October 19: Captive, Bound, and Double-Ironed

I don't want to end up like this guy

"Oh! captive, bound, and double-ironed," cried the phantom, "not to know, that ages of incessant labour, by immortal creatures, for this earth must pass into eternity before the good of which it is susceptible is all developed.  Not to know that any Christian spirit working kindly in its little sphere, whatever it may be, will find its mortal life too short for its vast means of usefulness.  Not to know that no space of regret can make amends to one life's opportunity misused!  Yet such was I!  Oh! such was I!"

A pretty depressing little soliloquy from Marley's ghost.  He's touching upon something that is universal for every person on this planet--life's lost opportunities.  In particular, he's talking about opportunities of charity and compassion we miss every day of our lives.  Marley (and Dickens) laments all of those overlooked moments when we could be better people.

This past week, I have been totally preoccupied with my problems.  Actually, "preoccupied" is too tame a word.  I have been obsessed with my problems.  "Obsessed" indicates the unhealthy level of my preoccupation a little more accurately.  And I've been feeling sorry for myself, which is totally unattractive.  This morning, I want to tell you about someone I got to know last weekend.

I spent a good deal of time talking to the mother of a dancer at the dance convention.  "Candie" is a girl who takes dance classes with my daughter.  Candie is home-schooled.  She's sweet and quiet and unassuming, always supportive of the other people in class.  She brings treat bags for all the students at the dance studio at Halloween and Christmas (there are well over 100 students at the studio).  Candie is just plain nice.

I always assumed Candie was home schooled for religious reasons.  Well, Candie's mom started talking to me last Saturday about Candie's health issues.  Candie suffers from severe allergies (allergies that have almost killed her on several occasions).  Candie can only eat about five different foods, and her mom said, "And she's allergic to those, too, but not as much."  Her mom paused for a moment and then said, "We don't know what we're going to do if she becomes really allergic to those foods."  At one point during our conversation, Candie came over to get a drink of water.  I noticed red welts on her calves.  I think her mom said she's allergic to her own sweat.

At the hotel, Candie couldn't go to the water park.  She's allergic to the chemicals.  She couldn't go to any restaurants for obvious reasons.  Her mom had to rent a room with a full kitchen so she could prepare Candie's meals.  Candie couldn't go to the amusement park because of the possibility of exposure to allergens, as well.

As I sat there, talking with Candie's mom, I realized how blessed I am.  My problems really aren't that big.  I have two healthy, happy kids.  I may have some struggles with bills and jobs, but my life is good.  My preoccupations are trivial.  Unimportant.  And Candie and her mom are two of the most wonderful, positive people I have ever met.

Saint Marty has to give himself a reality check every once in a while.

May 19: The Grocers', Freak, New Cartoon

The Grocers'!  oh the Grocers'!  nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses!  It was not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely  white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint and subsequently bilious.  Nor was it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly-decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress:  but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, clashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes in the best humour possible; while the Grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas daws to peck at if they chose.

I know what you're thinking:  why in the hell did Saint Marty start with this catalogue of Christmas groceries?  It comes in the stave with the Ghost of Christmas Present, a stave that is full of these kinds of descriptions.  Dickens seems obsessed with the culinary details of Christmas.  You might call him a freak for these foods.

I just finished listening to an audio version of Steve Almond's book Candy Freak, which, to this day, still remains one of my favorite books of all time.  In the book, Almond displays his candy obsessions and fetishes in all their weird glory.  For a fellow candy freak like myself, I find in Almond a kindred spirit.  I find the same kind of kindred spirit in Dickens.  In Dickens' paragraphs about sucking pigs and joints of meat and candied fruits and French plums, I find a fellow freak.

I think most writers are freaks about something or other.  Writers are just walking balls of obsessive energy.  It comes with the territory.  If you can commit yourself to writing about candy bars or mental illness or any other subject for a year or so of your life, you are, by definition, a freak.  That's why I love being around writers.  Their preoccupations are consuming, fascinating, and powerful.  Writers can make any subject vivid and living.  Almond does this with chocolate.  Dickens does this with Victorian Christmas menus.

Saint Marty does this with Charles Dickens and Steve Almond and Cheetos.

Confessions of Saint Marty