March 25: Lunch with a Friend

Soon, I will be having lunch with a good friend.

I have written about this gentleman before.  When he phones me, he always begins the conversation by saying, "Hello, son, this is dad."  We've known each other for close to ten years.  What started off as a friendly acquaintance has become something deeper and more meaningful.  I send him pictures of my kids at Christmas, and he pesters me about writing my memoir.  (You may remember that I promised to deliver the first four chapters to him at our next encounter.  This lunch doesn't count.)

He, himself, is a published author.  He writes books of humorous essays, and they're quite popular around these parts of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  He's a retired professor from the university and seems to spend his golden years making people happy.  He's everything I want to be when I grow up.

My friend will make my Lachrymose Monday a little less lachrymose.

Now, if Saint Marty can have lunch with his friend on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, Saint Marty will have a great week.

I want to be just like him...

March 12: The Egyptians, History, Saint Theophanes the Chronicler, Memoir

The Egyptians are extremely interesting to us today for various reasons.  Modern science would still like to know what the secret ingredients were that the Egyptians used when they wrapped up dead people so that their faces would not rot for innumerable centuries.  This interesting riddle is still quite a challenge to modern science in the twentieth century.

This paragraph from Holden's history exam proves a couple of things.  First, he knows very little about ancient Egyptians.  Second, he has a thing for mummies, which come up later in the novel when he goes to the Museum of Natural History in New York.  I think Holden likes the idea of something that doesn't change, remaining the same for "innumerable centuries."  Holden has lost his little brother to leukemia, and this loss has sent him on a downward spiral.

Holden doesn't really care about history.  He cares about girls and sex and bullies and his family.  He's a normal teenage boy.  Perhaps he's a little more sensitive than some, but what it all boils down to is hormones.  A lot of hormones.  Teenagers (and tweenagers) are so self-absorbed they wouldn't notice the burning of the Hindenburg unless it was posted on Facebook by one of their friends.

In some ways, The Catcher in the Rye reads like a memoir.  It's a slice of Holden Caulfield's life.  I have learned, since I started working on my memoir, that it's difficult to make yourself interesting.  Salinger creates a narrative voice for Holden that is authentic and entertaining.  It drives the entire book.  That's what I've been struggling with.  I write a fragment of memoir and then spend hours wondering if I'm being self-indulgent or boring.  Perhaps if I thought of myself as a fictional character, I would find composing a memoir a little easier.  Maybe I need to think of myself as Holden Caulfield.

Or Saint Theophanes the Chronicler, whose feast day is today.  Theophanes was born in Greece around 759 a.d. to a wealthy family.  Of course, being predisposed to saintliness, he soon divested himself of his wife (who joined a convent) and money.  Among Theophanes' many accomplishments is his attempt to write a history of the world.  I don't think he ever finished this project.  He ran afoul of Leo the Armenian who imprisoned him for his Christian faith.  Theophanes died in exile, away from his home and studies and history of the world.

Holden has a great story.  Saint Theophanes has a great story, too.

Saint Marty has a blog and a lot of insecurity.

Check out this cool picture I saw on Facebook

February 25: "Confessions," Memoir, "First Confession"

As promised, this post contains the next installment of my Lenten memoir.  I'm pretty happy with myself.  Two weeks of Lent, and I have two sections of my Confessions done.  Last week, I went to the university library and picked up a copy of Augustine's Confessions.  I figure I better check out my competition.

Anyway, Saint Marty has part two of Confessions.  It's called...

First Confession

I frequently convince myself I have fatal illnesses.  When I was thirteen or fourteen, I started experiencing sharp pains in my left testicle.  These scrotal attacks occurred several times a day and sometimes made it impossible for me to walk.  I would sit in whatever chair was available and contemplate the source and meaning of my affliction.  At night, I would lie in bed, fondling my balls, searching for a lump or dent, anything abnormal.  I convinced myself I was being punished.  Being a teenage boy, I'd fallen into the habit of abuse.  At least that's what the priest called it in the confessional.  "How often do you abuse yourself, my son?" he asked.  "Once or twice a week," I said, although it was like once or twice a night, more if I watched an episode of Family Ties before I went to bed; I had a thing for Mallory.  Up until that point in my life, I never realized abuse could be such good company.


