February 12, 2025: "Ecstasy," Good Mood, "Donald Trump Meets the Ghost of Abraham Lincoln in the LIncoln Bedroom"

Okay, I have to admit that I spend a good deal of time every day doom scrolling, intentionally looking for social media posts designed to piss me off or frighten me.  It doesn't take long to find the latest insanity being perpetrated by the Republicans and the South African immigrant.

Now don't get all judgmental.  I'm an intelligent person who knows to fact check everything I see on Facebook (since Mr. Zuckerberg no longer gives a shit about truth in any way).  When I see something truly outrageous, I investigate, as any person with any kind of IQ should do.  (Public Service Announcement for MAGA Republicans:  Donald Trump's posts to Truth Social do not constitute credible, non-biased information.)  The crazy thing is:  most of the time, these outrageous social media claims about the Republican Party's blatant disregard of the current Constitutional crisis taking place in the United States end up being absolutely true.  

So, I have to limit my intake of this insanity mindfully.  I even set timers for myself when I dive into Facebook.  Then, I look for videos and posts that make me laugh or feel good about the human race.  Believe it or not, they're still out there.  I choose joy over .  . . whatever it is the Republicans are doing.

Sharon Olds writes about happiness and pleasure . . . 

Ecstasy

by: Sharon Olds

As we made love for the third day,
cloudy and dark, as we did not stop
but went into it and into it and
did not hesitate and did not hold back we

rose through the air, until we were up above
timber line. The lake lay
icy and silver, the surface shirred,
reflecting nothing. The black rocks
lifted around it into the grainy
sepia air, the patches of snow
brilliant white, and even though we
did not know where we were, we could not
speak the language, we could hardly see, we
did not stop, rising with the black
rocks to the black hills, the black
mountains rising from the hills. Resting
on the crest of the mountains, one huge
cloud with scalloped edges of blazing
evening light, we did not turn back,
we stayed with it, even though we were
far beyond what we knew, we rose
into the grain of the cloud, even though we were
frightened, the air hollow, even though
nothing grew there, even though it is a
place from which no one has ever come back.

Yes, it is a hard picture Olds paints of sexual union with her significant other.  There's orgiastic pleasure, sure.  But there's also a precipice that Olds is standing on the edge of--one false step, and she and her lover will plunge into that "place from which no one has ever come back."

I spent some time with my friend, Jody, today.  She was in the library, leading a teen crafting class, and I was with her because I needed my spirits lifted, which is something at which she excels.  We laughed, commiserated, bitched about the current state of politics.  It was cathartic, and I found myself genuinely full of joy.  Jody has always had this superhuman power to drag me, kicking and screaming, from darkness into light.  Today was no different.  

So, I'm in a good mood tonight, because of Jody.  We both share the same fears and anxieties.  Yet, we also lift each other up, even in the most difficult of times.  We've seen each other through a lot of shit.   

Saint Marty wrote a poem tonight in honor of Abraham Lincoln's birthday, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Today is the birthday of Abraham Lincoln, the sixteenth president of the United States.  Lincoln is said to have stated that "Those who deny freedom to others, deserve it not themselves."  For today's exercise, write a poem that includes someone or something being set free.  Example:  a zoo animal, a caged chicken, a tethered dog, a human being (either you or someone you know).

Donald Trump Meets

the Ghost of Abraham Lincoln

in the Lincoln Bedroom

by: Martin Achatz

Lincoln stands thin as a leaf 

of grass before Donald, stares

at him as if regarding the dead

at Gettysburg, face stricken

with sadness so deep a stone

would never find its bottom.

When Lincoln opens his mouth,

all Donald hears are cannons,

rebel whoops, four million slaves

groaning under the crack and slash

of four million whips.  Lincoln

gutters in the darkness like a firefly,

senses civil war in Donald's

limbs and organs--Sherman

marching through his bowels,

Lee charging his temples.

As Donald takes a deep breath,

opens his lips, Lincoln thinks

of that bullet his skull ate,

how it filled his head with

a universe of black blossoms,

spinning over an endless field,

souls lined up horizon to

horizon, free at last, hallelujah.

Donald blows Lincoln out 

like a birthday candle, without 

making a wish.  Lincoln hangs 

above his head like smoke above 

a battle that hasn't been fought.

May 29: "From this River, When I Was a Child, I Used to Drink," Memorial Day, Freedom

Mary Oliver grieves for a dying river . . . 

From this River, When I Was a Child, I Used to Drink

by:  Mary Oliver

But when I came back I found

that the body of the river was drying.

"Did it speak?"

Yes, it sang out the old songs, but faintly.

"What will you do?"

I will grieve of course, but that's nothing.

"What, precisely, will you grieve for?"

For the river.  For myself, my lost

joyfulness.  For the children who will not

know what a river can be--a friend, a

companion, a hint of heaven.

"Isn't this somewhat overplayed?"

I said:  it can be a friend.  A companion.  A

hint of heaven.

I spent a good deal of time this morning and afternoon at cemeteries.  It's Memorial Day in the United States.  That's a day set aside to honor members of the country's armed forces who died in combat.  There are parades and concerts and VFW services all over the land, including my little piece of Michigan's Upper Peninsula.

I am well aware that I live a pretty privileged life.  I can write blog posts and poems and essays, freely expressing my opinions about MAGA hat-wearing bigots, pandemic deniers, homophobes, xenophobes, gun rights advocates, and misogynists (in short, Trump supporters).  I don't have to worry about being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to be shot or thrown in prison for my beliefs.  Because there are individuals who sacrificed their lives to protect my freedom.  

