August 23: Gloom and Mystery, Deep Black Garment, Power Outage

The Phantom slowly , gravely, silently approached.  When it came near him, Scrooge bent down upon his knee; for in the very air through which this Spirit moved it seemed to scatter gloom and mystery.

It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save on outstretched hand.  But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

Yes, Stave Four of A Christmas Carol is shrouded in darkness.  The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come is a figure of death and foreboding, traveling with its own black atmosphere.  Scrooge bends his knee to this spirit, bowing to the power and mystery of the future.

With that kind of introduction, I have probably set any reader up for a pretty depressing post.  This post is not going to be depressing.  The only reason I chose the above passage was its emphasis on darkness.

This morning, we had a power outage at our house.  I woke up to the sound of my son crying in his crib.  "It's daaaaark," he kept saying.  I tried to be sympathetic:  "The electricity is off, buddy.  Just close your eyes and go back to sleep."  He didn't follow my instructions.

"It's daaaaark."

"I can't do anything about it, buddy.  Go to sleep."

"It's daaaaaaark."

"I know, I know.

"Turn on the wights."

I sighed.  "I can't."

He whined, a sound that reminded of his sleepless bottle nights.

I wanted to tell him to embrace the darkness, to get down on his knee to it, like Scrooge does.  Then, I realized he was only three-years-old.  He probably wouldn't understand death and the future and middle-aged angst.  Instead, I settled for trying to be reassuring as the clock ticked down to the time I had to get up to get ready for work.

Saint Marty is tired.  He's been up since 2:30 a.m.  He wants somebody to turn off the wights.

It's daaaaaaark

May 10: Power Outage, New Poem, 27 Days

This morning, terrible thunderstorms rolled through the Upper Peninsula.  As I was getting ready to take my shower, the lights flickered once or twice and then went out.  I was plunged into complete darkness.  There are no windows in my bathroom, so it was the kind of darkness experienced in coal mines in Kentucky.  I couldn't see my hand in front of my face.  And the power stayed out for the rest of the shower.

As I drove to work, I drove through two cities that were completely black.  At work, I found this storm took out the power to almost 80% of the U.P.  That's a lot of dark showers.  And because of the power outage, schools were closed all over the place.  My daughter got the day off.

That was the inspiration for today's poem.  There's so much possibility in darkness.  So much can exist in it.  There's a reason that the Book of Genesis starts out in darkness.  It's a place of imagination and creation.  It's where life comes from.  And art.  Music.  Poetry.  All of that stuff comes, essentially, from the primordial darkness of Genesis.

Pretty deep, huh?  Well, there are 27 days left until SH arrives.  I'm trying to give it up to my Higher Power.  My Higher Power keeps giving it back to me in different guises.

Saint Marty's Higher Power is a pain in the ass sometimes.

Showering During the Blackout

This morning, early, as I stepped
Under the spray of shower head,
Hot needles of water scratching
My bald scalp and wide shoulders,
The electricity went out, plunged me
Into darkness complete as the first day
Of creation, before God spoke anything
Into being.  I stood in that windowless
Bathroom, contemplated possibility.
In this moment of prehistory,
I was Adam before Eve, before Eden,
Before mammal and fish and bird,
Before continent and sea, land and sky,
Sun and moon.  I was an idea in God's
Infinite mind, made in His image.
I hoped He looked like a young
Cary Grant or an old Richard Gere,
Killer smile and beautiful hair.
I hoped He had a body muscular,
Toned as an Olympic swimmer,
Hairless, sleek, and graceful.
I hoped He had blue eyes
Because I've always wanted
Blue eyes, a light denim color,
Comfortable as my favorite jeans.
I hoped His teeth were straight, white,
The marble of Michelangelo's David.
As I toweled my body in the dark,
Before a mirror I couldn't see,
I reveled, danced like Baryshnikov,
Prayed the light would never return,
So I could stay beautiful, strong, perfect.
I will never eat another apple, I promised
God in the blackness. Never.

Don't I look good?