January 24: Hoopy Frood, Poetry Workshop, Christmas Eve Tonight

Back to towels . . .

More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value.  For some reason, if a strag (strag:  non-hitchhiker) discovers that a hitchhiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, washcloth, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc.  Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitchhiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitchhiker might accidentally have "lost."  What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the Galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through and still know where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with.

Hence a phrase which has passed into hitchhiking slang, as in, "Hey, you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect?  There's a frood who really knows where his towel is."  (Sass:  know, be aware of, meet, have sex with; hoopy:  really together guy; frood:  really amazingly together guy."

I have spent a good portion of the afternoon planning for my poetry workshop this evening.  So, at the moment, I'm feeling like a hoopy frood.  I've got my books together, my thoughts gathered, my book bag packed.  In about half an hour, I'll be heading out the door.

The snow has begun to fall, and the temperature is dropping.  By tomorrow morning, the polar vortex will be sitting on the shoulder of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan like a vulture, glaring down with frozen eyes.  Not looking forward to the change in weather.  I've been enjoying the fairly snowless, warm patch that we've been experiencing.  But, all good things must come to an end.

Because of this switch in weather, I'm not sure who is going to show up for my workshop tonight.  It may be only three or four people.  (It's not just the weather.  There's a ballet, as well, that's competing with poetry.)  I don't mind smaller, more intimate groups.  It brings a whole other dynamic to a workshop.  In my experience, participants are more willing to open up and share.

Poetry has a way of energizing me.  When I'm talking about it, reading it, writing it, I feel more alive.  Everything seems present and sparking.  Those non-poets out there might not understand what I'm saying.  If you're a runner, it's like going out for a five- or ten-mile jog.  If you fish, it's like casting your line into a lake.  If you're an actor, it's like standing in front of an audience.

So, tonight, even though I'm a little tired at the moment, I will feel like it's Christmas Eve when the workshop begins.

Saint Marty is lucky to know his passion.

December 5: Freezing Cold, Daughter's Birthday, Wishes for Daughter

You wouldn't even have known it had snowed at all.  There was hardly any snow on the sidewalks.  But it was freezing cold, and I took my red hunting hat out of my pocket and put it on--I didn't give a damn how I looked...

Well, all the schools were closed today, except for the university.  It wasn't that snowy, but it was, as Holden says, freezing cold.  All the snow that came down yesterday hardened into bricks of ice.  The parking lots were hockey rinks, and my hands turned into hand-cicles as I walked across campus.

My daughter was happy to have the day off from school on her thirteenth birthday.  What thirteen-year-old wouldn't?  I tried to convince her I had arranged the bad weather, but she didn't buy my story.  She had a great day, being a couch potato.  Playing computer games.  Annoying her five-year-old brother.  Basically, being a teenager.

I remember those first days she came home from the hospital after she was born.  I would sit on our couch in the middle of the night, holding her, thinking of all the wishes I had for her.  I wished she would have passion, for reading and writing and art and dance and music.  I wished she would have happiness with every breath she took.  I wished she would know love each second of her life.

Now that she's a surly seventh grader, my wishes for her haven't changed.  I still wish for her to have passion and happiness and love, even more than when she was just days old.  I've seen her leap and spin across a stage.  She's written poems that have made me cry.  She drew a stunning city-scape in her art class.  She's grown into such a wonderful young lady.

Thirteen years ago on this day, I wished upon a star, and my wish came true.

Happy birthday, my sweet daughter.

And that's a piece of Saint Marty's mind.  And heart.