November 14: "Foundling," Poet's Life, Tonic

I've been living the life of a poet for a very, very long time.

That means that I've juggled two or three (or four or five) jobs my entire life.  In the past, I have been a:  sales clerk at a bookstore; office person at an outpatient surgery center (for 25 years); housekeeper at a hospital (all shifts); cleaning person at two churches; busboy at a local fish fry; and a plumber's apprentice.  

Currently, I'm a contingent professor of English at a university for going on 30 years (all the knowledge and teaching experience of a full professor at a quarter of the normal price).  I play keyboard/pipe organ at four different churches.  And I am the full-time adult program coordinator at a library (the best job I've ever had).

Finally, through all of those occupations, I have been and always will be a poet.

Billy Collins writes about the poet's life . . . 

Foundling

by: Billy Collins

How unusual to be living a life of continual self-expression,
jotting down little things,
noticing a leaf being carried down a stream,
then wondering what will become of me,

and finally to work alone under a lamp
as if everything depended on this,
groping blindly down a page,
like someone lost in a forest.

And to think it all began one night
on the steps of a nunnery
where I lay gazing up from a sewing basket,
which was doubling for a proper baby carrier,

staring into the turbulent winter sky,
too young to wonder about anything
including my recent abandonment—
but it was there that I committed

my first act of self-expression,
sticking out my infant tongue
and receiving in return (I can see it now)
a large, pristine snowflake much like any other.

Of course, Collins is indulging in a little storytelling here.  He was not a foundling left on the stoop of a convent and raised by nuns.  Yet, the essence of the poem is the truth--most poets I know have felt the pull of language from a very young age.  We've all had our pristine snowflake moments.

Tonight, I spent a lot of time with poet friends.  First, we gathered at the library for a workshop and open mic.  Then, we migrated to a local night spot where another poet/musician/artist friend was hosting a party in celebration of the release of his new album.  And it was a true tonic for my spirit.

You see, in my experience, poets see the world differently.  They keep their eyes wide open for moments of grace in their days and nights.  They're compassionate lovers of all people, regardless of skin color, gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, religion, or country of origin.  And they care deeply for this little planet we live on--are stewards of the lands and waters and air.

Now, do me a favor if you are a Christian.  Reread that previous paragraph.  Replace the word "poets" with the word "Jesus."  That is the Jesus I grew up knowing.  If you have an issue with any of the above statements in your understanding of Jesus, you are not a true Christian.  Period.

So, being around poets (some of them atheists and agnostics) who embody compassion and caring and concern for the world and all its inhabitants is like going to church for me in a way.  Because the people I hung with tonight are, quite simply, some of the best people I know.  Yes, they are disappointed and angry with the results of the election.  Yes, they see the Felon in Chief as a serious threat to loving your neighbor as yourself.  (By the way, I didn't say that.  Jesus did in the Gospel of Mark.)

Poets are not going to lock up and deport immigrants.  They aren't going to take healthcare away from poor people.  Or endanger the lives of, take away the autonomy of women.  They certainly aren't going to storm the Capitol Building and kill police officers to peacefully protest the certification of the election.  That's not what poets do.

I know I'm preaching to the choir with this post.  Anyone who supports the Felon in Chief stopped reading these words quite a while ago.  That's okay.  That's their right.

And it's Saint Marty's (and all his poet friends') right to say, "Fuck you."

November 7: Strange Spinning Inside My Head, President-Elect, Pride

Merton suffers from vertigo . . . 

Pop had died in November 1936. Already, in that fall, I had begun to feel ill. Still I kept on trying to do all the things I was doing—following my courses, editing the Yearbook, working, and running on the Cross Country Team without going into training.... 

One day we raced Army and Princeton. I was not last, but as usual I was about twenty-third or -fourth out of thirty or so. When I got to the end of the course, I simply fell down and lay on the ground, waiting for my stomach to turn inside out within me. I felt so bad that I did not even mind what the people thought. I did not try to look brave, or to make any jokes about myself, or to hide the way I felt. I lay there until I felt better, then I got up and went away, and never came back to the locker rooms again. The coach did not bother to come looking for me. Nobody tried to persuade me to go back on the team. We were all equally satisfied: I was through. However, it did not help much to get rid of this burden.

