August 30: "The Literary Life," Poetry, Prime Rib

I woke up this morning, as the blues singers like to boast, and the first thing I thought of was my daughter's good news.  (If you don't know what the news was, read yesterday's post.)  It buoyed me as I set about doing what I needed to do today.

I didn't work at the library, believe it or not, but I did edit a podcast for the library this morning.  I also had to troubleshoot some technical issues for the library this evening.  Aside from that, it was all about the finishing details on my book manuscript for my editor.  I sent him my author pictures (thanks to my friend, Ronnie, for those); wrote a short biography and description for the back cover; and received my final blurb.  This weekend, I'm going to make one more pass through the manuscript for typographical errors, and then I'm planning on letting it go.

All of that took most of the morning and afternoon.  And then my family and I went out for a steak dinner (my daughter's choice) to celebrate.  That was my literary life today.

Here's Billy Collins' typical day in his literary life . . .

The Literary Life

by: Billy Collins

I woke up this morning,
as the blues singers like to boast,
and the first thing to enter my mind,
as the dog was licking my face, was Coventry Patmore.

Who was Coventry Patmore?
I wondered, as I rose
and set out on my journey to the encyclopedia
passing some children and a bottle cap on the way.

Everything seemed more life-size than usual.
Light in the shape of windows
hung on the walls next to the paintings
of birds and horses, flowers and fish.

Coventry Patmore,
I’m coming to get you, I hissed,
as I entered the library like a man stepping
into a freight elevator of science and wisdom.

How many things have I looked up
in a lifetime of looking things up?
I wondered, as I set the book on the piano
and began turning its large, weightless pages.

How would the world look
if all its things were neatly arranged
in alphabetical order? I wondered,
as I found the P section and began zeroing in.

How long before I would forget Coventry Patmore’s
dates and the title of his long poem
on the sanctity of married love?
I asked myself as I closed the door to that room

and stood for a moment in the kitchen,
taking in the silvery toaster, the bowl of lemons,
and the white cat, looking as if
he had just finished his autobiography.

Life rarely affords people real reasons to celebrate.  I suppose you can celebrate washing your car or mowing your lawn.  But I don't see too many people dancing because they've had colonoscopies or their wisdom teeth removed.  Nobody throws a party after cleaning the bathroom or defrosting the fridge.  Maybe we should celebrate the small things in life more, but we don't.

But, when your kids see their dreams come true, it's time for prime rib and bacon-cheddar fries.  That's what we did tonight.  And my daughter still looked stunned, as if she doesn't realize how amazing she is.  

That was Saint Marty's literary day:  podcast, poetry, and prime rib with his family.  

October 13: Future Time, Cold Sweats, Full Life

"You know nothing of future time," pronounced Deep Thought, "and yet in my teeming circuitry I can navigate the infinite delta streams of future probability and see that there must one day come a computer whose merest operational parameters I am not worthy to calculate, but which it will be my fate eventually to design."

The future is something that I worry about.  A lot.  You may even say that I have been preoccupied with the future since I was a small child.  One of my recurring nightmares as a young person involved being in a van without a driver,  travelling down a long, unending road by myself.  No idea where I'm heading.  Just toward some distant, unknown destination.  I would wake up in cold sweats from this dream.

As an adult, this anxiety over the future hasn't subsided.  I still spend a great deal of time stressing over what tomorrow may bring.  You're probably thinking about now, "What's the point in worrying about the future?"  I agree with you.  Losing sleep over what MAY happen is a losing venture.  It doesn't make the future better or worse.  It simply makes me really tired.

I think it's a matter of control for me.  I like my days ordered and calm.  In the morning, when I wake up, I already have my itinerary planned out.  I make my "to do" list for the next day right before I go to bed.  I know what I will be doing, hour by hour.  That comforts me.  Leaves little room for disaster or surprise or accident.  Of course, it also leaves little room for unexpected joys, those happy moments when life takes a turn for the better instead of the worse.