Some people in the United States think that criticizing the government and elected officials is unpatriotic.  I'm here today to say the exact opposite.  When I say we need sensible gun laws in this country--when I speak out against censorship in libraries and schools--when I point out evidence of systemic racism--when I defend the rights of LGTBQIA+ friends and family members--when I call out people as traitors who violently storm the U. S. Capitol--when I want my daughter to be able to make her own decisions about her body and life--when I do any of these things, I am honoring those men and women who fought and died for my independence.

My father was ultra-conservative his whole life.  Staunch Catholic.  John Wayne was his hero.  He was a member of the John Birch Society and thought Joseph McCarthy was a great patriot.  The only Democrat my father ever voted for was John F. Kennedy.  Aside from that, he was a diehard Republican, right down to Donald Trump.

From a pretty young age, I was the exact opposite of my father, politically and socially.  He knew this.  I may have even said to Dad on more than one occasion that Jesus Christ was a socialist, not a capitalist.  We didn't agree on a whole lot of anything.  Yet, my father respected my right to hold opinions that were in direct conflict with his.  (He may have even appreciated me a little bit for disagreeing with him, although he would never admit it.)

So, on this Memorial Day, I want to thank all of the people who fought and died in battle so that I can be a free-thinking, antigun, prochoice, borderline socialist.  John F. Kennedy, my father's favorite president, once said, "As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter the words, but to live by them."

Saint Marty tries to live out this gratitude every day of his life.

July 2: Might Not Happen, Independence Day Parade and Fireworks, Freedom

Santiago thinks a good thing, but does not say it aloud . . .

Then he will turn and swallow it, he thought. He did not say that because he knew that if you said a good thing it might not happen. He knew what a huge fish this was and he thought of him moving away in the darkness with the tuna held crosswise in his mouth. At that moment he felt him stop moving but the weight was still there. Then the weight increased and he gave more line. He tightened the pressure of his thumb and finger for a moment and the weight increased and was going straight down.

"He's taken it," he said. "Now I'll let him eat it well."

I understand Santiago's reasoning here.  As a matter of fact, I hold the same belief.  When I think that something positive should or will happen, I avoid actually putting breath and words to that thing.  It's the kiss of death.  It almost guarantees epic failure.  That's why most authors are pretty superstitious regarding talking about their current writing projects.

Today, my hometown celebrated Independence Day with a parade, community picnic, and fireworks at dusk.  This morning, I watched the parade with people I love--family members who make me laugh and feel blessed.  This evening, I sat on a grassy hillside, listened to some bad bands, ate snow cones and kettle corn, and enjoyed the rockets red glare.  It was sort of a perfect day.

Yet, as I said last night, this Independence Day feels different to me.  Less free.  Usually, I think of this holiday as a time that unites citizens of the United States, regardless of politics.  I know that this country has been flawed since its inception.  Stolen from Indigenous peoples.  Built on the backs of slaves.  Ruled by white male privilege.  Freedom has been relative in this land since that little document penned by Thomas Jefferson was signed.

The United States has been an experiment since its inception.  Lately, that experiment has been corrupted.  Do I believe that I'm witnessing the downfall of my country?  At times, yes.  Today, however, seeing everyone gathered to celebrate the signing of a document that most citizens of this country have never even fully read, I can still feel a sense of hope for better and kinder times.

I'm not going to put that hope into specific words.  I am not Thomas Jefferson, and I'm not about to turn this post into some kind of Declaration of Hope for my flawed homeland.  That would be an enterprise destined to fail.  You see, until everyone starts recognizing those flaws and tries to fix them, we won't ever be truly united.  We'll remain doomed to an existence much like our present time, where racism and homophobia and xenophobia and misogyny infest all parts of society and government.

But I do have hope for my country this Independence Day weekend.  We can be better.  I know this.  We've been trying to be better for almost 250 years now.  Let freedom ring this July 4th for everyone.  For my daughter, who now has to refight battles that were won in the Supreme Court over 50 years ago.  For my son, who may have to join in his own Stonewall riot.  For everyone who isn't male and white and Christian.  

Hope belongs to everyone.  So does independence.

There's a verse in the song "America the Beautiful" that goes like this:  "America!  America!  God mend thine every flaw!"

That's Saint Marty's refrain tonight.

May 27: Nothing to Worry About, Freedom, Deep Breaths

Merton tastes rebellious freedom for the first time . . .

In 1930, after I had turned fifteen, and before most of these things happened, the way began to be prepared for my various intellectual rebellions by a sudden and very definite sense of independence, a realization of my own individuality which, while being natural at that age, took an unhealthy egotistic turn.  And everything seemed to conspire to encourage me to cut myself off from everybody else and go my own way.  For a moment, in the storms and confusion of adolescence, I had been humbled by my own interior sufferings, and having a certain amount of faith and religion, I had subjected myself more or less willingly and even gladly to the authority of others, and to the ways and customs of those around me.

But in Scotland I had begun to bare my teeth and fight back against the humiliation of giving in to other people, and now I was rapidly building up a hard core resistance against everything that displeased me:  whether it was the opinions or desires of others, or their commands, or their very persons.  I would think what I wanted and do what I wanted, and go my own way.  If those who tried to prevent me had authority to prevent me, I would have to be at least externally polite in my resistance:  but my resistance would be no less determined, and I would do my own will, have my own way.