Of course, with this company came a whole lot of guilt, and with this guilt came the belief that God was using my left nut to visit divine justice upon me.  Over several months, I progressed from believing I had some kind of penile toothache (painful, but treatable) to full-blown testicular cancer that had already invaded my major organs (a stigmata of the dick, so to speak).  Thus, when I ended up on the pediatrician's examination table, I was prepared for martyrdom.

The doctor, a kind man from India, poked and prodded and rolled me for a minute or two.  Then he said, "Sometime testes can twist in scrotum."  He looked at me.  "It can make short breath," he said, "like this."  He panted like an overheated cocker spaniel.  "And pain."

It took me a few moments for me to realize I wasn't dying.  I sat up.  "Then," I said, "I don't have cancer?"

"No cancer," he said.  "Just twisting."  He made a motion with his fist in the air.  "Twist."  He rotated his testicle/fist several times violently.

That was one of the first times in my life I was given a stay of execution by the Almighty.  I'd like to say it ended my nightly sessions of self abuse, but I'm reminded of an old joke:  Why does a dog lick his balls?  Because he can.

Bless me, Father...

February 18: Apology, Memoir, Confessions," New Cartoon

Sorry I didn't post yesterday.  I had to play a gig with my praise band at a local church, and that little obligation took up most of my Sunday.

As promised, I do have the first installment of my Lenten memoir.  I'm not sure if it's any good.  You're going to have to be the judge of that.  Let me know what you think.  Drop me a comment.

Saint Marty is really insecure, as always.

Confessions

Prologue Confession

I hate surprises.  I hate surprise parties.  People jumping out of hiding places and shouting at me isn't fun.  It's like being pummeled by dodge balls in gym class.  I hate surprise endings.  When I read a book, I start with the last page, sometimes the last chapter.  The genre doesn't matter--mystery, fantasy, biography, fiction, non-fiction.  Whatever.  I was in line at midnight on July 21, 2007, to buy Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.  The first thing I did when I had it in my hands was flip to the final page to find out if Harry lived, Snape died, and scar boy and Ginny moved past the kissing stage to some serious skin magic.  If Harry had died and ended up with Moaning Myrtle or Voldemort had destroyed the muggle world like a North Korean missile strike, I wouldn't have cared.  I can accept happily ever after or misery ever after, as long as I'm prepared for it.

If I could read my life, I would already know the details of my end.  The date and time and circumstance.  Cancer.  Car accident.  Stroke.  Chicken bone.  It wouldn't matter.  I hope for a long tenure on this planet, but if my last page was tomorrow morning at 6:57 a.m., I would accept my fate.  I'd probably cancel class, since I wouldn't want to spend my final moments with 25 surly eighteen-year-olds who don't know a run-on sentence from a death sentence.  I wold pop in my DVD of It's a Wonderful Life, order a stuffed-crust pizza with mushrooms and chicken, and watch George Bailey save Bedford Falls from Mr. Potter.  Maybe I would ask my daughter if I could braid her hair like I used to when she was small.  I would slip my hand under my wife's pajamas to feel the warmth of her body.  I'd let my four-year-old son eat ice cream for dinner and skip his bath.  And, at the end of the film, I'd sing "Auld Lang Syne" with Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed, crying like I always do.  I'd kiss my kids the way Stewart does, as if I'm having a low blood sugar and they're a pile of Skittles.  With my children all nestled, snug in their beds, I'd climb into bed with my wife.  We'd talk about something small, unimportant.  The potluck at church on Sunday or the new John Irving novel.  When it was time for sleep, I'd press my lips to her mouth the way I did when we first met, hungry, full of breath and tongue.  The end.

Yes, I've thought about my final pages a lot.  When I was nine or ten, I wrote the instructions for my funeral in my journal, including seating arrangements and hymns and the menu for my wake (pancakes and bacon).  My family and friends thought I was just left of Gomez Addams in my weirdness.  I preferred to think of myself as considerate, making all the hard choices for my survivors.  No surprises.  Simply read and follow the instructions on the box, like making brownies.

