November 26: Exceedingly Laborious, Back to the Grind, Water Essay, Writing and Rewriting

When in the Southern Fishery a captured Sperm Whale, after long and weary toil, is brought alongside late at night, it is not, as a general thing at least, customary to proceed at once to the business of cutting him in. For that business is an exceedingly laborious one; is not very soon completed; and requires all hands to set about it.

Back to the grind.  If I were on the Pequod, I'd be cutting in the captured sperm whale.  Instead, I was at my desk at 6 a.m., working through a pile of faxes, answering e-mails, and writing.  After a four-day-weekend, I found myself profoundly unmotivated.  I missed seeing my wife and kids in the morning.  Missed the warmth of my house.  All I wanted to do was continue the Thanksgiving weekend.

That being said, I have been fairly productive today.  I finished one of the three writing projects that have been on my to-do list.  A little essay about water that a friend of mine asked me to write for a local publication.  It has been a month-long process.  Starts and stops.  Long stretches and dead ends.  It finally all came together this morning.  I typed it up and sent it off.  Now, I wait for my friend's feedback.  As Truman Capote once said, "Good writing is rewriting."

I'm actually not sure how my friend is going to respond to what I sent him.  It's a little weird.  A lyric essay with some linguistics thrown in for good measure.  It's the kind of stuff I like reading.  Half poetry.  Half prose.  Flights of images.  And Jesus walking on water.  What more could a person want?

I taught this afternoon, as well.  Mythology.  We're finishing up our section on Grimms fairy tales.  It's been a long half-semester, and I'm eyes-deep in piles of grading.  Papers and quizzes.  Pretty soon, final exams and more papers.

On top of all that, I'm still waiting to hear whether I will have a job after December 31st.  There's an air of fatalism that seems to be hanging over the medical office where I work.  Everybody has already decided that the end times are upon us.  Now, I'm not wearing blinders.  I've got contingency plans.  Not really appealing contingency plans, but they will get me through until I find something better.

Work.  Writing,  Teaching.  Worry.  That has been my day.  I'm kind of exhausted.

Saint Marty isn't ready to rewrite his life anymore tonight.

August 17: Dr. Larry, Poet of the Week, Maggie Nelson, "Bluets," "Ives" Dip, Adventures of Stickman

Dr. Larry, the physician who oversees the hospice care, stopped by my parents' house this afternoon.  I worked with Dr. Larry's wife for close to ten years, so his visit wasn't just a professional call.  Dr. Larry sat with my family and answered all their questions.

My mother's biggest worry is that my sister isn't eating or drinking.  Dr. Larry explained that, when a person is very ill, the body produces a hormone that suppresses hunger and thirst.  He told my mother that it was sort of the body's way of dealing with the physical stress.  Yesterday, the hospice nurse noticed mottling on my sister's legs, which can be an indication that blood is pooling and death is imminent.  Dr. Larry examined my sister's legs and said that the discoloration was due to broken blood vessels, not pooling blood.  He isn't concerned about it.  All my father could do was sit in his chair and cry, and Dr. Larry tried to comfort him.

When I stopped by my parents' house tonight, my nephew was sitting by my sister's bed, holding her hand and talking to her.  Her eye was open, and it looked as though she was actually listening to him.  Her jaw was slack, like she didn't have the energy to hold her mouth closed.  After my nephew was done talking to her, I stepped over, took her hand, and told her that I had to give my son a bath.  We had just come from a birthday party, and my son was covered in a layer of sweat and dirt and exhaustion.  "He's a little grease ball," I told her and squeezed her palm.

In her book-length poem (or lyric essay) Bluets, Maggie Nelson, the Poet of the Week, writes about visiting a friend who has been in a serious car accident:

Some things do change, however.  A membrane can simply rip off your life, like a skin of congealed paint torn off the top of a can.  I remember that day very clearly:  I had received a phone call.  A friend had been in an accident.  Perhaps she would not live.  She had very little face, and her spine was broken in two places.  She had not yet moved; the doctor described her as "a pebble in water."  I walked around Brooklyn and noticed that the faded periwinkle of the abandoned Mobil gas station on the corner was suddenly blooming.  In the baby-shit yellow showers at my gym, where snow sometimes fluttered in through the cracked gated windows, I noticed that the yellow paint was peeling in spots, and a decent, industrial blue was trying to creep in.  At the bottom of the swimming pool, I watched the white winter light spangle the cloudy blue and I knew together they made God.  When I walked into my friend's hospital room, her eyes were a piercing, pale blue and the only part of her body that could move.  I was scared.  So was she.  The blue was beating.