When Pop and Bonnemaman came to Europe again in 1930, they practically threw the doors of the world wide open to me and gave me my independence.  The economic crisis of 1929 had not altogether ruined Pop:  he did not have all his substance invested in companies that crashed, but the indirect effect on him was just as serious as it was on every other ordinary business man. 

In June 1930, they all came down to Oakham--Pop, Bonnemaman, and John Paul.  It was a quiet visit.  They no longer took towns by storm.  The depression had changed all that.  Besides, they were used to traveling in Europe now.  The fear and trepidation that had been so strong an element in their excitement in the old days were somewhat allayed.  Their voyages were comparatively--but only comparatively--serene.

They had a couple big rooms in the labyrinthine "Crown Inn" at Oakham, and one of the first things Pop did was to take me apart into one of them and talk to me in a way that amounted to an emancipation.

I think it was the first time in my life I had ever been treated as if I were completely grown up and able to take care of myself in everything, and to hold my own in a business conversation.  In reality, I have never been able to talk intelligently about business.  But I listened to Pop exposing our financial affairs as if I understood every word about it, and when it was over I had, indeed, grasped all the essentials.

No one knew what was going to happen in the world in the next ten or twenty years.  Grosset and Dunlap was still in business, and so was Pop:  but one could never tell when the business itself might fold up, or if he himself would be turned out.  But in order to make sure that John Paul and I would be able to finish school, and even go on to the university, and have something to keep us from starving while we were looking for a job afterwards, Pop had taken the money he had planned to leave us in his will, and had put it away for us where it would be as safe as possible, in some kind of insurance policy which would pay us so much a year.  He worked it out on a piece of paper and showed me all the figures and I nodded wisely.  I didn't grasp the details but I understood that I ought to be able to get along all right until about 1940.  And in any case, before a couple of years had gone by, Pop discovered that the big magic insurance policy did not work as nearly as he had expected, so he had to change his plans again, with a loss of a little money somewhere.  

When it was all done, Pop gave me the piece of paper with all the figures on it, and sat up straight in his chair, and looked out the window, running his hand over the top of his bald head and said:  "So now it's all settled.  No matter what happens to me, you will both be taken care of.  You've got nothing to worry about for a few years, anyway."

It is quite a gift that Merton's grandfather gives him:  economic independence.  At the age of around 15, Merton knows that, for about 11 years, he will not have to worry about school tuition or rent or food or travel.  He will be able to live the life he chooses, with very little in the way of limitations.  Merton isn't Jay Gatsby.  He won't be able to lease a mansion and throw extravagant parties every night for his rich friends.  Yet, he also won't be a starving artist (or writer or journalist or Trappist monk).  Freedom is his.

I have known that kind of economic freedom a couple times in my adult life.  When I enrolled in college, I did so with the knowledge that I had a full-ride scholarship.  I was given several thousand dollars each semester, which covered the costs of tuition and books and gas.  Not only that, but I received an overage check every semester, as well.  I had enough funds to simply go to school, live at home, and do pretty much whatever I wanted in my free time.  I would often save a sizable portion of my overage money and take a month-long vacation at my aunt and uncle's house in the Lower Peninsula of Michigan.  While there, I would buy clothes, sneak across the Blue Water Bridge into Canada to drink with my cousins, and go see every movie that was released.  I wasn't Jay Gatsby, but I also wasn't Tom Joad.

And right after I was married, my wife and I lived in Kalamazoo, where I was enrolled in a PhD program at Western Michigan University.  Once again, although we weren't by any means wealthy, my wife and I didn't struggle.  I taught at the college and took classes.  My wife was a substitute teacher at some of the inner-city schools.  We were happy.  Went out to eat a lot.  Traveled to the Upper Peninsula at least once a month to visit family.  Bought books and music and wines.  It was a good life, not limited by economic uncertainty.

I'm sure that I'm forgetting some hardships that I faced during these times in my life.  The human mind has this ability to whitewash the past, wipe away the grime of struggle and pain.  It's a process called retrospective falsification, coined by psychologist Donovan Hilton Rawcliffe in 1952.  It is defined as "the unconscious distortion of past experiences to conform to a person's needs in the present."

For the past couple years, I have faced some financial hardships.  I don't want to discuss the reasons for these difficulties.  That's not the point.  My current economic distresses have gilded those times from my past when money seemed much more abundant.  Now, my undergraduate and graduate years of higher education seem almost like a once upon a time.  I could call them my Roarin' Twenties or my Renaissance. 

Yet, I know my mind is working its retrospective falsification magic.  There were painful moments in that Renaissance.  Heartbreaks.  Sleepless nights.  Tears.  Just like now.  I've been wondering how this pandemic will be remembered in the future.  Will it be painted bleakly, with death statistics and Dorothea Lange-like photos of people at soup kitchens?  Or will it be remembered as a great deep breath--when the universe forced all of us to slow down, take stock, and start over?

Tonight, I am writing with a friend.  We have given ourselves permission to delve into our passions, without guilt or apology.  After I'm done writing this blog post, I may work on a new poem or revise poems from a chapbook manuscript.  Or, I just may go to my refrigerator, take out a wine cooler, and sit down and allow myself to just . . . be.

That is the great miracle of this evening.  This time in history.  Everyone is learning to just . . .be.  Without parades or graduations.  Without fireworks or parties.  Happiness isn't about all those things really.  It may take the graduates of 2020 half a lifetime to realize this, for retrospective falsification to do its work.  But, eventually, they won't remember all that they didn't have this year.