My life has not been all brownies, however, and I think that may account for my almost phobic avoidance of surprise.  I haven't been successful at maintaining an uneventful life.  In fact, I've sometimes navigated my days like a visually-impaired mountain climber, toeing the summit of Pikes Peak at midnight in a dense fog.  If I manage to travel from alarm clock off in morning to alarm clock set at night with a minimum of spikes on my surprise meter, I consider those waking hours golden.  Being a pessimist and a realist, I know life rarely works that way.  Scratch "rarely."  Life never works that way.

Being a poet and a writer, I know literature can work that way.  With foreshadowing and symbolism, I can prepare readers for surprises.  If these literary devices aren't explicit enough, readers can flip or scroll ahead to find out whether this Prince Charming finds the owner of the glass slipper filled with lithium.  To eliminate the possibility of unpleasant plot twists, I provide a catalog of upcoming events and subjects:

I will talk a good deal about mental illness and sexual addiction.  Accompanying these subjects, I will also discuss Internet pornography and masturbation.  There will be a pregnancy, a stroke, a birth, and a pulmonary embolism.  Throw in the election of the first African American to the Oval Office, and an Iraqi journalist pitching his shoes at the President of the United States. 

That takes care of most of the Richter Scale quakes and tremors in this book.  I will avoid subtlety at all costs.  If something bad is about to happen, I will provide plenty of warning.

Most of all, I can promise, if not a happily ever after, a happily ever final paragraph, filled with snow and colored lights and possibility.

Confessions of Saint Marty

February 7: Lenten Challenge

OK, next week is Ash Wednesday.  I personally think it's a cruel twist of fate that the first day of Lent comes on February 13, one day before Valentine's Day.  That's like having National Vegetable Eating Day on Halloween.  Any how, I've had very little time to think about my Lenten Challenge for this year.

Last, year, if you remember, I vowed to write a chapter of my memoir every week and post it each Saturday (or was it Sunday?).  Regardless of the day, I was supposed to post the chapters, I only followed through once or twice on this vow last Lent.  I still experience twinges of post traumatic guilt to this day.

The year before that, I wrote a poem a day during Lent, and I ended up with a poetry manuscript.

And, of course, in 2010, for the 47 days of Lent, I prayed for people who had hurt me in some way.  That was not a fun challenge.  I remember becoming physically ill when I first started, dredging up all those old feelings of anger, betrayal, and pain.  It was a liberating experience, but by Easter Sunday, I was more than a little spiritually exhausted.

I'm not sure what to do this year.  I was thinking of doing a reboot of last Lent's challenge and trying to work on that memoir again.  Perhaps I'd have more success this year.

I'll throw it out to the disciples of this blog.  Do you have any ideas for a Lenten challenge for me?  I'm up for almost anything, short of selling all my worldly possessions and joining a monastery in Yugoslavia.  I'm not quite ready for that.  Yet.

Saint Marty needs some help people.

No matter what, I'm not giving up chocolate

May 29: Isaac Asimov, Expectations, Setting Myself Up

I have a lot of plans for this summer when it comes to my writing.  First, I want to get a good start on my next book of poems.  (I've already written the first poem, so at least I've begun.)  Next, I want to get a good portion of my memoir done.  You remember that memoir.  I was supposed to write it during Lent.  Finally, I want to have my Christmas essay for the radio done by September.  (I've already got an idea for this project, so that's half the battle.)

Big plans.  I do this all the time.  Mark my words, by the end of the summer, I'll be lucky if I have three more poems written.  My memoir will still be in a state of limbo.  And my Christmas essay will still be just a good idea.  Yes, I'm setting myself up for failure.

The only time I've actually followed through on a planned writing project was during Lent, two years ago, when I wrote a poem a day.  As a result of that little exercise, I have a brand new collection of poetry that I can't get anybody to look at.  Depressing.

I wish I could remain positive.  I wish I actually scheduled my life in a more productive manner.  The only things I write with any consistency are blog posts, and even those wax and wane over the weeks and months.  This morning's post was the longest I'd written in quite a while.  Perhaps I put too much emphasis on blogging.  Perhaps I put too much pressure on myself to accomplish so many writing projects at one time. 