I know that the future is beyond my control.  I know that the present is what I should be focusing on.  You don't have to remind me of this fact.  I have control over my actions and reactions today.  That's it.  I can prepare for a good tomorrow, but that doesn't guarantee that it will happen.  It doesn't even guarantee that I will have a good afternoon or evening. 

Here is what I know about today:  we are celebrating my birthday at my mother's house.  My sister is making prime rib, mashed potatoes, and tapioca pudding, three traditional Saint Marty's Day dishes.  In addition, people will sing "Happy Birthday" to me.  I may receive a gift or two.  Maybe not.  And tonight, if everything goes according to plan, my son will practice his trombone, and my daughter will focus on her homework.  Me?  I'll spend my last few hours before bedtime getting ready for tomorrow and the coming week.  Because I like the illusion of preparedness.

And tomorrow, I will celebrate my twenty-fourth wedding anniversary with my wife.  We will go out to our favorite little Italian restaurant for dinner.  Have some drinks.  Eat some good food.  Think about how our life together began.  Talk about the hopes and dreams we had.  Imagine what we would now tell those two young people who said "I do" almost a quarter century ago, when everything seemed possible.

The future still frightens me, because everything, at the moment, seems unsettled.  In the past 24 years, my life has been full of surprises, good and bad.  I've struggled, and I've rejoiced.  I've cried a lot, and I've laughed a lot.  And I've had a beautiful partner who's accompanied me on this long, winding road into the future. 

Saint Marty thinks that's pretty good definition of a full life.

October 7: A Blessed Life, Panic and Doubt, Classic Saint Marty, "The Omelet"

Can I tell you that I've had a really great birthday weekend?

Last night, I took my son to see The House with the Clock in Its Walls, which was surprisingly good.  My son has been talking about this movie since the first trailers came out.  Jack Black is always entertaining, even in bad films.  He has a similar kind of manic energy that Robin Williams and John Belushi had.

This morning, I went to two church services.  One of my good friends invited me to the 9 a.m. worship at her church.  She and her son play in the praise band.  It was like a Christian rock concert, replete with lights, fog, and banging loud music.  My son loved it.  Then, I went to the worship service at my wife's church for World Communion Sunday.  Different vibe, but still inspiring.

Now, I'm getting ready for the coming week.  Something happened a little while ago that is sort of playing on a loop in my head right now.  Can't turn it off, and it's bringing me down.  The past (especially a fairly traumatic time from the past) has a way of popping up every once in awhile to haunt you.  Don't worry.  I'm not in harm's way.  I just can't push it out of my mind, and it's making me crazy.

I know that I lead a blessed life.  I know that.  My health is pretty good.  My kids are smart and beautiful.  My wife just threw me a great surprise birthday party.  I have jobs that pay the bills (for the most part).  Lots of friends who care about me.

Yet, memory has a way of triggering the worst kinds of moods.  I don't know if it's post traumatic stress or what.  I have never had a positive memory trigger, been overcome and obsessed about the best times of my life.  The births of my daughter or son.  My wedding day.  Being named Poet Laureate.  No, my memory triggers fill me with panic and dread.  They sit in the pit of my stomach, perch on my forehead.  Caw and screech and growl.  That's what I'm experiencing right now.

My sister is cooking prime rib for me tonight.  Mashed potatoes.  Dinner rolls.  And tapioca pudding.  My favorite things.  I'm trying to push this wave of anxiety away and enjoy this family birthday dinner.  It's getting easier.  I spoke with my wife about it a little while ago, and she was able to make me less anxious.

Now, you disciples reading this are probably thinking that I'm a basket case.  Confession:  I frequently am.  I can go from panic to self doubt to Hershey kisses to panic in the space of about five minutes.  This is normal for me.

A year ago, I was also celebrating my birthday and counting my blessings.  No panic involved . . .

October 7, 2017:  Silent Film, Richly Blessed, This Little Light

The guards drew together instinctively, rolled their eyes.  They experimented with one expression and then another, said nothing, though their mouths were often open.  They looked like a silent film of a barbershop quartet.