Hopefully, what they will remember are the important things.  A rainy evening.  A dog sleeping on the hardwood floor.  Family going about its nightly business.  No rushing.  No chaos.  No deadlines.  Just the slowness of deep breaths.  In.  Out.  In.  Out.  Time stretching out like a blank page, waiting for that first letter.  That first word.

For this, Saint Marty gives thanks.

May 26: Gam, Memorial Day, Freedom

The ostensible reason why Ahab did not go on board of the whaler we had spoken was this: the wind and sea betokened storms. But even had this not been the case, he would not after all, perhaps, have boarded her- judging by his subsequent conduct on similar occasions- if so it had been that, by the process of hailing, he had obtained a negative answer to the question he put. For, as it eventually turned out, he cared not to consort, even for five minutes, with any stranger captain, except he could contribute some of that information he so absorbingly sought. But all this might remain inadequately estimated, were not something said here of the peculiar usages of whaling-vessels when meeting each other in foreign seas, and especially on a common cruising-ground.

If two strangers crossing the Pine Barrens in New York State, or the equally desolate Salisbury Plain in England; if casually encountering each other in such inhospitable wilds, these twain, for the life of them, cannot well avoid a mutual salutation; and stopping for a moment to interchange the news; and, perhaps, sitting down for a while and resting in concert: then, how much more natural that upon the illimitable Pine Barrens and Salisbury Plains of the sea, two whaling vessels descrying each other at the ends of the earth- off lone Fanning's Island, or the far away King's Mills; how much more natural, I say, that under such circumstances these ships should not only interchange hails, but come into still closer, more friendly and sociable contact. And especially would this seem to be a matter of course, in the case of vessels owned in one seaport, and whose captains, officers, and not a few of the men are personally known to each other; and consequently, have all sorts of dear domestic things to talk about.

For the long absent ship, the outward-bounder, perhaps, has letters on board; at any rate, she will be sure to let her have some papers of a date a year or two later than the last one on her blurred and thumb-worn files. And in return for that courtesy, the outward-bound ship would receive the latest whaling intelligence from the cruising-ground to which she may be destined, a thing of the utmost importance to her. And in degree, all this will hold true concerning whaling vessels crossing each other's track on the cruising-ground itself, even though they are equally long absent from home. For one of them may have received a transfer of letters from some third, and now far remote vessel; and some of those letters may be for the people of the ship she now meets. Besides, they would exchange the whaling news, and have an agreeable chat. For not only would they meet with all the sympathies of sailors, but likewise with all the peculiar congenialities arising from a common pursuit and mutually shared privations and perils.

Nor would difference of country make any very essential difference; that is, so long as both parties speak one language, as is the case with Americans and English. Though, to be sure, from the small number of English whalers, such meetings do not very often occur, and when they do occur there is too apt to be a sort of shyness between them; for your Englishman is rather reserved, and your Yankee, he does not fancy that sort of thing in anybody but himself. Besides, the English whalers sometimes affect a kind of metropolitan superiority over the American whalers; regarding the long, lean Nantucketer, with his nondescript provincialisms, as a sort of sea-peasant. But where this superiority in the English whaleman does really consist, it would be hard to say, seeing that the Yankees in one day, collectively, kill more whales than all the English, collectively, in ten years. But this is a harmless little foible in the English whale-hunters, which the Nantucketer does not take much to heart; probably, because he knows that he has a few foibles himself.

So, then, we see that of all ships separately sailing the sea, the whalers have most reason to be sociable- and they are so. Whereas, some merchant ships crossing each other's wake in the mid-Atlantic, will oftentimes pass on without so much as a single word of recognition, mutually cutting each other on the high seas, like a brace of dandies in Broadway; and all the time indulging, perhaps, in finical criticism upon each other's rig. As for Men-of-War, when they chance to meet at sea, they first go through such a string of silly bowings and scrapings, such a ducking of ensigns, that there does not seem to be much right-down hearty good-will and brotherly love about it at all. As touching Slave-ships meeting, why, they are in such a prodigious hurry, they run away from each other as soon as possible. And as for Pirates, when they chance to cross each other's cross-bones, the first hail is- "How many skulls?"- the same way that whalers hail- "How many barrels?" And that question once answered, pirates straightway steer apart, for they are infernal villains on both sides, and don't like to see overmuch of each other's villanous likenesses.

But look at the godly, honest, unostentatious, hospitable, sociable, free-and-easy whaler! What does the whaler do when she meets another whaler in any sort of decent weather? She has a "Gam," a thing so utterly unknown to all other ships that they never heard of the name even; and if by chance they should hear of it, they only grin at it, and repeat gamesome stuff about "spouters" and "blubber-boilers," and such like pretty exclamations. Why it is that all Merchant-seamen, and also all Pirates and Man-of-War's men, and Slave-ship sailors, cherish such a scornful feeling towards Whale-ships; this is a question it would be hard to answer. Because, in the case of pirates, say, I should like to know whether that profession of theirs has any peculiar glory about it. It sometimes ends in uncommon elevation, indeed; but only at the gallows. And besides, when a man is elevated in that odd fashion, he has no proper foundation for his superior altitude. Hence, I conclude, that in boasting himself to be high lifted above a whaleman, in that assertion the pirate has no solid basis to stand on.

But what is a Gam? You might wear out your index-finger running up and down the columns of dictionaries, and never find the word, Dr. Johnson never attained to that erudition; Noah Webster's ark does not hold it. Nevertheless, this same expressive word has now for many years been in constant use among some fifteen thousand true born Yankees. Certainly, it needs a definition, and should be incorporated into the Lexicon. With that view, let me learnedly define it.

