January 19: Too Wrapped Up in Myself, Self-Absorption, Honors Band

Ford Prefect has just announced to the customers of the Horse and Groom that the world is about to end in ten minutes . . .

"Ford," said Arthur, "would you please tell me what the hell is going on?"

"Drink up," said Ford, "you've got three pints to get through."

"Three pints?" said Arthur.  "At lunchtime?"

The man next to Ford grinned and nodded happily.  Ford ignored him.  He said, "Time is an illusion.  Lunchtime doubly so."

"Very deep," said Arthur, "you should send that in to the Reader's Digest.  They've got a place for people like you."

"Drink up."

"Why three pints all of a sudden?"

"Muscle relaxant, you'll need it."

"Muscle relaxant?"

"Muscle relaxant."

Arthur stared into his beer.

"Did I do anything wrong today," he said, "or has the world always been like this and I've been too wrapped up in myself to notice?"

I often feel like Arthur does here.  Ask myself the same question:  Have I been too wrapped up in myself to notice things going on in the world?

For example, I've been talking a lot about my trip to Disney World.  Posting pictures.  Writing blog posts.  Whining about how cold it is in the Upper Peninsula versus Orlando, how tired I am at work, how I've been coughing interestingly-colored things up from my lungs.  (For those of you that just ate, I apologize for that last one.)  In short, I've been pretty pretty self-absorbed.

Meanwhile, terrible things are going on in my country.  Mr. Trump has shut down the government, furloughed thousands of people without pay, and is holding the American people hostage because of his ego.  If it goes on much longer, these federal employees are going to start losing their cars and homes and medical insurance.  Meanwhile, all the politicians are collecting their paychecks, going out to restaurants, driving their nice cars, flying home for the weekend.

There are people who are homeless, hungry, without hope.  In other countries, there are refugees living in tents in the middle of winter, not sure where their next meal is coming from.  People living under ruthless dictators (take note, citizens of the United States) who take away civil rights, hold "elections," bully and conspire to stay in power, disenfranchise entire populations of people because of skin color or religion or nationality or gender or sexual orientation.

The planet is dying.  Polar ice is melting at an alarming rate.  Temperatures are rising.  And we are not doing enough to slow down, halt, or reverse this process.  We still rely too much on fossil fuels.  Drill for oil.  Decimate coastline and forests for profit.  Deny empirical, scientific facts because they are inconvenient and require us to change the way we live.

I could go on, but you get the idea.  I don't think I'm alone in my self-absorption.  It's easy to walk around with a kind of tunnel vision, especially if you're struggling to pay bills or stay healthy or remain employed.  Injustices abound, but, unless those injustices are directed against myself or someone I care about, I worry more about the next season of American Horror Story.

Today is the third annual Women's March in the United States.  Men and women all across the country are rallying together for women's rights, gender equality. It's a day not to be self-absorbed.  To think about the bigger picture.  To stand up against social and political injustices.  There's a Women's March in a city close to me.  Hundreds of people gathering in solidarity.

And what am I doing?  I'm driving a couple hours to see my daughter play her last Honors Band concert.  (At least, that's the plan.  She's been throwing up all morning long during rehearsals, but she's determined to stay and perform.)  I'm not sure if that counts as being self-absorbed.  I like to think that I'm supporting my daughter become a confident, accomplished young woman.  That counts, I hope.

Saint Marty is trying to make the world a better place, in his own whiny, self-absorbed way.

June 13: A Bum, Sick Daughter, Kindness and Patience

The visitor from outer space made a gift to Earth of a new Gospel.  In it, Jesus really was a nobody, and a pain in the neck to a lot of people with better connections than he had.  He still got to say all the lovely and puzzling things he said in the other Gospels.

So the people amused themselves one day by nailing him to a cross and planting the cross in the ground.  There couldn't possibly be any repercussions, the lynchers thought.  The reader would have to think that, too, since the new Gospel hammered home again and again what a nobody Jesus was.