"So long forever," they might have been singing, "old fellows and pals; So long forever, old sweethearts and pals--God bless 'em--"

Have to apologize for my absence last night.  I was not bunkered down, waiting out a fire-storm.  I was at the monthly poetry workshop I lead at the Joy Center in my home town of Ishpeming, right in the heart of the Upper Peninsula.  There were lots of old pals and colleagues there.  We wrote about ghosts, watched one of my favorite haunted house movies (The Changeling), and ate.

You know, I have realized this Saint Marty's Day that I have been richly blessed this year.  So much good has happened in my life.  If I were in a silent film of a barbershop quartet, the subtitles would probably be the lyrics of "This Little Light of Mine" or Pharrell Williams' "Happy."

I know I'm sounding very Up With People, but I have been very lucky this year, connecting with new friends and reconnecting with old ones.  That has been one of the greatest blessings of being chosen Poet Laureate.  I get to go places, read poems, talk about poetry, and meet wonderful people all over the Upper Peninsula.

Of course, there are still troubling things happening in the world--locally, nationally, and internationally.  So much division and strife.  These last couple days, there was a registered nurses' strike at the local hospital.  Good people, walking a picket line to make the community a better, safer, healthier place.  And, of course, there was Las Vegas this week.  Donald Trump.  Brexit.  North Korea.  There are plenty of things to worry about, and I'm not ignoring them.

However, for today, I'm going to watch my silent film, read the subtitles, hum a song.

Sing with Saint Marty:  "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine..."

And a happy poem for this evening.  I swear. . .

The Omelet

by:  Martin Achatz

The Omelet

I had an omelet this morning,

With scallions and mushrooms and grated

Monterey Jack cheese.  It was so good

I wanted to take a picture of it,

Wanted to fall on my knees, right there

In the crowded dining hall, and say

A rosary for it.  I wanted to push

My way back into the kitchen,

Worship at the feet of Ruth, the aproned

Chef who had created it

In less than two minutes, scraping

Her spatula back and forth over

Her hot, stainless steel palette.

Watching her create that omelet made me

Believe in the Book of Genesis,

That God could create the world

In six days flat and then sit back

And view us like a National Geographic

Special on Sunday morning.

Seeing Ruth work, I couldn't understand

How people denied the existence of God:

Here she was, serving up two-minute

Breakfast miracles for everyone.

If I could serve this omelet

To the entire Middle East, the suicide

Car bombings, the need for guns,

Missiles, and armies would vanish

In a single bite.  An Omelet Peace

Accord would take place, the entire

Planet joining hands to sing

Psalms and dance with timbrels and drums.

Yes, the omelet was that good.

When I go to church this coming Christmas,

While the congregation kneels,

Gives thanks for a baby

Served up with a side of hay

In a manger, I will give thanks

For scallions and mushrooms

And Monterey Jack cheese, for folded and melting

Frankincense, gold, and myrrh.

Two of the biggest blessings in my life . . .

January 1: New Year's Day, Joseph Brodsky, "1 January 1965"

New Year's Day.  My sister is cooking prime rib.  I'm supplying some New York cheesecake.  The day is bright and clear.  I can almost see tomorrow from my window.  Everything seems possible today.

I know that I've shared this poem before, but it drives the cobwebs out of the corners for me.  It fills me strangely with gratitude.

Saint Marty hopes everyone feels the same today.  Gratitude abounding.

1 January 1965

by:  Joseph Brodsky

The Wise Men will unlearn your name.

Above your head no star will flame.

One weary sound will be the same—

the hoarse roar of the gale.

The shadows fall from your tired eyes

as your lone bedside candle dies,

for here the calendar breeds nights

till stores of candles fail.

What prompts this melancholy key?

A long familiar melody.

It sounds again. So let it be.

Let it sound from this night.

Let it sound in my hour of  death—

as gratefulness of eyes and lips

for that which sometimes makes us lift

our gaze to the far sky.