GAM. NOUN- A social meeting of two (or more) Whaleships, generally on a cruising-ground; when, after exchanging hails, they exchange visits by boats' crews, the two captains remaining, for the time, on board of one ship, and the two chief mates on the other.

There is another little item about Gamming which must not be forgotten here. All professions have their own little peculiarities of detail; so has the whale fishery. In a pirate, man-of-war, or slave ship, when the captain is rowed anywhere in his boat, he always sits in the stern sheets on a comfortable, sometimes cushioned seat there, and often steers himself with a pretty little milliner's tiller decorated with gay cords and ribbons. But the whale-boat has no seat astern, no sofa of that sort whatever, and no tiller at all. High times indeed, if whaling captains were wheeled about the water on castors like gouty old aldermen in patent chairs. And as for a tiller, the whale-boat never admits of any such effeminacy; and therefore as in gamming a complete boat's crew must leave the ship, and hence as the boat steerer or harpooneer is of the number, that subordinate is the steersman upon the occasion, and the captain, having no place to sit in, is pulled off to his visit all standing like a pine tree. And often you will notice that being conscious of the eyes of the whole visible world resting on him from the sides of the two ships, this standing captain is all alive to the importance of sustaining his dignity by maintaining his legs. Nor is this any very easy matter; for in his rear is the immense projecting steering oar hitting him now and then in the small of his back, the after-oar reciprocating by rapping his knees in front. He is thus completely wedged before and behind, and can only expand himself sideways by settling down on his stretched legs; but a sudden, violent pitch of the boat will often go far to topple him, because length of foundation is nothing without corresponding breadth. Merely make a spread angle of two poles, and you cannot stand them up. Then, again, it would never do in plain sight of the world's riveted eyes, it would never do, I say, for this straddling captain to be seen steadying himself the slightest particle by catching hold of anything with his hands; indeed, as token of his entire, buoyant self-command, he generally carries his hands in his trowsers' pockets; but perhaps being generally very large, heavy hands, he carries them there for ballast. Nevertheless there have occurred instances, well authenticated ones too, where the captain has been known for an uncommonly critical moment or two, in a sudden squall say- to seize hold of the nearest oarsman's hair, and hold on there like grim death.

Ahab is not feeling all the sociable.  There is no gam between the crews of the Pequod and Albatross.  Unless the captain of the Albatross has news of the white whale, Ahab is uninterested, even hostile.  I think he sees such an interaction as a distraction from his mission of revenge.  I cringe every time I type a phrase like "mission of revenge."  It is bad writing, but an apt description of Ahab's motivation.  He only has one thing on his mind, to the detriment of ship, crew, health, and happiness.

It is Memorial Day weekend.  For my non-American readers, Memorial Day (which happens on the last Monday in May) celebrates members of the American armed forces who have been killed in battle--in the Civil War, Spanish American War, World War I, World War II, Korean War, Vietnam War, Gulf Wars, and Afghanistan.  Typing out that list of conflicts really drives home how much war has shaped recent history.  It's a little sobering.

However, most people in the United States don't really spend a whole lot of time honoring these fallen soldiers this weekend.  Instead, Memorial Day is simply an excuse not to work, to travel and have family barbecues.  In a way, these three days are the equivalent of what Melville describes as a gam.  Family and friends going out of their way to see each other, eating and drinking and telling stories.  It's become the unofficial launch of the summer.

I don't mind the gam nature of this weekend.  I like seeing friends and family.  I like eating barbecued hot dogs and watermelon and corn on the cob.  Enjoy the celebration of summer freedom.  As a kid, I remember this weekend as a time to run under sprinklers in the afternoon, play outside with friends until dusk, catch frogs and fireflies in the night.  Campfires.  My parents sitting in lawn chairs, drinking from long-necked beer bottles.

On Monday, I will take my kids to a Memorial Day parade.  Then, we will drive out to the cemetery for a Veterans of Foreign Wars ceremony.  There will be a 21-gun salute.  Taps will be played.  My daughter and son have been attending these events since they were babies.  I like to remind them that it's not all about getting a day off from school, that it's not all gam.  Afterward, it will be family and barbecue, as required.

I believe in honoring veterans.  They paid a lot so that I can sit here in McDonald's with my son and sister, eat, and write this blog post without fear of some government agent rushing in to arrest me.  I can criticize the President of the United States.  Disagree with Congress.  Point out that it's just as patriotic to stand for the national anthem as it is to kneel.  Because that's what my country should be.  It's what those men and women died for.  Freedom.

Saint Marty is thankful today for all fighters for democracy and freedom.

July 4: John F. Kennedy, Independence Day, Freedom

A great motor yacht named the Scheherezade now slid past the marriage bed.  The song its engines sang was a very low organ note.  All her lights were on.

Two beautiful people, a young man and a young woman in evening clothes, were at the rail in the stern, loving each other and their dreams and the lake.  They were honeymooning, too.  They were Lance Rumfoord, of Newport, Rhode Island, and his bride, the former Cynthia Landry, who had been a childhood sweetheart of John F. Kennedy in Hyannis Port, Massachusetts.

There was a slight coincidence here.  Billy Pilgrim would later share a hospital room with Rumfoord's uncle, Professor Bertram Copeland Rumfoord of Harvard, official Historian of the United States Air Force.

John F. Kennedy.  The United States Air Force.  I guess that's as close as I'm going to get to Independence Day anything from Slaughterhouse.  Not that I think Vonnegut hated the United States.  On the contrary.  I think Vonnegut cared a great deal for freedom and truth and goodness.  That's why he wrote.  He wanted the world to be a better place.