And then, just before the nobody died, the heavens opened up, and there was thunder and lightning.  The voice of God came crashing down.  He told the people that he was adopting the bum as his son, giving him the full powers and privileges of The Son of the Creator of the Universe throughout all eternity.  God said this:  From this moment on, He will punish horribly anybody who torments a bum who has no connections!

I kind of like the Gospel of the visitor from outer space.  It really does fall in line with the other Gospels, in a way.  The Gospel of Matthew says, "Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me."  So, basically, anything that is done to a bum or homeless person is done to Christ/God.  It's what my kids are taught in school, too.  Treat others the way you want to be treated.  It's all about spreading kindness throughout the world.

It has been a long day or so, but my wife has been covered with so much kindness.  So much prayer and good will.  I spoke with her this morning, and she had a rough night.  Not really feeling the greatest this morning, either.  But, if all goes well, she will be discharged later this afternoon.  That's the plan, anyway. 

I spent the morning at the doctor's office with my daughter, who has developed what I thought was strep throat.  Turns out that it's not strep, but the doctor put her on antibiotics because of the severity of the infection.  She's lying down now, and I'm waiting to pick up the prescription for her from the pharmacy.

So, I am the caretaker for two people now.  I don't mind.  The word of the day is going to be "kindness."  Maybe "patience," too.  At the moment, I am running short on patience, because the doctor has not called in my daughter's prescription yet.  It's throwing a monkey wrench in my plans for this morning.  It was supposed to be simple:  One, take my daughter to the doctor.  Two, pick up my daughter's medicine.  Three, go to the hospital to pick up my wife.  Simple.

However, as with anything in life, it's never simple.  So, I am chanting my mantra:  kindness and patience, kindness and patience, kindness and patience.

Saint Marty is thankful today for kindness and patience.

December 14: Going to Puke, Sick Daughter, No New Anything

While I was walking up the stairs, though, all of a sudden I thought I was going to puke again.  Only I didn't.  I sat down for a second, and then I felt better...

Holden gets really sick at the end of Catcher.  He's been wandering around New York City in the middle of December, sitting in Central Park in the middle of the night, sleeping in bus terminals.  He can barely walk at the conclusion of the book.

My daughter is sick today.  I think she has the same thing my son had yesterday.  She's been lying in bed all day with a bucket.  She hasn't thrown up at all.  She's too darn stubborn to do that, even though she would feel so much better if she did.  My son, yesterday after he vomited, ate his lunch and a few white fudge-covered Oreos.  My daughter, in contrast, prefers to remain nauseous.  What can I say?  She's a teenager.

I have no new poem or new cartoon for you guys tonight.  I have not been lazy today.  On the contrary, I've been quite busy.  I took my son to a Christmas party this morning so he could sit on Santa's lap and ask for gifts I can't afford to buy him.  Then this afternoon, I worked on my house again with my sister-in-law.  We cleaned bookshelves, moved furniture, talked about converting the attic into a bedroom for my daughter.  And then, after I finished at home, I had to go to mass this evening and play the pipe organ,

I'm beat, and I don't really have anything to show for it.  My house looks great, and I have a bag of candy bars my son got from Santa.  I need to work on my Christmas poem, and I need to write out my Christmas cards.  I also need to take a picture of my kids in their Christmas outfits tomorrow.

Oh, yeah, my kids have a Christmas program at church in the morning.  And then a birthday party for my daughter, and then a Christmas concert in the evening.

No wonder Saint Marty has no new anything this evening.

My son wants world peace and a Nintendo 3DS (whatever the hell that is)

March 23: Pneumonia, Anne Lamott, "Help, Thanks, Wow," New Cartoon

Finally, I sat down on this bench, where it wasn't so goddam dark.  Boy, I was still shivering like a bastard, and the back of my hair, even though I had my hunting hat on, was sort of full of little hunks of ice.  That worried me.  I thought probably I'd get pneumonia and die...

Near the end of The Catcher in the Rye, Holden gets pretty sick.  He's been wandering around New York City in December, drinking quite a bit.  By the time he gets to the carrousel with Phoebe, he's pretty much at rock bottom, physically and mentally.