You glare in silence at the wall.

Your stocking gapes: no gifts at all.

It's clear that you are now too old

to trust in good Saint Nick;

that it's too late for miracles.

—But suddenly, lifting your eyes

to heaven's light, you realize:

your life is a sheer gift.

April 5: This Ain't Bad, Difficult Day, Really Special Hot Chocolate

Billy Pilgrim's train, the longest train of all, did not move for two days.

"This ain't bad," the hobo told Billy on the second day.  "This ain't nothing at all."

Billy looked out through the ventilator.  The railroad yard was a desert now, except for a hospital train marked with red crosses--on a siding far, far away.  Its locomotive whistled.  The locomotive of Billy Pilgrim's train whistled back.  They were saying, "Hello."

My favorite character is this little passage is the hobo.  I appreciate his attitude.  Sitting in a boxcar, waiting to be hauled off to some prisoner of war camp, the hobo doesn't get pissed or depressed or bereft.  Nope.  The hobo just sits there, like he's eating a cheese sandwich at a lunch counter with Billy.  Basically, he's saying, "Well, it ain't prime rib, but it's filling."

It has been a difficult day.  My best friend, Wonder Twin, has taken another job.  I won't be working with her anymore.  We had a going-away potluck for her this afternoon.  Swedish meatballs.  Fruit pizza.  Crescent weenies.  Cake.  It was really good.  It was also really sad.  I've worked with my friend for almost twenty years.  She was also best friends with my sister who died.  When Wonder Twin walks out the door tomorrow after work for the last time, a part of my sister will be walking out the door with her, too.

I know that doesn't make a whole lot of sense.  But the fact that Wonder Twin knew my sister really well--loved my sister--was always really comforting to me.  I could share memories of my sister, quote her, and Wonder Twin immediately got it.  There's very few people who know almost everything about me.  Wonder Twin is one of those people.

I do not endorse drinking as a coping mechanism for anything.  However, I am probably going to have a really special hot chocolate tonight.  Maybe two.  It won't change the fact that Wonder Twin is cleaning out her locker at work tomorrow, or that I am probably going to cry.  Yes, I am going to be a mess.  But I will be happy tonight.

For 20 great years, Saint Marty got to work with his best friend.  For that, he is very thankful.

October 7: John F. Kennedy, Peanut Butter and Banana, Eric Torgersen, "Snow. Memory," Adventures of Stickman

Remembered how Robert, coming home in tears after John F. Kennedy was assassinated, had asked him, "Did God will that?"

After Robert is murdered, Ives spends a good portion of his life remembering.  It's his way of coping with the loss of his son.  Unfortunately, Ives gets stuck in his memories.  Every time something changes, Ives loses Robert all over again.  The Biltmore Hotel closes, Ives mourns.  Gimbels closes, he mourns.  Ives retires.  Mourning.  It's about letting go, and Ives can't seem to loosen his grip on the past.

I'm sitting in my university office at the at the moment, eating a peanut butter and banana sandwich.  It's a good sandwich,  It was one of my favorite sandwiches as a kid.  I used to beg my mother to make them for me.  It was a treat.  I don't know why.  Maybe bananas were too expensive.  Or peanut butter.  Whatever the reason, a peanut butter and banana sandwich was the prime rib of my childhood cuisine.

That's a good memory.  Each bite I take of my sandwich tonight is a little stroll through the playgrounds and elementary school hallways of my mind.  It's amazing how something as simple as two pieces of white bread, a couple tablespoons of peanut butter, and a banana can unlock such elemental recollections.  If I had a cold glass of milk mixed with Nestle Quik to go with my sandwich, I would probably never want to leave my office again.

Of course, I will finish my dinner.  I will suck the last smudges of peanut butter from my fingers.  Then I will go to the water fountain and drink.  This moment will pass.  Like snow or a super moon.  Moments are not meant to last.  They just slide into short term memory and, eventually, get filed away in long term.