I am not going to belabor this post talking about the celebration of Independence Day here in the United States.  I am grateful for the freedoms I have as a citizen of the United States.  Because I live here, I can write blog posts and poems and essays about anything I want.  I can criticize and complain without fear of being thrown into prison.  For now.

I am supremely lucky for everything that I have in my life.  That's it.

I have been to two parades today.  Tonight, after dinner, I'm heading to a community picnic/gathering.  At dusk, there will be fireworks.  My kids will eat snow cones and cotton candy and popcorn.  I have sparklers, too.

Saint Marty is thankful today for freedom.

May 26: A Broken Kite, PTSD, Honor and Respect

Hold on.  This is a longer passage from Slaughterhouse:

There was silence now, as the Englishmen looked in astonishment at the frowsy creatures they had so lustily waltzed inside.  One of the Englishmen saw that Billy was on fire.  "You're on fire, lad!" he said, and he got Billy away from the stove and beat out the sparks with his hands.

When Billy made no comment on this, the Englishman touched him exploratorily here and there, filled with pity.  "My God--what have they done to you, lad?  This isn't a man.  It's a broken kite."

"Are you really an American?" said the Englishman.

"Yes," said Billy.

"And your rank?"

"Private."

"What became of your boots, lad?"

"I don't remember."

"Is that coat a joke?"

"Sir?"

"Where did you get such a thing?"

Billy had to think hard about that.  "They gave it to me," he said at last.

"Jerry gave it to you?"

"Who?"

"The Germans gave it to you?"

"Yes."

Billy didn't like the questions.  They were fatiguing.

"Ohhhh--Yank, Yank, Yank--" said the Englishman, "that coat was an insult."

"Sir?"

"It was a deliberate attempt to humiliate you.  You mustn't let Jerry do things like that."

Billy Pilgrim swooned.

Billy came to on a chair facing the stage.  He had somehow eaten, and now he was watching Cinderella.  Some part of him had evidently been enjoying the performance for quite a while.  Billy was laughing hard.

The women in the play were really men, of course.  The clock had just struck midnight, and Cinderella was lamenting:

          "Goodness me, the clock has struck-- 
            Alackday, and fuck my luck."

Billy found the couplet so comical that he not only laughed--he shrieked.  He went on shrieking until he was carried out of the shed and into another, where the hospital was.  It was a six-bed hospital.  There weren't any other patients there.

Whew.  That was a long one.  Billy is teetering on the verge of a nervous breakdown.  He blacks out.  Eats.  Sits and watched the entertainment that the Englishmen provide.  Then, he falls into the canyon of mental illness, shrieking with laughter.  It is probably PTSD, after the long train ride without sleep and the German delousing shower/gas chamber.

At the beginning of Memorial Day weekend, I think this passage is fairly important.  There are so many combat veterans in the United States who suffer from PTSD.  Just this past Sunday, a friend from church (and a veteran) told me that he is going away for six weeks of treatment for PTSD.  For this man, the firecrackers of the Fourth of July are triggers for panic attacks and flashbacks.  Instead of going to parades and picnics, he spends most of the holiday at home, in the dark, teetering like Billy.

I often forget to be thankful for the freedoms I have in this country.  I can criticize the President of the United States and government, peacefully demonstrate, hold unpopular opinions.  I can do all this without fear for my life or safety.  Those rights are guaranteed to me by the United States Constitution (regardless of what Donald Trump says), and that Constitution has been defended and protected over and over, through the centuries, by brave men and women who were/are willing to risk their lives to preserve it.

I am not getting all nationalistic here.  I think nationalism is dangerous.  What I am saying is that there are people who have sacrificed greatly so that I can say what I want to say, live the way I want to live.  And those people deserve honor and respect, whether they are living or dead.

Tonight, Saint Marty is thankful for those who have defended his freedom.

July 4: Blue-Green World, Independence Day, Fireworks

I have to look at the landscape of the blue-green world again.  Just think:  in all the clean beautiful reaches of the solar system, our planet alone is a blot; our planet alone has death.  I have to acknowledge that the sea is a cup of death and the land is a stained altar stone.  We the living are survivors huddled on flotsam, living off jetsam.  We are escapees.  We wake in terror, eat in hunger, sleep with a mouthful of blood.

It's not a very uplifting little passage from Dillard, but it's full of truth.  Earth is the only planet in the solar system on which death exists.  In fact, the life of the human race sort of depends on death for its very survival.  We kill and eat animals.  We raise and harvest grains and vegetables.  Our cars are filled with gas, which comes from oil which comes from animals that roamed this blue-green world millions of years ago.  I could go on, but you get the idea.  Death gives us life, and vice versa.

It is Independence Day in the United States.  We celebrate with parades and races and barbecues and kids running through sprinklers.  And we celebrate with fireworks.  In less than an hour, I will be packing my family up in my car, and we will be heading off to a community picnic that ends with rockets and explosions and showers of lights.  I will buy kettle popcorn.  My daughter will probably get cotton candy.  My son wants a snowcone.  Yes, the town in which I live is a little like a Norman Rockwell painting (if you can ignore the occasional crystal meth house).

We can celebrate freedom on this day because of brave men and women who have sacrificed their lives for our way of life, from the Revolutionary War to the Gulf War and beyond.  Yes, in a very large way, death is a very significant part of today's celebrations.  Dillard has it right:  death is always around.