I thought of this passage tonight as I stood by my sister, holding her hand, looking into her one blue eye that was open.  I'm not sure if she was really seeing me.  I'd like to believe she was.  I know my sister doesn't want to leave our family.  When she got home last week, as they were bringing her into the house, she said, "I couldn't be happier."  My friend, who used to be a hospice nurse, heard her.  My sister is surrounded by love.  In her eye, I saw profound love.  And profound sadness.  Maybe it was simply a reflection of what I was feeling.  But, like Maggie Nelson says, the blue of her eye was beating.

So, my question tonight for Ives is this:

Does my sister know that she is loved?

And the answer:

...He often awoke with a gasp in the middle of the night, his heartbeat accelerated, his breathing shallow, his heart filled with sadness, his head with memory.

I have to believe that my sister, in her very weakened state, has moments like this.  Moments when she is able to think a little clearly, hear the voices of my nephew or son or mother, and feel both sadness and love.

At least, that's Saint Marty's hope.

Adventures of STICKMAN

January 19: Favorite Poem, Sherman Alexie, "Sonnet, with Pride"

I know I haven't been doing a second post for the last week or so.  I'm sorry about that.  I've been busy, tired, [insert other lame excuse here].  Long story short, it's been a nutty seven to ten days.

This week, I've decided to share some of my favorite poems from The Best American Poetry 2014.  I have a great poem for you guys tonight.  It's one of my favorites in the collection.  A prose poem.  A political poem.  A small, lyric essay, in a way.

This one takes Saint Marty's breath away.

Sonnet, with Pride

by:  Sherman Alexie

Inspired by Pride of Baghdad
by Brian K. Vaughan & Niko Henrichon

1.  In 2003, during the Iraq War, a pride of lions escaped from the Baghdad Zoo during an American bombing raid.  2.  Confused, injured, unexpectedly free, the lions roamed the streets searching for food and safety.  3.  For just a moment, imagine yourself as an Iraqi living in Baghdad.  You are running for cover as the U. S. bombers, like metal pterodactyls, roar overhead.  You are running for cover as some of your fellow citizens, armed and angry, fire rifles, rocket launchers, and mortars into the sky.  You are running for cover as people are dying all around you.  It's war, war, war.  And then you turn a corner and see a pride of freaking lions advancing on you.  4.  Now, imagine yourself as a lion that has never been on a hunt.  That has never walked outside of a cage.  That has been coddled and fed all of its life.  And now your world is exploding all around you.  It's war, war, war.  And then you turn a corner and see a pride of freaking tanks advancing on you.  5.  It's okay to laugh.  It's always okay to laugh at tragedy.  If lions are capable of laughter, then I'm positive those Baghdad lions were laughing at their predicament.  As they watched the city burn and collapse, I'm sure a lioness turned to a lion and said, "So do you still think you're the King of the Jungle?"  6.  I don't know if the lions killed anybody as they roamed through the streets.  7.  But I'd guess they were too afraid.  I'm sure they could only see humans as zookeepers, not food.  8.  In any case, the starving lions were eventually shot and killed by U. S. soldiers on patrol.  9.  It's a sad and terrible story, yes, but that is war.  And war is everywhere.  And everywhere, there are prides of starving lions wandering the streets.  There are prides of starving lions wandering inside your hearts.  10.  You might also think that I'm using starving lions as a metaphor for homeless folks, but I'm not.  Homeless folks have been used far too often as targets for metaphors.  I'm using those starving lions as a simple metaphor for hunger.  All of our hunger.  11.  Food-hunger.  Love-hunger.  Faith-hunger.  Soul-hunger.  12.  Who among us has not been hungry?  Who among us has not been vulnerable?  Who among us has not been a starving lion?  Who among us has not been a prey animal?  Who among us has not been a predator?  13.  They say God created humans in God's image.  But what if God also created lions in God's image?  What if God created hunger in God's image?  What if God is hunger?  Tell me, how do you pray to hunger?  How do you ask for hunger's blessing?  How will hunger teach you to forgive?  How will hunger teach you how to love?  14.  Look out the window.  It's all hunger and war.  Hunger and war.  Hunger and war.  And the endless pride of lions.

Hunger, war, and lions