

But there were fireworks tonight.  I make the supposition from the absence of an announcement stating that they had been postponed again.  I'm sure that, tomorrow, Facebook will be flooded with photos and videos of Willows and Horsetails and Kamuros in the night sky.

There are plenty of things I can do now.  I could watch an episode of The Big Bang Theory.  Read a little Louise Erdrich.  Grade some more.  Lie on the couch in the dark, staring up at the ceiling.  Write a new poem.

Or Saint Marty could just give up and go to sleep.

March 20: Canyon of Clouds, Documentary, Somewhat Intelligent

Santiago falls asleep . . . 

The sky was clouding over to the east and one after another the stars he knew were gone. It looked now as though he were moving into a great canyon of clouds and the wind had dropped.

"There will be bad weather in three or four days," he said. "But not tonight and not tomorrow. Rig now to get some sleep, old man, while the fish is calm and steady."

He held the line tight in his right hand and then pushed his thigh against his right hand as he leaned all his weight against the wood of the bow. Then he passed the line a little lower on his shoulders and braced his left hand on it.

My right hand can hold it as long as it is braced, he thought. If it relaxes in sleep my left hand will wake me as the line goes out. It is hard on the right hand. But he is used to punishment. Even if I sleep twenty minutes or a half an hour it is good. He lay forward cramping himself against the line with all of his body, putting all his weight onto his right hand, and he was asleep.

Santiago needs to rest, but he knows that he may lose the fish if he allows himself to completely relax.  He has to remain vigilant, even when he closes his eyes.

I get Santiago in this passage.  When I get home after working and/or teaching, I rarely rest.  There is always something more to do.  Clean a church.  Grade papers.  Write a blog post.  Work on a poem.  Usually, I am completing a task right up to the point that I crawl into bed.  Even when I put my head on the pillow, my mind still takes several minutes to wind down.

At this point right now, I am pretty spent.  One of my best friends came over to my house today.  He's a poet/musician/filmmaker/artist.  Really talented.  He filmed a documentary about me last year.  Yes, you read that correctly.  A documentary about me.  Marty.  Would-be saint.  Bigfoot poet.  It's titled Bigfoot & Marty.  Watching this movie with my friend this afternoon, I haven't laughed so hard in years.  It really filled my soul with light.

 

I'm not saying it's a good film because of its subject matter.  I'm saying it's a good film because of how my friend assembled it into a cohesive piece of art.  It really captured the flavor of my poems and the whole Bigfoot subculture (which deserves a blog post unto itself).  Plus, I sound somewhat intelligent when I speak.

It was a good way to end a very busy weekend.  Laughter.  A good friend.  Poetry.  

Saint Marty feels a little rejuvenated right now.

And a Lenten poem for this evening . . . 

In Defense of Pluto

by:  Martin Achatz

At Solar System Elementary, Pluto got bullied
Off the playground by bigger planets,
Despite the policy of zero tolerance
Instated a few years ago when Moon
Showed up one morning, eclipsed
Sun with a fist of shadow so hard

She had to go to the nurse's office
For treatment of a bruised solar flare.
The kindergartners in Ms. Copernicus' class
Saw the whole Pluto incident, shook
In their little comet shoes as Neptune,
Uranus, Jupiter caught Pluto by the fence,
Smeared him with cosmic shit left behind
By Mr. Bigbang's schnauzer, Eris,
Chanted over and over "dwarf, dwarf, dwarf"
Until Pluto broke orbit, fled home
In a vacuum. Principal Galileo released
A statement: "Milky Way School District
Will not tolerate any form of bullying,
In outer space or cyberspace. All planets
Will be safe, dwarf, terrestrial, or gaseous,
Regardless of color, shape, orbital orientation."
Pluto remained at home, didn't return
To school. Neptune, Uranus, Jupiter
Were suspended pending further inquiry.
Rallies, parades, candlelight vigils were held
Across the universe, calling for tolerance,
Acceptance, peace among all celestial bodies.

April 12: Ken Burns, Rigoberto Gonzalez, "The Soldier of Mictlán"

I am watching a Ken Burns' documentary about World War I right now.  It is the last part of the film, and it features stories about mustard gas and the influenza epidemic of 1918.  It's pretty gruesome subject matter.  Then again, I didn't expect the final days of the Great War to be all flowers and rainbows.

Even the so-called victors in a war don't really win a whole lot.  There's plenty of pain and death on all sides.

Saint Marty hopes his children never have to experience war in their lifetimes.

The Soldier of Mictlán

by:  Rigoberto Gonzalez

Once upon a time there was a soldier

who marched to Mictlán in his soldier

boots and every step was a soldier

step and every breath was a soldier

word. Do you know what this soldier

said? I'd like a piece of bread for my soldier

hand. I'd like a slice of cheese for my soldier

nose. And I'd like a woman for my soldier

heart. The mayor of Mictlán saluted the soldier

and bowed his head as he told the soldier:

We have no bread, oh honorable soldier,

we hold empty hands instead. Dear soldier,

let us take yours if we may. And the soldier

held out his hand to be taken. Oh brave soldier,

said the mayor, cheese is your soldier

wish, but we have none since the other soldier

left. We whiff empty hands instead. The soldier

let the mayor sniff the scent of his soldier

palm. And forgive us, oh strong soldier,

said the mayor, but no woman worthy of soldier

warmth lives in our empty town. Will your soldier

eyes teach us wonder and kindness and soldier

love instead? Silence stiffened the soldier

face as a search ensued in the soldier

head for a moment one moment of soldier

bliss. But all was dead. The longer the soldier

looked the more the streets of his soldier

mind resembled the streets that his soldier

feet had taken him to: where no lost soldier

finds bread or cheese or a woman to be a soldier

wife. This was no space for a soldier

life indeed. So off to the hills the soldier

fled to seek out the place where a soldier

sheds the rattle that beckons the soldier

to death to soldier to death to soldier.