I'm not going to get all maudlin and dark here.  I simply want to acknowledge the fact that I live in a country with immeasurable freedom, and that freedom came at a price.  Maybe there will be a time when freedom won't be so costly.  It will simply be as abundant as sand on the shores of Lake Superior or grasshoppers in a summer field.   We won't have to argue about it or fight over it.  No blood will have to be spilled.  Nobody will have to be buried. 

Freedom and peace and independence for the whole world.  Not a bad dream.

Until then, Saint Marty will spread out his blankets on the grass, eat his kettle corn, and wait for dusk to fall.

March 5: A Pact, Ted, Matthew Gavin Frank, "Antebellum"

The world has signed a pact with the devil; it had to.  It is a covenant to which every thing, even every hydrogen atom, is bound.  The terms are clear:  if you want to live, you have to die; you cannot have mountains and creeks without space, and space is a beauty married to a blind man.  The blind man is Freedom, or Time, and he does not go anywhere without his great dog Death.  The world came into being with the signing of the contract.  A scientist calls it the Second Law of Thermodynamics.  A poet says, "The force that through the green fuse drives the flower / Drives my green age."  This is what we know.  The rest is gravy.

The world is a tough place.  As Dillard says, this little piece of rock we live on signed a deal with the devil.  From the day we are born, we are dying.  Freedom.  Time.  Death.  These are our constant companions.  And in the time we have on this planet, we must struggle, relax, mourn, rejoice.  That's what our green age is all about.

I have a friend right now who is in the struggle phase of his green age.  "Ted" has recently admitted to his physician that he has an addiction to prescription narcotics.  As expected, Ted's doctor will not prescribe Ted any more painkillers, and Ted is hurting, psychologically (mainly) and physically.  He's convinced himself that the only thing that will relieve his condition is a narcotic.

I know that Ted is hurting.  Addiction is a terrible thing.  It's debilitating, affecting work and family and health.  It's something that literally controls every waking moment of every day.  I feel terrible for Ted.  Yet, Ted has taken the first step to recovery:  admitting that he has a problem.  Now, he needs to follow through.  Get the help he needs.

I wish that life wasn't full of struggle.  I wish that Ted didn't have any pain.  That his back didn't hurt.  That he didn't have family problems and finance problems and work problems.  Aside from the back problems, I could be Ted.  We all could be Ted.  That's Dillard's point, I think.  The world is all about entropy, the gradual decline into disorder.  That's Ted's story right now.  That's all our story.

When you read this post, think about Ted.  About yourself.  About the world.  We've all signed on the dotted line.  I like to think, however, that the contract is with God instead of the devil.  There is the blind man, Freedom or Time, and his faithful dog, Death.  But God sends us other companions, as well.  Joy.  Relaxation.  Surprise.  Love.

Saint Marty and Ted need to party with those dudes a little more, and maybe have a steak dinner every once in a while with Matt Gavin Frank . . .

Antebellum

by:  Matthew Gavin Frank

The tornado inside Adromeda laid seeds
of clover in the sky.  We took the stubble
and dissolved it in the red wine, went into
the basement of the Genome Biology Building
for asylum.

Helene had gone to a funeral that Sunday--
the body of her first lover covered
in tobacco.  She said
that in burial
the screws of the corpse meet a pressure
of any blood not cleaned out,
they shoot into dirt like seeds.  The arms
quickly flare like a chicken's,
and in the downdraft of soil
the teeth clench as if to keep
the earth out.  He was finally rhetorical, she said.

Ernie spat on the floor, unwrapped the stolen corn
from the napkin, saying, "You saw
no such thing, Helene.,"  When I was small,
Helene said, I stood with my father
at Mount Hope Cemetery.  He was fresh
with mind and antebellum.  The crops
were rotting because of the windy season,
we pricked out fingers and let them drip
onto newspaper.  Alice, in a complicated

white dress, with the tornado dropping,
feigned a seizure and wiped
her cheek through the blood.
The rows of clay idols watched

and started to tip in the wind.  Over us,
these shuddering memorials:
A rooster smothering a swallow
and behind us, two dogs

tugging-of-war with a chrysalis,
and an angel cradling a squirrel
between her breasts.  She watched
the rooster tie the swallow in a knot
and in the quake, began
to step over the wind like a plot.

Because I could not stop for Death . . .

May 26: A Parade, Cemetery Service, and Watermelon

I took my family to a Memorial Day parade this morning.  It was small.  Two marching bands.  Members of the local VFW and Elks Club.  An old-fashioned fire engine.  It lasted about five minutes.  From what I've heard, this parade used to be a big deal.  As big as the Fourth of July Parade.  Obviously, over the years, it has become much less of a big deal.

For my international disciples, Memorial Day in the United States is a day where we recognize men and women who have died in combat.  World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam, the Gulf War, Iraq, and Afghanistan.  While war and death are nothing to celebrate, certainly brave individuals who have made the ultimate sacrifice for their country deserve respect and honor.

I take my children every year to this parade, and then I drag them to the cemetery to witness the service conducted by the VFW.  My daughter has been going since before she could really walk.  My son, as well.  My daughter gets it.  My son is still a little too young to understand the full import of the ceremony.  Eventually, he will understand why I make him attend each year.

Then, after the VFW ceremony, we take the Walking Dead Tour of the cemetery.  We visit the graves of relatives and friends.  We find headstones from the nineteenth century.  Flocks of children wiped out by flu epidemics.  We remind our kids about loved ones who are no longer with us.  My son, during the Memorial Day service, asked me to pick him up.  Then he put his head on my shoulder and whispered in my ear, "I miss Grandma Cheryl."  My son never met his Grandma Cheryl.