My daughter has been ill since Wednesday.  Low fever.  Tired all the time.  She missed school Thursday and Friday, including the school dance.  I know she's not feeling well.  It's Saturday, and she's too sick to go to her dance lesson.  In about twenty minutes, I have to take her to a doctor's appointment.  My sisters, the daughters of doom, think she has mono.  I do know there is a kid in my four-year-old son's class who has chicken pox.  Two of the symptoms of chicken pox--low grade fever, lethargy.  My daughter isn't covered in red spots.  Yet.

Writer Anne Lamott recently released a book titled Help, Thanks, Wow:  the Three Essential Prayers.  In the Prelude to the book, she says,

I do not know much about God and prayer, but I have come to believe, over the past twenty-five years, that there's something to be said about keeping prayer simple.

Help.  Thanks.  Wow.

Basically, she says that all prayer boils down to these three principles.  First, help.  That's when you reach the end of your rope and don't have any where to turn.  You raise your eyes to God and say, "Help me, God.  Help me, help me, help me."  Second, thanks.  That's when something good happens to you, whether it's expected or unexpected.  Then, you breathe a sigh of relief and say, "Thanks, God, for the toast I had for breakfast" or "Thanks, God, my kid doesn't have chicken pox."  Last, there's wow.  That's when you're totally in awe of something God has done.  You kind of sit back, shake your head with a little smile, and say, "Wow, God, that snowstorm was incredible" or "Wow, that pizza was really good."  Prayer is that simple, Lamott says.  That easy.


At the end of her book, Lamott writes,

More than anything, prayer helps me get my sense of humor back.  It brings me back to my heart, from the treacherous swamp of my mind.  It brings me back to the now, to the holy moment, whether that means watching candles float on the Ganges or bending down in my front yard to study a lavish dandelion, delicate as a Spirograph drawing, that looks like its very own galaxy.  Amen, amen, amen!

Saint Marty is going to the doctor this morning with "help" in his heart.  He hopes he can quickly progress to "thanks" and "wow."  And then amen.

Confessions of Saint Marty

March 21: Sick Daughter, Sick Worry, Sick and Tired

Yes, my daughter stayed home today from school, as I said in my first post.  She went to the doctor and was diagnosed with basically the same illness my son has/had.  However, she did get her makeup and hair done, and she went to her ballet pictures.  She'll probably go to choir practice tonight, as well.

Ever since my wife lost her job on Monday, I've been experiencing these bouts of what I would call sick worry.  It's where I start thinking about bills and money and debt so much that I feel like I'm going to vomit.  That's been happening several times a day to me.  I know God has a plan in all this crap.  I just hope His plan isn't for me and my family to live in a refrigerator box this summer.  I noticed last night that the house I was dreaming of buying had a "SOLD" sign on it.  That thoroughly depressed me.

I guess I'm just sick and tired of being worried and constantly stressed.  If I could summon up even one percent of an actual saint's faith and trust in God, I think I would be a lot happier right now.  However, I'm just a saint in training.  An apprentice saint, if you will.  At the moment, I don't have any of the saint mojo.  I'm lucky if, when I say the name of God, I don't immediately follow it up with "dammit."

Saint Marty has a lot of work to do.  Maybe he should shave his head and take a vow of poverty.  It wouldn't be that much of a change for him.

I don't deserve to wear this hat

October 28: Vampires, Antibiotic, and Christmas

Book Club was great last night.  The book for October was Seth Grahame-Smith’s Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter.  It’s a silly read.  Grahame-Smith is kind of a genius at mashing together actual historical events with his fictional yarn to create a sense of reality that is compelling, in a weird, Da Vinci Code kind of way.  Plus, he’s making a mint off his little trick.  Everybody in my book club who read it really enjoyed it.  One lady was surprised she actually read it all the way through.  Note:  I’m refraining from putting on my elitist, English professor persona and writing disparaging criticisms.  Sometimes, I like to just have fun when I read, too.

Well, my daughter is on an antibiotic and was still feeling pretty punky last night.  I’m hoping the medicine will start working its magic by this morning so she can at least go to her dance class this afternoon.  Plus, we have dinner with our friends tonight, as well.  I made the brownie trifle for the occasion after I cleaned up from the book club yesterday.  We’ll see how the day pans out.

