August 21: The End of It, Profit, Kindness Virus

"Ha, ha!" laughed the same woman, when old Joe, producing a flannel bag with money in it, told out their several gains upon the ground.  "This is the end of it, you see!  He frightened every one away from him when he was alive, to profit us when he was dead!  Ha, ha, ha!"

Scrooge is watching the scavengers pick over his belongings after his death.  The undertaker, charwoman, and laundress have plundered Scrooge's corpse and house for the items they are fencing to old Joe.  The lesson is pretty clear:  you better treat people well when you're alive, or else you're screwed when you die.  That might not sound very eloquent, but it isn't a very eloquent situation.  Scrooge is dead, and these people are picking his bones clean, so to speak.

It's always good to treat the people in your life well.  Scrooge has no one.  He has alienated himself from everyone, including his only living relative, his nephew Fred.  He rebuffs all attempts of human connection at the beginning of the novel.  His only interest is in humanity's resources.  Translation:  money.  Thus, when he dies, the only thing the undertaker, charwoman, and laundress care about is Scrooge's money/possessions.

I always try to follow the golden rule.  I teach my children to follow the golden rule.  I want people to be nice to me.  I want them to bake me chocolate chip cookies and brownies.  I want them to buy me birthday and Christmas presents.  I want them to invite me over for dinner.  I want them to bring me sausage muffins for breakfast.  Therefore, I have to be nice, even when I don't feel like being nice.

That is my point here this morning.  I don't necessarily feel happy or generous, but I want to be treated kindly.  Kindness is a virus.  A very contagious virus.  If you sneeze your kindness onto somebody, kindness will eventually be sneezed back at you.

Saint Marty needs to go disinfect himself now.



Remember to wash your hands



March 12: Dialogue in Horror, Wow, Criticism

Scrooge listened to this dialogue in horror.  As they sat grouped about their spoil, in the scanty light afforded by the old man's lamp, he viewed them with a detestation and disgust, which could hardly have been greater, though they had been obscene demons, marketing the corspse itself.

Scrooge is referring to the conversation between Old Joe and the charwoman, laundress, and undertaker.  All three have come to Joe with the items they've stolen from Scrooge's death chamber.  I'm sure Dickens meant to evoke the image of the Weird Sisters from MacBeth with this little scene.  The characters are some of the most sinister of the novel, and they reflect the callous and desparate nature of extreme poverty.  Scrooge, having lived and died a miserable miser, is plundered after his demise.  Ransacked for anything worth pawning.  His burial shirt, bed curtains, a brooch, and the like.  Metaphorically, Scrooge is reduced to the status of a pauper in his future afterlife.

I sometimes worry over what will be said about me when I die.  I sometimes worry over what people  are saying about me right now.  I've tried to cultivate a thick skin about criticism.  As a poet/writer/blogger, criticism just comes with the territory.  It's necessary, something to accept and learn from.  That doesn't mean it's easy to hear negative feedback.  At times, I've felt like Scrooge in the passage above, horrified by what the "obscene demons" have said about my poem or story or blog post.  For example, I just sent out the manuscript of my new book of poems to a poetry contest.  I don't expect to win.  That will not take away the sting when I receive that envelope in the mail telling me who won the competition instead of me.  I will get bitter.  I will say some not very nice things about the judge, Rae Armantrout, a Pulitzer Prize winning poet.  That's my human nature.

I finished typing in my post last night close to 11 p.m.  When I clicked the publish button, I didn't expect anyone to read my next installment of Project Memoir overnight.  Well, maybe one or two people.  Between 11 p.m. and 6 a.m., twelve people have read that post.  Wow.  That might not seem like a lot of readers, but, really, it's the electronic equivalent of having the book I wrote checked out of the library a dozen times.  It's exciting that people are responding to those posts.  Of course, my readers may be making fun of my writing.  They may be telling their friends what a shitty job I'm doing.  I may be the blogging equivalent of Rebecca Black's "Friday" music video.  At the moment, however, I feel really popular, and I'm going to hold on to that feeling.

This morning, Saint Marty has been asked out to the prom twelve times.  He's, like, the quarterback of the football team or something.




Mr. Popularity--that's me!