May 2: Marvin Trudged, End of Semester Crush, Uncle Walt

Back to Marvin, the depressed robot . . .

Marvin trudged on down the corridor, still moaning.

"And then of course I've got this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left-hand side . . ."

"No?" said Arthur grimly as he walked along beside him.  "Really?"

"Oh, yes," said Marvin, "I mean I've asked for them to be replaced but no one ever listens."

"I can imagine."

Arthur is feigning interest in what Marvin is saying.  To be polite, I guess.  Marvin is simply difficult to be around.  He complains all the time.  The universe is a bleak and miserable place in Marvin's head space.  It's not Marvin's fault, though.  He was programmed that way.  

I, on the other hand, was not programmed to emulate the state of depression.  I can't blame a team of AI specialists for my continually dark moods.  It's just the way I am, like it or not.  I have an affinity for pessimism, I guess.  That is mostly the result of being tired a lot.

I am nearing the end of the semester.  Tons of grading to do.  I know that all of you out there are tired of hearing my complaints about the end-of-semester crush, but, unless you've experienced it as an instructor/professor, you really have no idea of the stress and exhaustion.  There's nothing like, unless you count near death experiences.

Tonight, however, I am conducting a poetry workshop at the Joy Center in my hometown.  (It's an artist retreat in the middle of the woods--there's no better place to write.)  I'm celebrating the 200th birthday of Walt Whitman this month.  (Whitman was born May 31, 1819.)  So, it's going to be Uncle Walt, me, and a bunch of poet friends, hopefully.  I've been looking forward to this event all week long.

So, trudge along with me for a few more days in this blog.  I promise it will be getting better.  Grades are due by noon next Tuesday.  So, a weekend and a day.  Then I will be in a much better state of mind.

Until then, Saint Marty has Walt Whitman.

August 3: Bright Lights, Dead Grandmothers, New Poem

Some people have asked me about my extreme low blood sugars.  When the paramedics have to revive me, I'm probably as close to death as I can be without actually checking into the big Holiday Inn above (or below, depending upon the person with whom you speak).  They ask me if I've ever seen anything strange.  Bright lights.  Either of my dead grandmothers.  Angels.  Demons.  Republicans.  Democrats.  Whatever.  I hardly ever answer this question.  But today, I plan to reveal my experience of the afterlife.

What I recall about my near death experiences is...Nothing.  I haven't met Abraham Lincoln or Elvis (for those of you who believe Elvis really is dead).  I haven't felt an overwhelming sense of peace or joy.  I haven't gone for a walk with Jesus, Budha, Moses, or Tupac.  None of the cliches.

Talking with the King and the king

When these low blood sugars have taken me out, I remember confusion, headaches, and being sticky.  The stickiness comes from the glucose the paramedics usually squeeze into my mouth trying to revive me.  I wish I had some cool memories of these really awful events, but I don't.  The best I can say is that I got very tired, and then I went to sleep.  That was peaceful.  I suppose that's not very comforting for most people who want proof of heaven.  However, I'm in the same boat as everyone else when it comes to that topic.  It's all a matter of faith.  Either you believe or you don't.  That's what today's poem is about.

Saint Marty believes.

Near Death

Is it like walking to the South Pole, all white and flat and bright as mirrors?  Cold.  I bet it’s cold.  The day Uncle Liam died, Lake Superior froze over for the first time in twenty years.  At the beach, I could hear water under the ice, groaning, like it hurt.  Like it was trying to break through, but couldn’t.  Instead, it had to sit there, under that lid of snow.  Gather itself.  You know how when you wind up a toy tight enough to snap?  Then you let it go?  It almost sings when it’s free, moves so fast it hurts to watch.  That was the lake that day.  Water just winding and winding, getting ready.  I didn’t see the ice break in spring, but, when it did, I bet that water jumped like a humpback whale.  Higher and higher, a piece of sky falling up.  And I bet it shook the air.  A mine shaft collapsing.  Lava hitting the ocean.  That’s what it’s like, isn’t it?  When you come that close?  It’s like being at Dachau when the tanks came roaring through the gates.

Not crossing over yet