I will be glad to have a few days off.  I’m tired of people complaining around me in the office.  I just had to put my iPod earbuds in again and crank up the Christmas music because there’s a really negative person behind me, going through a laundry list of what’s wrong with the world.  I have a choice.  I can either join the bitch session or ignore it.  I’m choosing the latter.  Hence, Bing Crosby is singing “White Christmas” to me right now.

I have a few writing projects I need to get started on pretty soon.  The local public radio station at the university asks local writers to read original holiday reflections every year.  I’m sure the call is going to be coming for that pretty soon, so I have to work on something Advent-ish or Christmas-ish.  Then I have to write my annual Christmas poem; I give framed copies of the poem as presents to our close friends.  Currently, I don’t have any ideas for either of those projects.  Maybe I can combine them, write an essay about writing a Christmas poem.  That might be interesting.  I kind of like that idea.

You’ve heard it here first, disciples.  Now, Saint Marty just needs to get off his metaphorical ass and do some writing.

Not as bad as I thought it was going to be

October 27: Dissecting Penelope, New Poem, Sick Kid

It has been a busy morning, full of the kind of work that makes time pass quickly.  It’s almost noon, and I don’t know how the hours have escaped me.  My daughter has called me a couple of times to cry in my ear, tell me how thirsty she is.  It hurts to swallow, Daddy, she says. I can’t drink.  I really think she has strep throat.  I hate feeling this powerless. I want to be the person who swoops in and makes her feel instantly better.  I’m used to being that person.  The problem-solver.  Daddy-god.

I have to somehow get her healthy before Halloween.  It would be really good if I can get her better by tomorrow afternoon.  I hate for her to miss dance classes.  She looks forward to them so much.  And then, tomorrow night, we’re supposed to have dinner with some friends.  They’re cooking Indian food, and we’re bringing dessert.  Saturday, she has another dance class.  Then, of course, Monday is trick-or-treat day.  She’s been dying to wear her Little Red Riding Hood costume.  I shelled out $30 for her Little Red Riding Hood shoes alone.  She has to get better by tomorrow, or it messes up my, ummmmm, I mean, her life.

Okay, I’m just getting myself in trouble here.

Poem.  I have a new poem for you.  It’s sort of Halloween-ish.  It’s got a corpse in it.  It’s got a corpse and dissection.  So, it’s sort of like Frankenstein.  Or Hannibal Lecter.  Have you forgotten how self-centered I sounded a little while ago?  Not yet?  Hmmmmmmm.

Saint Marty’s just going to cut his losses and sign off.

Dissecting Penelope

We named her Penelope, after Odysseus’s  wife,

Because we liked the story of her fooling

All those guys hungry for her rosy bod,

Making them wait, sunrise to sunset,

For years as she braided, unbraided

Their fleshy need, over and over,

Held their greedy cock crows in check.

We skinned our Penelope the first day

Of the semester, stripped off her hide

The way I imagined Davy Crockett pelted

Beaver or raccoon, the occasional bear.

We started at her neck, sliced a delicate

Ring around it, then peeled the fur

Back, slow as an ice age, scraping

With a scalpel so the pink

Derma remained perfect, smooth

As birth.  We made similar cuts

Around her paws, tail, and anus,

Left small patches of her dark hair,

So that, at the end of the class period,

The muscles of her torso and legs

Gleamed under the fluorescent lights

Like a turkey on Thanksgiving morning.

My lab partners and I lifted Penelope,

Danced her across the table, made jokes

About shaved pussy, splayed her

Legs open like the girls in Penthouse.

When the bell rang, we packed her

In a box, wrote our names on it,

Her name on it, in black marker.

Put her in the storage room,

The place we dubbed the cathouse.

Every day, for the next three months,

We hauled Penelope out, pulled her

Apart, piece by piece, labeling,

Cataloging.  When we got to her womb,

Made the cut, we found them.

Three unborn kittens, alien creatures,

Amorphous as Playdough.  We scooped

Them out, laid them in front of us.

