October 7: In a Rush, Between Office and Class, Magic 8-Ball

I will admit at the outset of this post that I am in a rush.  I have been in my office at the university for a little over two hours, and I haven't accomplished a whole lot.  It's one of those days where I seem to be working all the time, and nothing really gets done.  I hate days like this.

I will probably not even proofread this post before I publish it.  I don't have that much time.  So, if there are glaring typos or misplaced punctuation marks or misspelled words, blame it on the time crunch I'm under.  I have to teach my Intro to Film class about 2001:  A Space Odyssey in T-minus 25 minutes.

It's going to be a crazy week for me.  My daughter is in a special musical program at school.  She's dancing with the dance team at a football game on Wednesday night.  Thursday is normal.  And then Friday, we head off to the Wisconsin Dells for a dance convention.  If I am still sane by the end of these next seven days, it will be a miracle.

My question for the Magic Holden 8-Ball is:

Will I still be sane in seven days?

And the answer from J. D. Salinger is:

"I'd like to--I really would," I said.  "But I have a bad leg.  I have to hold it in a certain position.  I think I'd better sit down in the chair outside their door."

There you have.  I really would like to be sane in seven days, but I have a bad brain.  I have to hold it in a certain position.


Saint Marty will just sit down in a chair and wait for the guys in the white coats to come and get him and his pal, Harvey.  You know, the big white rabbit?

Me and my buddy.  I'm the one in the suit, looking like Jimmy Stewart.

April 10: In a Rush, Psalm 33, Tired

Here is today's psalm.  I almost didn't post it  because I don't think it's done.  But I have to keep my Lenten vow.  I'm in a rush.  It's late.  My son is tired, and my daughter is cranky.  I need to get home.

Saint Marty apologizes for being so abrupt.  He doesn't have a choice.  Be kind about this poem.


Psalm 33:  Lazarus Speaks

I heard His voice in that cold place,
Calling me from darkness to light.
I left my bed of stone, stepped back
To sun and hunger and need.  My sisters,
Martha, Mary, their need for me,
Strong as ten thousand angels,
Returned me to flesh and muscle,
Blood and bone, bowls of dates, bread still
Warm from the fire.  They fill me with want,
Have made me thirsty and tired again,
Cold at night, under moon, stars.
Neighbors avoid me like the leper, afraid
Of stories I may tell of endless dark,
The taste of death in my mouth
Like unclean meat. But I have nothing
To tell them.  No conversations
With Moses, Elijah.  No valleys
With souls piled like grain
On the threshing floor.  I have
The itch of sand in my hair
The ache in my loins for woman.
The constant call of my body for
The meat of lamb, cool wine, water.
And the work of breath, in, out, in, out.
I would trade it all for one more minute
In that cave, away from the urge
To lift my face and hands and voice,
To hope, to sing a psalm of human
Longing to the blue and empty heavens.