Tomorrow, I will probably forget this meal.  How it made me feel like I was eight or nine again.  I will take up the mantle of adulthood.  Drive to work.  Punch a time clock.  Earn money.  Worry about bills.

Tonight, however, Saint Marty has a peanut butter and banana sandwich.  And that's enough.

Memory.  Snow.

by:  Eric Torgersen

Snow returns and snow
is memory,
imperfect as memory of dreams
but our only memory of wind,
of feet that circle the house
at night as we sleep.

You were still asleep
when the first of the first snow
fell, renewing the memory
of winter; I forgot my dreams
and ran in the snow, right out in the wind,
not afraid of leaving the house.

That night, in the house
again, refusing to sleep,
I mocked the snow
and vaunted my own poor memory.
"The one who never dreams
of wind

will die in wind,"
you said.  "His house
will be no refuge, nor will sleep;
snow on snow
will erase his memory
and even the landscape of dreams

will no longer hold his dreams;
we know that when wind dies wind
will rise again, but no house,
fallen, rises.  Sleep
if you can but the snow
will return when we are just memory."

"Let the sum of all memory
equal the sum of all dream,"
I said.  "All the world's wind
weighs less than the poorest house.
Dream-winds trouble every hour's sleep,
but snow is only snow is only snow."

Even in tropics we keep the memory of snow;
in dreams, night after night, we're torn from sleep
as our separate houses yield to the single wind.

Adventures of STICKMAN

Agust 14 Make-Up: Same Meal, Steak, Blessing Versus Worry

We always had the same meal on Saturday nights at Pencey.  It was supposed to be a big deal, because they gave you steak.  I'll bet a thousand bucks the reason they did that was because a lot of guys' parents came up to school on Sunday, and old Thurman probably figured everybody's mother would ask their darling boy what he had for dinner last night, and he's say, "Steak."

For most of Catcher, Holden is complaining.  He complains about Ackley and Stradlater, his suite mates at school.  He complains about Ernie's piano playing at the nightclub.  He complains about movies and the Radio City Christmas show.  And he complains about food.

Usually, Wednesdays are my days to complain and worry on my blog.  I'm not going to do that today.  I sort of took care of that task yesterday.  Today, I'm going to write about blessings.  To be more specific, I'm going to write about food blessings, because I'm really hungry.

I'm a lucky guy when it comes to food.  I can afford to buy it.  Not only can I afford to buy groceries, but also I can afford to buy groceries I like.  Last night, I ate a Hostess cupcake.  This morning, I'm going to have a cheese omelet for breakfast.  There are so many people in this world who don't know where their next meal is coming from.  I am not one of those people.  I live in abundance, and that's what I want to celebrate today.

It's so easy to take things for granted.  Clean water.  Warm clothes.  Four walls and a roof.  A job.  Even a crappy job.  And food.  Bread.  Eggs.  Milk.  Apples.  Parmesan artichoke dip.  Fried rice.  Blueberry muffins.  (Like I said, I'm hungry.)

I'm not going to take food for granted today.  I know I'm blessed, and that's my point.

Saint Marty can have steak this Saturday night if he wants to.  Or tonight.  Not prime rib or fillet Mignon. but he can have steak.

Rare or well done?

June 3: Sharing Lunch, Good Day, Magic 8-Ball Monday

I just ate the best lunch in the world.  It wasn't because of the food, which was leftover moo goo gai pan and bratwurst.  It was because I was sharing that food with a good friend.

I know that sounds corny.  However, I don't enjoy Mondays usually, and I really don't enjoy cold Mondays in June.  There's nothing to look forward to on Monday except four more days of work.  That may sound a little defeatist or pessimistic, but it's true.  When I packed up my lunch this morning, it didn't look that appetizing to me.  In fact, I seriously considered leaving it at home and taking my chances with the contents of the refrigerator at work.  I didn't.

