September 17: "The Order of the Day," Night Owl, Failure

I am more of a night owl than a morning crow.  Those late hours when the day's work is done and everyone has gone to bed are precious to me.  Nothing pressing to accomplish.  No crisis or tragedy to handle.  Just me and my neuroses.  

I have writer friends who get up at 3 a.m. and stumble to their desks/laptops/journals.  One friend, in particular, has finished his daily writing before my alarm even goes off in the morning.  Every once in a while, I have been known to scribble in my Moleskine before I leap into the day's activities, especially when my brain is cluttered with worries and anxieties.

For the most part, however, I cherish moonlight over sunlight.

Billy Collins's morning routine . . .

The Order of the Day

by: Martin Achatz

A morning after a week of rain
and the sun shot down through the branches
into the tall, bare windows.

The brindled cat rolled over on his back,
and I could hear you in the kitchen
grinding coffee beans into a powder.

Everything seemed especially vivid
because I knew we were all going to die,
first the cat, then you, then me,

then somewhat later the liquefied sun
was the order I was envisioning.
But then again, you never really know.

The cat had a fiercely healthy look,
his coat so bristling and electric
I wondered what you had been feeding him

and what you had been feeding me
as I turned a corner
and beheld you out there on the sunny deck

lost in exercise, running in place,
knees lifted high, skin glistening—
and that toothy, immortal-looking smile of yours.

As I've said before, I make lists every morning of things I need to get done.  Then I prioritize the list, using a complicated method of letters and numbers.  (I blame my math/computer science background for this habit.)  Sometimes, the list is short, ranging from A1 (most important) to A4 (get it done before the end of the day).  Other times, the list gets a little . . . long and messy, moving from A1 to B1 (try to get to this, but it's not urgent) to C3 (think way into the future, if you have time).  

So, I spell out my order of the day pretty explicitly.  That's why, when something truly unexpected occurs, I have a difficult time recalibrating.  One minor fluctuation can cause me unease, and one major glitch can send me into a tailspin from which I can't recover easily.

If all this sounds slightly control-freakish, it is.  I admit it.  Yet it works for me, giving me a sense of control, however false that sense may be.  In truth, I know that I'm not in the driver's seat when it comes to my life.  As a Christian, I've been taught to believe that God is my chauffeur.  (Cue Carrie Underwood singing "Jesus, Take the Wheel.")  When I get lost on some backroad through a swamp, I'm supposed to slide into the passenger seat, close my eyes, and trust.  That's difficult for me.

Today had a few twists and turns.  Things I didn't expect.  My life was never in peril, but I did have to alter my order of the day several times to compensate for these not-so-welcome surprises.  Now, sitting on my couch, my night owl self takes over.  I have this blog post to finish and poems to revise (A5 on B2 on my list).  If I don't get too tired, I will tackle both of these items because I hate unfinished business.  If my brain decides not to cooperate, I will fall asleep feeling that I have failed today.

Saint Marty's prediction:  failure.

August 11: "Evening Alone," Night Owl, Happy Place

I have very few moments during my days--morning, afternoon, or evening--when I am completely alone.  I think that's why I've always been a night owl.  After people go to bed, I get a few hours of solitude.

Sometimes I make good use of that solitude, reading or writing or revising or eating chocolate.  Other times, I allow my mind to rest.  I watch a movie I've seen dozens of times or a television program that requires little in the way of active attention.  I drift and wander lonely as a cloud.

That's what Billy Collin is doing in today's poem . . . 

Evening Alone

by: Billy Collins

Last of the strong sun

on white tiles, stack of white towels, 

faint piano melody from downstairs, 

and the downpour of hot water on my shoulders. 

I lift my face to the nozzle, close my eyes

and see mountains folded 

over mountains, smoke rising from a woodcutter’s hut,

 and in the distance, billowing pastel clouds. 

It must be China I am beholding 

on this early summer evening— 

the great sway of rivers, 

thousands of birds rising on the wing, 

the jade and mulberries of China, 

plum blossoms—now the cry of a pheasant. 

It is a vision that drains me of desire, 

and leaves me wanting nothing 

but to be here 

in this hot steamy room 

washing my neck, rubbing my sides, 

the soap slithering down the chest and stomach, 

eyes still shut, 

while in China, 

a light boat crosses a lake, 

and in a wooden house on the shore 

a young woman in a tight-fitting silk dress 

lifts a cup of cinnamon tea 

to her painted, slightly parted lips.

I'm not sure if Billy Collins is calling up a distant memory or completely imagining this scene.  But he is drifting and wandering in his mind to a place that gives him peace and pleasure.  It really doesn't matter whether it's real or not.

We all have happy places.  The Eiffel Tower.  Loch Ness.  Lake Superior.  A couch.  My happy place?  I'm kind of a homebody.  The only place where I really relax and set aside all my masks is at home.  I don't have to do anything but be myself.  That's a great gift.  I can be Marty the poet.  Marty the blogger.  Marty the Christmas fanatic.  Marty the Bigfoot guy.  Or I can just be Marty the guy who watches Portrait Artist of the Year fanatically, over and over.  

Saint Marty's favorite place tonight was his backyard, standing under the sun, noticing how leaves are already changing color.

July 14: "In the Evening," Abby, Fellow Insomniac

Billy Collins at the end of day . . . 

In the Evening

by: Billy Collins

The heads of roses begin to droop.

The bee who has been hauling his gold

all day finds a hexagon in which to rest.

In the sky, traces of clouds,

the last few darting birds,

watercolors on the horizon.

The white cat sits facing a wall.

The horse in the field is asleep on its feet.

I light a candle on the wood table.

I take another sip of wine.

I pick up an onion and a knife.

And the past and the future?

Nothing but an only child with two different masks.

It is the end of day for me, too.  Collins is savoring the last remnants of the evening in this poem, and that is exactly what I'm trying to do.

Most of this Sunday, I've been traveling.  First, we came home from Calumet early this morning, dropped off my suitcase, picked up my son and puppy.  Then, we made a quick trip to Mackinaw City to pick up my great niece, Abby--one of my favorite people in the world

Abby is going to be spending the week with us, and my son couldn't be more excited.  These two truly get each other, and it's great to see them together.  Abby and I just finished watching the film Sasquatch Sunset, and she loved it.  (There are reasons why she's one of my favorite people in the world.)

Now, everyone is going/has gone to bed, and, despite the fact that I'm operating on about seven or eight hours of sleep over these past 72 hours, I'm not feeling particularly tired.  It could be because it's so warm--almost 90 degrees today, and it's still about 78 or so.  Or it could be my mind decompressing after a very busy weekend.  Or my mind anticipating a very busy week.

Whatever the reason, I am very much awake.

Maybe I'll read a little.  Or watch another movie.  Go for a walk.  Count some stars.  Eat some of the fudge I bought in Mackinaw City.  Write a poem.  Revise a poem.  Draw a picture.  Or I may just enjoy the quiet.  (Well, semi-quiet.  As I said, it's hot, and I have a fan blowing on me.)

Abby's kind of a night owl, so, she's probably still awake upstairs right now.  If she's anything like me, her brain probably has a hard time shutting down.  Too many things to think about.

Saint Marty is going to enjoy having a fellow insomniac in the house for a week.