One day I was coming into town on the Long Island train. I had a bagful of work that was already late, and had to be handed in that day. After that, I had a date with someone with whom I liked very much to have a date. While the train was going through the freight yards in Long Island City my head suddenly began to swim. It was not that I was afraid of vomiting, but it was as if some center of balance within me had been unexpectedly removed, and as if I were about to plunge into a blind abyss of emptiness without end. I got up and stood in the gap between the cars to get some air, but my knees were shaking so much that I was afraid I would slip through the chains between the cars and end up under the wheels, so I got back and propped myself against the wall and held on. This strange vertigo came and went, while the train dived into the tunnel under the river, and everything around me went dark and began to roar. I think the business had passed over by the time we got to the station. 

I was scared. And the first thing that occurred to me was to go and find the house physician in the Pennsylvania Hotel. He examined me and listened to my heart and took my blood pressure, and gave me something to drink and told me I was over-stimulated. What did I do for a living, he asked me. I told him I went to college and did quite a few other things besides. He told me to give some of them up. And then he suggested that I ought to go to bed and get some sleep, and then go home when I felt better. 

So next I found myself in a room in the Pennsylvania Hotel, lying on a bed, trying to go to sleep. But I could not. 

It was a small, narrow room, rather dark, even though the window seemed to occupy most of the wall that was in front of me. You could hear the noise of the traffic coming up from far below, on 32nd Street. But the room itself was quiet, with a quietness that was strange, ominous. 

I lay on the bed and listened to the blood pounding rapidly inside my head. I could hardly keep my eyes closed. Yet I did not want to open them, either. I was afraid that if I even looked at the window, the strange spinning inside my head would begin again. 

I have suffered from vertigo a few times.  Merton is pretty accurate in his description here.  It immobilizes you.  My first bout, I woke up in the middle of the night, feeling as though the planet was spinning so fast that it was about to fling me off into space.  I crawled to the bathroom, threw up four times, and then crawled to a couch in the living room.  I spent the rest of the night there, alternating between retching and drifting in and out of reality.

Since that first episode, I have experienced vertigo two or three more times.  It doesn't get better or easier.  The last time, I ended up in the ER and had a CAT scan to make sure I wasn't having a stroke.  I now take a meclizine tablet every morning to ward off vertigo.  I don't rise quickly from chairs or beds.  Instead, I sit up or stand gradually, like a diver returning to the water's surface after an extended deep sea dive.  I know that if I rise too fast, I may get the bends, if you know what I mean.

Today, after four days of counting and unsubstantiated allegations of fraud and misconduct, Joe Biden was declared the President-elect of the United States.  My Constant Readers know where I stand politically.  Over the past four years, I have been fairly critical of Donald Trump and the job he's done in the Oval Office.  Not because he's a Republican.  No.  If he were a Democrat and locked immigrant children in detention centers, reversed environmental protections, been accused of sexual misconduct by 26 women, and violated almost every law protecting the integrity of the White House, I would have voted Republican on November 3rd.

This election and current President have caused the most even-tempered people to sling a little mud.  This afternoon, a friend posted a meme of Amy Coney Barrett holding a sign that said "40 More Years."  (But this post isn't about what I see as the hypocrisy of that Supreme Court confirmation, either.)  Every person in this country, Republicans and Democrats, have allowed themselves to lose their minds and souls a little these last four years.  I include myself in that statement.  We're all off-balance.  The entire country suffering from vertigo.

I watched Mr. Biden speak this evening, and he spoke of unity instead of division.  Healing instead of hatred.  It felt like I had just taken a meclizine.  The world slowed down, and I was able to stand steadily for the first time in a long while.  And I felt something else that I haven't felt in a long time:  pride.  

I was raised by a Republican father who flew the American flag at his house almost every day of his life.  He taught me to honor that flag and all it stood for.  I still do that.  And I vote Democrat, because that party aligns more with my moral and ethical beliefs.  While my father didn't agree with my choices, he respected me for making them.

My father voted for Donald Trump in the last election.  If my father hadn't died, he probably would have voted for Donald Trump again..  I respected my father's right to do that, not the choices he made.  Because that's what United States' citizens are supposed to do.  Respect each other, regardless of political differences.

Tonight, listening to the speeches given by Joe Biden and Kamala Harris, I gave myself permission to feel pride again.  To put some trust in an elected official.  Donald Trump had four years to change my mind, make me believe he represented my interests.  He never did.

So, I am vertigo-free tonight.  The world isn't spinning out of control, and maybe, just maybe, Mr. Biden will return kindness to my country.  Compassion for the less fortunate.  Justice for LGTB people and people of color.  In short, following one simple commandment:  love your neighbor as yourself. 

That is Saint Marty's hope.