July 25: Do You No Good, Breakfast, Old Classmate's Concert

Santiago eats some breakfast . . . 

He knelt down and found the tuna under the stern with the gaff and drew it toward him keeping it clear of the coiled lines. Holding the line with his left shoulder again, and bracing on his left hand and arm, he took the tuna off the gaff hook and put the gaff back in place. He put one knee on the fish and cut strips of dark red meat longitudinally from the back of the head to the tail. They were wedge-shaped strips and he cut them from next to the back bone down to the edge of the belly. When he had cut six strips he spread them out on the wood of the bow, wiped his knife on his trousers, and lifted the carcass of the bonito by the tail and dropped it overboard.

"I don't think I can eat an entire one," he said and drew his knife across one of the strips. He could feel the steady hard pull of the line and his left hand was cramped. It drew up tight on the heavy cord and he looked at it in disgust.

"What kind of a hand is that," he said. "Cramp then if you want. Make yourself into a claw. It will do you no good."

This morning, I had breakfast with two lovely people.  One of them was the musical guest on the radio show I performed on last night.  The other was her mother, who also happens to be her manager.  As we ate, we talked about all kinds of things, including teaching, the childcare crisis in the country, horror movies, vegan pasties, Walt Disney World, and corporate America.  It was a wonderful time, and I was sad when it ended.  It was also a really good way to kick off a somewhat busy day.

When I got back home from Calumet, Michigan, I unpacked and took about a two-hour nap.  I needed that to recover from a long weekend of writing, rehearsing, and performing.  Then, I drove to the library where I work and hosted an outdoor concert by a popular local musician who also happens to a guy with whom I graduated high school.

My old classmate gave a really good concert.  Lots of covers of popular songs, from Buddy Holly to Joni Mitchell.  The sky was clear and so blue it hurt my eyes, and there was a nice breeze.  People were clapping and laughing and singing along.  As I stood there listening, I couldn't help but say a little prayer of thanks.  For the music and the people and my life.  

Despite my current struggles with blueness, I know how lucky I am to be able to have breakfast with wonderful, interesting people.  To take a nap in the afternoon.  And to listen to an old friend's concert on the steps of a library in the evening.

So many blessings for Saint Marty today.  Amen.

October 12: Dat Mossel, Mistakes, Laugh Every Day

Merton encounters someone trying to atone for mistakes he's made . . . 

The secular priest with the white hair was more of a mystery. He was a big, bluff fellow, with some kind of an accent which led me to place him as a Belgian. He was not entering the community, but it seemed he had been there in the guest house for some time. In the afternoons he put on a pair of overalls, and went about painting benches and other furniture, and he laughed and talked with the others. 

As he talked, his talk seemed strange to me. In a place like this, you would expect someone to say something, at least indirectly, about religion. And yet that was a subject on which he seemed to be inarticulate. The only thing he seemed to know anything about was strength, strength and work. At the dinner table, he rolled up his sleeve and said: 

“Huh! Look at dat mossel!” 

And he flexed a huge biceps for the edification of the retreatants. 

I found out afterwards that he was under ecclesiastical censure, and was in the monastery doing penance. The poor man, for some reason or another, had not lived as a good priest. In the end, his mistakes had caught up with him. He had come into contact with some schismatics, in a sect known as “the Old Catholics” and these people persuaded him to leave the Church and come over to them. And when he did so, they made him an archbishop. 

I suppose he enjoyed the dignity and the novelty of it for a while: but the whole thing was obviously silly. So he gave it up and came back. And now here he was in the monastery, serving Mass every morning for a young Trappist priest who scarcely had the oils of his ordination dry on his hands. 

We all have done things that we regret, just like the secular priest with the white hair.  And then we have to atone in some way.  Make up for the mistakes we've made..

It has been a long time since I've written a blog post.  Much has happened.  My son turned from a 12-year-old into a teenager.  I celebrated another Saint Marty's Day, about a week ago.  No tapioca, yet.  I did receive some wonderful presents from my family.  Work has been busy.  Insane.  Lots of readings and concerts and teaching and programs.  My wife got a job and lost a job.  Life has been . . . complicated.

I have made mistakes/make mistakes every day.  I get angry.  Despondent.  I stay up too late at night.  Eat too much junk food.  (I just ate a soggy bowl of Lucky Charms.)  I watch horror films right before I go to bed and have terrible dreams.  I let my son watch those movies with me.

But I also got things right/get things right.  I helped my daughter get her car fixed.  I take my son to poetry workshops, tell him he's amazing.  I try to uplift a friend who is facing some major health struggles.  And I try to laugh every day.

That's what I have tonight.  I'm trying to be okay, and I'm trying to get back on track, especially with my writing.

Saint Marty is back.  For tonight.

June 30: Dark Night, Scary Movie, New Cartoon

I'm going to see a scary movie this afternoon with my sister.  Ever since I was a young kid, I've loved horror films.  I lived for the creature features on Saturday afternoons.  However, as I've matured (read that:  gotten old), my tolerance for this genre of filmaking has changed.  When I watched The Exorcism of Emily Rose a few years ago with one of my best friends, I was practically sitting in his lap by the end of it.

The film I will be watching this afternoon is Abraham Lincoln:  Vampire Hunter.  My sister has been anxiously waiting to see this movie since our book club read the novel last October.  I, on the other hand, am looking forward to the popcorn.  I don't like being scared any longer.  (This from a guy who subscribed to the horror film mag Fangoria for all of his childhood and adolescence.)  Thus, we are going to a matinee so that I can recover sufficiently by the time the moon rises.

Which brings me to today's passage from A Christmas Carol:

...When they were within two paces of each other, Marley's Ghost held up its hand, warning him to come no nearer.  Scrooge stopped.

Not so much in obedience, as in surprise and fear:  for on the raising of the hand, he became sensible of confused noises in the air; incoherent sounds of lamentation and regret; wailings inexpressibly sorrowful and self-accusatory.  The spectre, after listening for a moment, joined in the mournful dirge; and floated out upon the bleak, dark night.

There's one thing you can't get around about Charles Dickens' book:  it's a ghost story.  It's designed to scare you.  The above passage is just one example of the more gothic moments in the novel.  There are chains being dragged through wine cellars.  Unseen rats gnawing in walls.  Open graves.  Little monster children hiding under ghostly robes.  It sounds like a Stephen King Christmas, doesn't it?

Anyway, I will go to the theater this afternoon.  I will watch Abraham Lincoln decapitate a few vampires.  I will eat popcorn, chew on licorice, and drink pop.  I will emerge into the sunshine, having survived my walk on the dark side.

Saint Marty has his crucifix and garlic (bread) and holy (vitamin) water at the ready.

Confessions of Saint Marty