July 18: "Building with Its Face Blown Off," Modem and Router, Lucky

Billy Collins writes about war . . . 

Building with Its Face Blown Off

by: Billy Collins

How suddenly the private

is revealed in a bombed-out city,

how the blue and white striped wallpaper

of a second story bedroom is now

exposed to the lightly falling snow

as if the room had answered the explosion

wearing only its striped pajamas.

Some neighbors and soldiers

poke around in the rubble below

and stare up at the hanging staircase,

the portrait of a grandfather,

a door dangling from a single hinge.

And the bathroom looks almost embarrassed

by its uncovered ochre walls,

the twisted mess of its plumbing,

the sink sinking to its knees,

the ripped shower curtain,

the torn goldfish trailing bubbles.

It's like a dollhouse view

as if a child on its knees could reach in

and pick up the bureau, straighten a picture.

Or it might be a room on a stage

in a play with no characters,

no dialogue or audience,

no beginning, middle, and end--

just the broken furniture in the street,

a shoe among the cinder blocks,

a light snow still falling

on a distant steeple, and people

crossing a bridge that still stands.

And beyond that--crows in tree,

the statue of a leader on a horse,

and clouds that look like smoke,

and even farther on, in another country

on a blanket under a shade tree,

a man pouring wine into two glasses

and a woman sliding out

the wooden pegs of a wicker hamper

filled with bread, cheese, and several kinds of olives.

No, I'm not going to write about Ukraine or Gaza tonight, although Collins' poem lends itself well to these topics.  There are innocent people dying all over the world due to the ravages of war.  Thousands of them.  Men, women, children.  Young and old.  War doesn't discriminate.

Meanwhile, in my first world existence, I had to hang around my house this morning for the cable guy to show up.  (Can I call him the cable guy if I don't have cable anymore?)  My router and modem decided to become enemies at around 11:30 last night, and I was up until 2 a.m. trying to fix them.  I wasn't successful, so I called for help from a technician.  

When he showed up about two hours late, said technician poked around a little bit.  Tested all of my devices.  Replaced my modem.  Reset my router.  Got me back in business.  First world problem, I know, but it was pretty annoying.

Tonight, I hosted an online open mic.  Only two other people showed up, and one of them was my wife.  Despite the scarcity of attendees, it was a really good evening of sharing and revealing with people I love and care about.

Speaking of which, my niece and son had a down day at home, since I had to work.  I didn't force them to hike up a mountain or push them off a cliff into Lake Superior or make them go hunt Bigfoot.  One of my son's friends came over in the evening to hang out with them.  Abby is an artist, so she took some time to sketch and draw today.

The world is such a strange place.  While I'm going about my little life in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, other people are fighting for their lives against bombs and bullets.  The United States is fractured by politics, and my house is filled with laughter and love and creativity.

Saint Marty sometimes forgets how lucky he is.

October 16: Don't Talk to Me About Life, Pessimist, My Son/My Hero

"Sorry, did I say something wrong?" said Marvin, dragging himself on regardless.  "Pardon me for breathing, which I never do anyway so I don't know why I bother to say it, oh God, I'm so depressed.  Here's another of those self-satisfied doors.  Life!  Don't talk to me about life."

Marvin is one of my favorite characters in Hitchhiker's.  A robot programmed to be clinically depressed.  He is everyone on their worst days, when life comes along and keeps kicking dirt in your face over and over and over.  Of course, we can laugh at Marvin for the hyperbole of his state of mind.  Yet, behind that laughter, there's also a little bit of self-recognition.  We all have a part of Marvin in us, all the time.

For the last half year or so, I have been swinging in between peace of mind and piece of Marvin.  I reach moments when I resolve some inner conflict, and then I'm good for a day or two.  Yet, my Marvin always pushes himself forward, claiming control of my head.  Then, I will experience days, sometimes weeks, of self-pity and self-loathing.  To quote Marvin, "Life!  Don't talk to me about life."

My problems are mostly first-world.  I'm not living through a drought or famine.  Bombs aren't exploding around me on a daily basis.  I don't fear for my life every second.  I pay a mortgage on a house.  I have a car.  My kids are healthy.  Blah, blah, blah.  I'm doing better than about 97% of the rest of the people inhabiting this little rock of a planet.  Yet, I sometimes find myself uncontrollably unhappy.

Now, before you scroll away from this post because you don't want to be dragged down into Marvin Land, I am going to ask you to stick with me.  My goal is to end on a happy, uplifting note this evening.  That is because I'm going to talk about my eleven-year-old son, and his struggles with negativity and pessimism.

Since a very young age, my son has been seeing a psychiatrist, off and on, to deal with his anger impulse issues.  These issues are tied pretty closely with his ADHD, and medication has helped him quite a bit.  Yet, my son also deals with moments of what I can only call extreme disappointment.  Life doesn't go the way he expects, and my son struggles with that.  One day, after an appointment with his psychiatrist, he came to visit me at work, and the first words out of his mouth were, "Daddy, I'm a pessimist, just like you!"  He said this with a huge smile, throwing his arms around my waist.

For some reason, he appreciated this explanation of his state of mind.  It was something he could understand, as if pessimism is something passed down genetically (and it sort of is--if you term it depression or mental illness).  And he was proud of the fact that he was taking after me.  Me?  That moment was not one of my better parenting days.  It was like my son holding a mirror up to my face, forcing me to look at some really horrible defect in my features.

Now, my wife suffers from bipolar disorder and addiction.  I, to use my son's words, am a pessimist.  That means my son and daughter have a few strikes against them in the mental health department.  I am constantly on the lookout for signs of trouble in my kids, hoping to catch bumps in the mental illness road before they turn into Grand Canyons of depression or mania.  So far, so good.

I am much more mindful of how I act around my son these days.  I try not to be Marvin around him.  It's difficult for me at times.  Yet, I can see that my son has matured.  He hasn't had any trips to the principal's office so far this year.  He stops his temper before it turns into a tantrum.  And he's much more aware of people's feelings around him.  He does small things, like sharing his French fries or giving his sister unexpected hugs, that surprise me.

My little pessimist has become my hero and teacher.  He is trying to change his outlook on the world, and he's succeeding.  That amazes me and instructs me.  For such a young person, my son is emotionally smarter than me on many levels, and he will call me out on my Marvin days:  "Daddy, you need to play a game of Notable Novelists with me to be happier."  He's right.

When Saint Marty grows up, he wants to be more like his son.