Stared at their unformed faces.

For the first time that year,

We were silent, as if we had just

Unearthed Tutankhamun or discovered

A Dead Sea Scroll.  Something ancient,

Marked with divine knowledge

About creation or life, an almost

Nativity in our teenaged hands.

I wanted to make a comment about

Our promiscuous feline, perhaps

Dig a condom out of my wallet, jam

It into her chest cavity, give a lecture

About safe sex and disease.  Instead,

We took the kittens, tucked them back

Inside Penelope without a word, covered

Them with membrane and tissue,

Left them there, the way my mother

Left pans of bread dough overnight,

To bubble, leaven, rise into Sunday

Morning.  Become something

Fermented, full of the smell of yeast.

Uncooked and waiting, always waiting,

For Penelope to finish her burial shroud.

I'm not going to use a picture of cat dissection

April 18: Language Poems, Psalm 41, Six More To Go

I don't know if I have given my opinion of language poems in my blog before.  I just did a search of my labels to see if "language poems" was there.  It wasn't.  Therefore, I have to assume that this topic has never come up before, which really surprises me.  I have very strong opinions on the subject.  I guess I'll just give you an idea of where I stand on the current poetry in vogue with most literary magazines:  language poetry.  Here goes...

It sucks.

That being said, in Best American Poetry 2010, there was a language poem by Sharon Olds that I absolutely loved.  There are always exceptions to the rule.  On the whole, I can't stand poems that simply are trying to be clever deconstructions of words, language, or syntax.  Those kinds of poems lack a certain heft which I find in the poems that I like.  If the entire aim of a poem is to confound expectations, create confusion, I don't really care to read it.  Perhaps it's old school, but I actually expect poetry to communicate something.  Language is a vehicle to bring people together--poet and reader, friend and friend, husband and wife, wife and son.  Not drive them apart.

OK, I'm stepping down off my soap box now.  And, having said what I just said, my psalm today is a language poem, or my version of a language poem (which is very similar to Sharon Olds' version).  I'm attempting to be playful with language but also reach some emotional depth.  That is my intention, anyway.  The idea for this poem came to me yesterday when I spoke with my Cajun friend about the Olds poem.  I thought I'd try to experiment a little.  The result is below.

My daughter is home sick today.  Sore throat.  She's been sick all weekend.  My wife took her to the doctor this morning.  I have to pick up antibiotic after work for her.  Right now, my daughter is having a meltdown because of all the homework she has to complete before she returns to school tomorrow.  I believe her exact words to me were, "WHAT?!!  THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE!"  Then she disappeared into the bowels of her room, and my wife hasn't seen her since.  Being a fourth grader is hard work.

Forty-one poems down, six to go.  The end is in sight.

Saint Marty hopes you enjoy this language poem.  If you don't, you can join his daughter in her bedroom, sulking and crying.

Psalm 41:  Holy Week

I am weak this Holy week,
Tired of holes in my life,
My weaknesses apparent, transparent
In the weeks of unpaid cable, electric bills,
Holes in my savings account, zeros
Piled high as the National Debt Ceiling.
Nonillion.  Decillion.  Octodecillion.
Exotic terms for emptiness as great
As snowfall in Thompson Pass, Alaska,
Where white mounts to such levels
It can’t be measured.  Certain
Places celebrate hole-ness.  Jackson Hole.
Hole in the Wall.  Bully Hole Bottom.
The universe has black holes,
Where weak matter collapses, swirls
To gravity, density, infinity.  Musicians
Play whole notes.  Mathematicians count
Whole numbers.  My son drinks whole
Milk.  Thomas had such weak faith
He wouldn’t believe until he put
His fingers through the holes
In Christ’s palms, in His side.
Holy weakness.  Or weakly whole.
This whole morning, I’ve chased white
Rabbits into holes, found myself staring
At mirrors, seen myself whole, in parts,
A weak reflection, an apparition.
I'm a 98-pound-weakling on the road
To Golgotha,  Christ comes along,
Kicks sand in my eyes
With His holy feet.

Wholly Weak