This afternoon, we're going to have a barbecue.  Hot dogs and bratwurst and watermelon.  The weather is beautiful, calm.  Freedom is a wonderful thing.  My children can grow up to do whatever they want.  My daughter can be a kindergarten teacher or the President of the United States.  My son can be a football player or a ballet dancer.

Saint Marty will say a prayer of thanks for his freedom tonight, and for the people who fought and died for it.

Thank you.  Amen.

April 23: In a Forest, Apology, Perfect Place

I forgot my biography of E. B. White in my office at the university, so we're going to have to skip White Wednesday this evening.  Sorry.  I've been out of sorts all day long.  Woke up this morning having a low blood sugar.  Forgot to shave before I left for work.  Worked all day looking like Lon Chaney Jr. during a full moon.  Gave my students a final exam.  Left the E. B. White biography at the college.

So, here we are.  I have a quote from Charlotte's Web to share:

"In a forest looking for beechnuts and truffles and delectable roots, pushing leaves aside with my wonderful strong nose, searching and sniffing along the ground, smelling, smelling, smelling . . ."

Wilbur is describing his perfect place.  It's pretty simple.  In the forest, rooting for things to eat.  I guess, for a pig, that's as close to paradise as you can get.  I want to be a pig in paradise, for just a few moments.  I want to be in my perfect place.

For me, that would be at home on a hot July day.  I would go for a long run and feel great afterward.  Then, I would lie on the floor, the ceiling fan tearing the air above me.  I'd drink a big cup of ice water and just sweat.  Let the endorphins do their work.  Make me feel wonderful.  Invincible.  Free.

Paradise is all about freedom.  Wilbur is free in that forest to do what he wants.  I am free on that summer day to run and sweat.  Everybody should have that freedom, where all worries and fears melt away, and there's just beechnuts or the open road underfoot.  Everybody deserves that.

Saint Marty wishes all readers of this post a little paradise in their lives.

Root around and find some truffles

January 7: Outside His Yard, Manure Piles, Forgiveness Prayer

Wilbur walked up to the fence and saw that the goose was right--one board was loose.  He put his head down, shut his eyes, and pushed.  The board gave way.  In a minute he had squeezed through the fence and was standing in the long grass outside his yard.  The goose chuckled.

At first, Wilbur enjoyed the freedom of his escape from his yard on Zuckerman's farm.  But he soon learns that with his new-found freedom comes new-found responsibility.  He has choices to make.  Root in the garden or run for the forest or head for the apple orchard.  He's no longer confined to his familiar world of manure pile, feed trough, and hay.


I'm not the kind of person who enjoys the freedom of escape.  I wouldn't push on the loose board to get out of my yard.  I like my yard.  I like the familiar, even if the familiar is full of manure, if you catch my drift.

I currently find myself on the outside of my yard, in the long grass.  I went to the local newspaper office this afternoon and placed an ad.  Basically the ad went something like this:

Church pipe organist/keyboardist/pianist with 25+ yrs. of experience looking for new manure pile to call home.

I'm not happy to be in the long grass right now, but here I stand.  And I find myself having a difficult time forgiving the people responsible for putting me in this position.  I'm holding on to all this resentment, and it's making it hard for me to let go of the past.  If I can't let go of the past, I won't be able to step into the future.

So, this evening, I'm praying for forgiveness to enter my heart.

Dear Lord of all manure piles,

You already know about the fist I'm carrying around in my chest.  I want to use that fist to hurt someone, and I know that's wrong.  But I've gotten used to that fist over the last three months.  Used to its pressure.  Its weight.

But I know I need to open up that fist.  Let go of all the hurt and pain.  I'm struggling to find peace at this moment, and I can't do that until I stop clinging to all the manure from my old yard.

So, please, God, help me to find my way to a better pile of manure.

Your loving child,

Saint Marty

This looks like a nice pile of crap

July 4: Happy Independence Day

In the United States, on July 4, we celebrate Independence Day.  It's the day the Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776, kicking off the American Revolution.  So when I say "Happy July 4th," I'm not trying to be xenophobic or insensitive to other cultures.  I'm simply passing along warm greetings on a day which places high value on freedom in my country.

I do realize how lucky I am to live in a place that allows me to write a blog like this without censorship or consequence.  I can openly express my opinions and not worry about being woken up in the middle of the night by some kind of secret police.  That's a great blessing, and that's what Independence Day is all about in the United States, at least in my mind.

Whoever you are, I wish you safety and happiness this day.  My hope for you is freedom to live your life as you wish.  To love freely, worship freely, speak freely, write freely, read freely.

Marty is a very lucky saint.

This is what it's all about

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?

November 6: Headed to the Polls

In less than an hour, I will be headed to the polls to vote for the next President of the United States.  It's always an exciting moment for me.  Ever since I voted in my first presidential election when I was 18 years old, I feel like I'm part of something very big.  For those few minutes I'm in the voting booth, my voice is important.  My voice is heard.

I'm not saying that I've always voted for the winning candidate.  In fact, I can count on one hand the number of times I have voted for the winner of a presidential election.  But I have been counted, and that is a huge thing in this world.  Not very many other countries give their citizens the opportunity to select their leaders.  I get to do it every four years.  In a day or so, I will be able to say, "I chose that man as the leader of my country" or "I didn't vote for that idiot."

Either way, Saint Marty is grateful to exercise such freedom in his life.

I am a very lucky person