February 18: Gorgeous Instrument, Public Speaking, Fabulous Boots

Billy Pilgrim went on skating, doing tricks in sweatsocks, tricks that most people would consider impossible--making turns, stopping on a dime and so on.  The cheering went on, but its tone was altered as the hallucinations gave way to time-travel.

Billy stopped skating, found himself at a lectern in a Chinese restaurant in Ilium, New York, on an early afternoon in the autumn of 1957.  He was receiving a standing ovation from the Lions Club.  He had just been elected President, and it was necessary that he speak.  He was scared stiff, thought a ghastly mistake had been made.  All those prosperous, solid men out there would discover now that they had elected a ludicrous waif.  They would hear his reedy voice, the one he'd had in the war.  He swallowed, knew that all he had for a voice box was a little whistle cut from a willow switch.  Worse--he had nothing to say.  The crowd quieted down.  Everybody was pink and beaming.

Billy opened his mouth, and out came a deep, resonant tone.  His voice was a gorgeous instrument.  It told jokes which brought down the house.  It grew serious, told jokes again, and ended on a note of humility.  The explanation of the miracle was this:  Billy had taken a course in public speaking.

And then he was back back in the bed of the frozen creek again.  Roland Weary was about to beat the living shit out of him.

I understand Billy's fear of public speaking.  Even though I have been a professor for over twenty years (teaching since about 1992 or '93), I still get bouts of anxiety before I have to get up in front of a class.  Billy, obviously, has taken steps to help him with his stage fright.  Voice lessons.  Me?  I just keep getting up and talking.  Sometimes I hit a home run.  Other times, I barely make it to first base. 

Tonight, I have to watch myself on television.  Our local Public TV station is airing the announcement of the next Poet Laureate of the U. P.  Like Billy, I don't really care for the sound of my voice.  Never have.  I don't think it sounds like a little whistle cut from a willow switch.  More like a banjo with some strings missing. 

As I said last night, I've always had useful terror when it comes to performing (and teaching is, in a way, a performance).  I've been in musicals and plays.  I've sung solos in church, play in a band.  Every Saturday, I sit down at a pipe organ or piano and play for an hour straight.  Useful terror always comes into play. 

As I watch myself tonight, I will be hyper-critical.  Notice all the stumblings and physical tics.  I once sat through an entire television interview with my pant leg tucked into my sock.  It nearly killed me when the interview aired.  I wanted to punch the TV screen.  I kept yelling at my image, "Fix your goddam pants!!"  Thank God I was sitting at a table for tonight's show, although nobody will be able to see the absolutely fabulous boots I was wearing.

No worries, though.  It only lasts a half hour, and there are three other people on the panel.  My camera time will be severely limited.

Saint Marty is thankful today for everybody who voted for him for Poet Laureate.

July 10: Digression, Elinor Benedict Introduction, Public Speaking

…”It’s this course where each boy in class has to get up in class and make a speech.  You know.  Spontaneous and all.  And if the boy digresses at all, you’re supposed to yell ‘Digressions!’ at him as fast as you can.  It just about drove me crazy.  I got an F in it.”

Holden doesn’t seem to be a big fan of public speaking.  Or, at least, he’s not a fan of public speaking in which the speaker has to stay on topic and get to the point.  That doesn’t surprise me, since The Catcher in the Rye is one big, long digression in Holden’s life.

I have to do a little public speaking tonight.  At the Vista Theater in Negaunee, Michigan, I have to attend the ceremony at which the first U. P. Poet Laureate is going to be named.  There are five finalists, and I have been invited to introduce the poet for whom I voted.  Elinor Benedict.  I’ve never met Elinor Benedict in my life.  However, I know her poetry and her reputation.  She was the founding editor of Passages North magazine, and she’s won tons of honors and awards.  I could just stand up in front of the audience and read her vita, and she’d probably get a standing ovation.

I have never introduced a writer in my life.  I, myself, have been introduced many times at poetry readings.  However, I’ve never had to perform this particular task in all my years as a poet.  I just spent two hours working on my “impromptu” speech, and I think I feel comfortable enough now to get up in front of a group of strangers and talk.  My worry this Wednesday is that I’m going to make an idiot of myself in front of a large group of fellow poets, and they’re all going to stand up and yell “Digression!” at me.

I’ve never really feared public speaking.  I think pretty quickly on my feet.  I’m hoping that quality will serve me well this evening.  If it doesn’t, I’m going to throw myself off the stage into the orchestra pit.

Saint Marty is going to be much more relaxed at about 8 p.m. tonight when everything is over and done.

No digressions tonight, please

November 28: Powerful Speaker, Parliament, Worry Wednesday

"...You're quite a powerful speaker, Sir...I wonder you don't do into Parliament.."

Yes, Scrooge admires his nephew's facility with words.  Fred can talk.  He gives good speech.  In some way, I think Fred is closest to Dickens' real voice and ideas.  Certainly, Fred eloquently points out the shortcomings of Scrooge's beliefs about Christmas.

Public speaking is the number one fear for almost everyone on this planet.  Given the choice between death and talking in front of a group of strangers, the "normal" person would select the grave.  That's a serious fear.

I have never had a problem with speaking.  I've been doing it for so long that it simply doesn't phase me any more.  There is only one time of the year when I have an issue with opening my mouth and talking.  Tomorrow is that one time.

I finished my Christmas essay the day after Thanksgiving.  Now I have to go to the local Public Radio Station and record it for a series of Holiday Readings that's going to air in December.  In the past, I've been able to complete this task in one take.  I have never had to repeat my performance.

However, when I sit in front of that microphone, I get a little anxious.  Actually, I get a lot anxious.  I only have one hour to accomplish this feat this year.  I scheduled my recording session for 2 p.m.  I have to teach at 3 p.m.  That doesn't leave a whole lot of wiggle room for making mistakes.  I've practiced and rehearsed.  I've read the essay twice aloud without stuttering or swearing.  That means absolutely nothing.  I've also read it three times, messing up the same sentence each and every time..

That is Saint Marty's worry this Wednesday.  He wants to sound like Fred the nephew, not Porky the Pig.

Th-th-th-th-that's all, folks!!