May 12: Couldn't Sleep, Mother's Day, Long Goodbye

Nobody can sleep in the Hitchhiker's universe . . .

Trillian couldn't sleep.  She sat on a couch and stared at a small cage which contained her last and only links with Earth--two white mice that she had insisted Zaphod let her bring.  She had expected never to see the planet again, but she was disturbed by her negative reaction to the news of the planet's destruction.  It seemed remote and unreal and she could find no thoughts to think about it.  She watched the mice scurrying round the cage and running furiously in their little plastic treadwheels till they occupied her whole attention.  Suddenly she shook herself and went back on the bridge to watch over the tiny flashing lights and figures that charted the ship's progress through the void.  She wished she knew what it was she was trying not to think about.  

Zaphod couldn't sleep.  He also wished he knew what it was that he wouldn't let himself think about.  For as long as he could remember he'd suffered from a vague nagging feeling of being not all there.  Most of the time he was able to put this thought aside and not worry about it, but it had been reawakened by the sudden, inexplicable arrival of Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent.  Somehow it seemed to conform to a pattern that he couldn't see.

Ford could't sleep.  He also too excited about being back on the road again.  Fifteen years of virtual imprisonment were over, just as he was finally beginning to give up hope.  Knocking about with Zaphod for a bit promised to be a lot of fun, though there seemed to be something faintly odd about his  semicousin that he couldn't put his finger on.  The fact that he had become President of the Galaxy was frankly astonishing, as was the manner of leaving the post.  Was there a reason behind it?  There would be no point in asking Zaphod, he never appeared to have a reason for anything he did at all:  he had turned unfathomability into an art form.  He attacked everything in life with a mixture of extraordinary genius and naive  incompetence and it was often difficult to tell which was which.

Arthur slept:  he was terribly tired.

This afternoon, I'm the Arthur Dent in this passage.  I just woke up from a nap.  It has been quite an eventful weekend, with my daughter attending the prom last night.  I spent yesterday washing my car, running to the store for glitter hair and body spray (for my daughter, not myself), taking pictures, playing the pipe organ for Mass, attending the prom grand march, cleaning my house, and then waiting for my daughter to return from the prom.

Mother's Day today.  Went to church this morning.  Took my wife out to brunch with our kids.  My wife has to work this afternoon, so, tonight, we're planning on having a Mother's Day bonfire in our backyard.  (I bought a portable fire pit for my daughter to have friends over after the prom last night.  I've been wanting one of these for quite some time.  My daughter simply provided a reason for me to finally purchase one.)  We'll cook some s'mores and have some time together this evening before the start of another work week.

I am trying to gather my thoughts today.  Find some focus.  I'm not being very successful.  I have a writing project that I need to finish tonight.  Yet, I can barely string two sentences together for this post.  As a poet, I find this situation quite frustrating.  I keep stopping and starting.  Deleting and backspacing.  It's like I'm thinking in syllables instead of sentences or paragraphs.

I haven't been sleeping well recently.  I find myself worrying about a lot of things that are out of my control.  My daughter's future.  My son's transition to middle school next fall.  My wife's mental health.  My ability to pay bills this summer without teaching money coming in.  I could go on, but you get the idea.  Focused and unfocused anxiety.

I'm sitting at my mother's dining room table right now, listening to my mother speak to herself.  She has recently developed the habit of providing a running commentary of what's going through her mind.  Sometimes, it's about my father.  Other times, she becomes obsessed with going home, as in "When am I going to go home?  When is your father coming to get me?"  Yesterday, she spent two hours folding and unfolding a blanket in her lap, talking her way through the process:  "Fold this end over like this.  This corner to that corner.  Yes, that's right . . ."  It's as if her brain never rests, pinballs from one thought to another without ever coming to a rest.  I can almost hear the bells and pings going off in her head.

Today especially, I miss my mother.  I once heard Alzheimer's called "the long goodbye."  I've been saying goodbye to my mother for close to five or six years now.  My mother doesn't know it's Mother's Day.  Doesn't know why my kids gave her roses and a card.  Doesn't understand why we had cake after dinner, took pictures with her.

Saint Marty hopes that she knows that she's loved and honored today, tonight, tomorrow.  Always.

May 12: Mother's Day Bonfire, S'mores, "Heart to Heart"

It's late.  We've just finished up our Mother's Day bonfire, stuffed ourselves with s'mores.  My son is in bed, and I will be in bed soon, as well. 

And now, it's time to wish all the mothers in Saint Marty's life a Happy Mother's Day!

Heart to Heart

by:  Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants.  Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast.  My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest.  Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems.  Yes, I told
Her.  I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said.  She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts.  This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
for me for Mother’s Day.  Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm.  They
will find a diner to have
coffee together.  They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

May 19: A Cool Thing, Poetry Editor, "Web" Dip

So, a really cool thing happened to me last night.  I went with a friend to a bonfire.  This bonfire was hosted by the managing editor of Passages North, the university's literary magazine.  It was a wonderful night of s'mores and chips and Milky Way candy bars.  Lots of grad students and creative writing teachers in attendance.

As I was eating my first of several Milky Ways, Jen, the managing editor/host (and a sweet, wonderful person to boot), said, "So, Marty, would you be my poetry editor?"

The current poetry editor for PN (and another great friend) is retiring.  I knew that was happening.  I've been the senior poetry editor at the magazine for the last three years.  It's been a great time.  I've had a hand in publishing a lot of great poetry, including work by Donald Hall and Norman Dubie.

I was humbled and thrilled by Jen's offer, and I accepted it.  Of course.  I'm not an idiot.  In the fall, I will officially be the Poetry Editor of Passages North.  I guess my title right now would be Poetry Editor-elect.  Or something like that.

My question for the Good Book of E. B. White this evening is:

Will I be a good Poetry Editor of PN?

And the answer from Charlotte is:

"Special announcement!" said the loud speaker in a pompous voice.  "The management of the Fair takes great pleasure in presenting Mr. Homer L. Zuckerman and his famous pig.  The truck bearing this extraordinary animal is now approaching the infield.  Kindly stand back and give the truck room to proceed!  In a few moments the pig will be unloaded in the special judging ring in front of the grandstand, where a special award will be made.  Will the crowd please make way and let the truck pass.  Thank you."

Well, there you have it.  If a pig can get a special award, Saint Marty can surely hold his own as Poetry Editor.  Even if Charlotte's not around to help with the proofreading.

Seal of Approval