The coworker/friend I shared my lunch with is a single mom.  She has a daughter a couple of years younger than my daughter.  She shares my opinions about politics and social issues, and she's funny as hell.  (OK, that sentence could have come right out of Holden Caulfield's mouth.  I think I'm overdosing on Salinger.)  Generally, she doesn't let the vicissitudes of life get her down.  She stays pretty positive.  In fact, she sort of makes me feel guilty over whining about my own lot.  I need more people like this friend in my life, to keep me honest.

I wasn't impressed with the moo goo gai pan on Friday.  It was bland and more than a little watery.  Today, it tasted great, even though it was three days old.  It was the communal eating of it that made the difference.  That and the bratwurst and Milky Way chaser that accompanied it.

People, good people, really do make a difference.  A good friend can change leftover Chinese into prime rib, or at least a breast from KFC.  I was lucky enough to learn that today, and I'm very grateful.

My Magic 8-Ball question for today is an extension of this emotion:

Will my whole week be filled with gratitude?

And the answer of Holden Caulfield is:

"Yes I do.  Yes I do.  Sure I do.  Don't say that.  Why the hell do you say that?"

There you go.  In the space of five short sentences, Holden says "yes" and "sure" three times.

Saint Marty is going to be showered with things to be grateful for this week.

It ain't filet mignon, but it was really good

December 18: Melancholy Dinner, Sacrifice, Saint John of Kanty

Scrooge took his melancholy dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening with his banker’s book, went home to bed…

Scrooge is not generous with anybody, including himself.  By all indications, he is very wealthy, but he won’t even buy himself a decent dinner.  I don’t know what a “melancholy dinner” consists of, but I’m sure it’s not turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, and pecan pie.  I’m thinking the movie adaptations of A Christmas Carol pretty much get it right:  a bowl of gruel and a crust of bread.  I would be pretty melancholy if I had to eat that meal.

Scrooge doesn’t live this way because he’s pious or holy.  He’s not donating food to the poor or going home to pray and fast.  He’s just a stingy bastard with all humankind.  Of course, his lifestyle changes at the end of the novel.  He’s throwing his money at beggars by the time Christmas morning dawns.  I’ve always had this dream of meeting Scrooge on the street on December 25, him walking up to me, shaking my hand, and slipping a bag of gold coins into my jacket pocket.

That’s one thing all good and saintly people have in common:  a complete lack of materialism.  They give away everything they own, including the cloaks off their backs and sandals on their feet.  That’s pretty much the way I imagine Scrooge living the rest of his life.  Saint John of Kanty, whose feast day is December 23, pretty much fits this mold of holiness, as well.

John was born in Kanty, Poland, in the year 1403.  Of course, as a boy, he exhibited the normal, annoying traits of all saints-in-the-making.  Raised by “virtuous” parents, John became a professor at the University of Krakow, where he taught his students science and tried to “instill into their hearts the sentiments of piety with which he was himself animated.”  Then he was ordained.  OK, so he had a full-time job at the college (probably tenure-track), and he was a priest.  

That wasn’t enough.  He was devoted to sacrifice.  He travelled to Jerusalem to preach “Jesus Crucified” to the Turks.  (I think John had a little bit of a death wish.)  Then he walked to Rome four times.  That’s right.  He walked.  He barely slept or ate, and he abstained from meat for the last 30 years of his life.  Then, after giving away everything in his house to the poor, he died in 1473.

When it comes to sacrifice, John of Kanty pretty much has almost all of us non-saint type people beat.  I live frugally, with many melancholy dinners, like Scrooge, but it’s not a matter of choice.  If I could eat lobster and prime rib every night, I would.  For a little while, anyway.  Then I would switch to risotto and shrimp.  

I like to eat.  And I like things.  Too much.  I am a product of my materialistic society.  I don’t beguile my evenings with my banker’s book.  That would be too depressing.  But I do like to dream of a better life.  A life without past-due bills and debt.  A life without financial dread.  Maybe a life with a trip to Disney World every couple of years.

Saint Marty isn’t a very good saint when it comes to sacrifice.

Me having dinner last night