September 3: My Masterpiece, Languishing, Headache

"I'll tell you in the morning," she said.  "When the first light comes into the sky and the sparrows stir and the stars fade, when early cars whisper along the highway, you look up here and I'll show you something.  I will show you my masterpiece."

Charlotte is not referring to another word woven into her web here.  She is at the end of her life, has done everything that she can do to save her friend's porcine life.  But really, her masterpiece is about the continuation of life, as well.  Charlotte is referring to her egg sac, which will, in due time, produce her 514 children.


Really, nothing Charlotte has done can compare to the accomplishment of bringing 514 new lives into the world, even though she will not be around to witness it.  Charlotte does not want to tell Wilbur that she is dying, although she is "languishing" to tell him the truth.  That's the real beauty of E. B. White's little book.  It is full of promise, even though that promise may come at a dear price:  Charlotte's death.

I know that I will never do anything greater in my life than raise my son and daughter.  At the end of my time on this planet, they will be my masterpieces.  Sure, I obsess about poetry and writing and publishing and teaching and jobs and money.  I'm human, with that human drive for success.  But success is such a relative thing.

I have to teach tonight.  I've been up since 4 a.m., and my head is pounding from lack of sleep.  From 6 p.m. to approximately 9:30 p.m., I will be in a classroom, pretending I know something about the art of film.  I will try to appear wise and successful.  If I do it right, I will leave the classroom with a sense of fulfillment.  Accomplishment even.

Do you want to know what the best part of the night is going to be?  Getting home and listening to my daughter tell me about her day at school.  Going into my son's bedroom and watching him sleep for a few seconds, listening to his deep breaths.  That will be my reward for this long day of toil.  For a few blessed minutes, I will be happy.

That is my magnum opus this evening.  My great work.

Saint Marty's headache is feeling a little better.  Time to teach.

Magnum opuses come in all sizes

February 4: Useless Talents, My Masterpiece, Prayer for My Car

My car's Engine light came on this weekend.  I have an appointment at the dealership this Thursday to have it checked out.  Well, I should say had an appointment.  We can't afford a car repair this week, so we're going to reschedule it to next week.

I told my wife this evening, "You know sometimes I wish I had a useful talent."  Poetry is not useful.  It doesn't pay my bills.  It doesn't get me a full-time job.  It can't fix my broken car.  It can't even buy me a cup of coffee.

Charlotte puts her talents to work to save Wilbur's life, and, at the end of the book, she creates her magnum opus:

"I'll tell you in the morning," she said.  "When the first light comes into the sky and the sparrows stir and the cows rattle their chains, when the rooster crows and the stars fade, when early cars whisper along the highway, you look up here and I'll show you something.  I will show you my masterpiece."

Charlotte has great talents.  She can build webs.   She's a good speller.  She rids the world of pesky insects.  And she sacrifices her life to save her best friend.  She's practically a saint.

I don't want to be a garage mechanic or a plumber or electrician.  My older brother inherited those gifts in my family.  I'm a poet.  Words are my gift.  I can write Letters to the Editor.  I can put together a mean curriculum vita.  If you need to compose a complaint to a rotten landlord, I'm your man.  That's about as useful as I get.  Poetry might be beautiful.  It might inspire.  Unfortunately, beauty and inspiration come pretty cheap in this world.

Dear Lord of Useless Talents,

I'm not going to ask for the wealth of J. K. Rowling tonight.  I'll leave the Nobel Prizes to Mo Yan and Alice Munro.  I'm not going to bitch about having to get up at 4 a.m. tomorrow.  My prayer tonight is for my car.   I can't afford a new transmission.  If my head gaskets (whatever they are) need repaired, I'm screwed.  I need a car problem that can be fixed with a sonnet or haiku.  A well-crafted metaphor.

That's what I'm asking for this evening.  I want to be useful.  Really, honest-to-God useful.

Your loving servant,

Saint Marty

Another useless talent.  She probably writes poetry, too.