I heard this anecdote once about the science fiction writer Isaac Asimov.  I'm not sure it's true, but I want it to be.  Asimov told someone that he had three typewriters set up in his office on three desks.  On each typewriter, he was writing a different book.  So his writing days were a relay race, in some ways.  He'd work on one manuscript until he got stuck, and then he'd swivel his chair and begin working on the next book.  Until he got stuck again.  Then, he'd turn to the third typewriter and start typing.  I've always loved that image of Asimov, bouncing like a pinball between his writing projects.  (Of course, Asimov was a full-time writer.  That's how he made his living.)

Maybe I should approach my writing projects like Isaac Asimov.  Just have three different documents saved on my laptop--Christmas essay, poems, memoir.  Then I'll just asimov my way through the summer.  (Yes, I just turned Isaac Asimov into a verb.)  My friend and teacher, the novelist John Smolens, does the same thing.  He always has two or three different books he's working on.

Saint Marty now has a plan of action.  He just has to follow through.

Asimov at one of his typewriters

February 20: What Have I Done, Productive Day, Meetings

Excuse me while I get into a fetal position

OK, now that I posted this morning what I'm thinking of doing for Lent, I'm sitting here in a panic.  My first reaction, when I reread this morning's blog, was, "What in the hell have I done?!"  I'm never going to be able to write a chapter of memoir a week!  That's a lot of work.  Of course, last year, I never thought I'd be able to write a poem a day during Lent, and I did it.  On Ash Wednesday, it seemed Herculean in scope.  By Palm Sunday, I knew I could do it.  On Easter Sunday, I felt like I'd given birth (in a purely metaphoric manner, of course).

I'm in the same position right now.  Ash Wednesday is in two days.  I have to start writing and compiling my material.  Now.  By the end of Lent, I should have seven chapters of the memoir written.  Holy crap!  If I average ten to fifteen pages a chapter, that could be close to one hundred pages of prose.  Yeesh.  I say again, "What in the hell have I done?"

On the bright side, I've had a really productive day.  I set myself some pretty high goals to accomplish this morning, and I can proudly say that I'm ahead of the game right now.  By the time I hit the meetings I have to go to tonight, I should pretty much be done with all of my tasks.  That has rarely been happening for me recently.  In fact, that rarely happens for me at all.  (Yes, I'm patting myself on the back right now.  Nobody else is going to do it.)

I am spending my night in church, one meeting followed by another meeting.  It's my once-a-month meeting marathon.  It sort of makes me feel important.  On the other hand, I could get so much more done tonight if I didn't have to go to these gatherings.  But go I must.  (Yes, I writing like Yoda now.)  At the very least, there should be refreshments.  Maybe some cookies or cake.

Saint Marty needs to get busy and be even more productive.  And he'd like to say one more time, "What have I done?!"

September 14: Eat, Pray, Love

Yes, I did it.  I stole the title of Elizabeth Gilbert's unjustly maligned memoir for the title of my post.  The reason I did it is two-fold.  First, I'm really hungry; need to pray; and have to embrace love this morning.  Second, I want to see if using the title of Gilbert's  memoir somehow brings in readers to Saint Marty.

As I sit here right now, I'm starving.  I don't know why.  I ate well last night, didn't try to deprive myself of anything.  In fact, I got a vanilla malt with my wife before we went for a long walk on our weekly date.  However, I feel like I could eat an entire deep-fried turkey at the moment, including stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy.

It's one of those days when I know I'm going to need a lot of prayer.  I started to pray as soon as I got up.  I was really tired and cranky.  Still am.  Therefore, I started praying that God give me the energy and strength to make it through the next twelve or fourteen hours.  So far, God has only made me ravenously hungry, which has taken my mind off being tired and crankly.  Maybe that's God answer this morning.  Eat.

And I need to spread a little love around.  I went to bed last night a little upset with my daughter.  She decided to clean out her closet and took all of these really expensive ballet costumes and threw them in a garbage bag.  She was really proud of herself because she cleaned up her room, which I told her she needed to do if we are ever going to sell our house.  I was really pissed because of her method of cleaning.  Thank God she was alseep when I discovered her garbage bags of costumes.  She didn't hear my little tirade.  I need to love her, not be angry with her.

That's where Saint Marty is at this early hour.  He needs some food.  He needs some God.  He needs some hugs.

I really liked this book.  Honestly.