February 22: Toothless as Carp, Catching a Cold, Nyquil

The Germans and the dog were engaged in a military operation which had an amusingly self-explanatory name, a human enterprise which is seldom described in detail, whose name alone, when reported as news or history, gives many war enthusiasts a sort of post-coital satisfaction.  It is, in the imagination of combat's fans, the divinely listless loveplay that follows the orgasm of victory.  It is called "mopping up."

The dog, who had sounded so ferocious in the winter distances, was a female German shepherd.  She was shivering.  Her tail was between her legs.  She had been borrowed that morning from a farmer.  She had never been to war before.  She had no idea what game was being played.  Her name was Princess. 

Two of the Germans were boys in their early teens.  Two were ramshackle old men--droolers as toothless as carp.  They were irregulars, armed and clothed fragmentarily with junk taken from real soldiers who were newly dead.  So it goes.  They were farmers from just across the German border, not far away.

The Germans and dog that Billy and Roland encounter sound like they're barely soldiers, drafted into service despite their obvious military deficiencies.  They're too old.  Too young.  Too cold.  In the case of the dog, too domesticated.  And they are tired of war.

I am sitting in my office at the university, killing time before I have to pick up my daughter from her dance studio.  I sort of feel like the Germans that Vonnegut describes--tired and cold, ready to go home.  This morning, I started sneezing.  The sneezing progressed to an alternating runny nose/stuffed-up nose.  Now, my head feels like it's about to explode.

My whole family has been battling this virus.  My wife had strep throat a couple weeks ago.  My daughter was home sick for three days last week.  The previous week, my son was home for a couple of days.  I guess it's my turn.  I thought that I had dodged this particular snotty bullet.  It appears that I have not.

That has not stopped me, however, from being fairly productive, work-wise, today.  These two blog posts are the last things that I have to accomplish.  Then, I can just sit, read my book, and leak mucus from my nose.  I have not done anything Poet Laureate-ish today.  Yesterday, I had an interview with a reporter from the local newspaper.

I had intentions of getting more done, but my mind is a little fogged tonight.  I may shoot a couple of e-mails to publicize a reading that I'm doing next Tuesday evening.  That's about all that I have the energy for.  Aside from that, I'm curling up with a bottle of Nyquil when I get home.

Saint Marty is thankful for Kleenex.

June 27: English Sparrow, Strep Throat, Love Letter to the World

Today, I am going to open up my copy of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek to a random passage and write a gratitude post about it: 

On my way home, every bird I saw had something in its mouth.  A male English sparrow, his mouth stuffed, was hopping in and out of an old nest in a bare tree, and sloshing around in its bottom.   A robin on red alert in the grass, trailing half a worm from its bill, bobbed three steps and straightened up, performing unawares the universal robin trick.  A mockingbird flew by with a red berry in its beak, the berry flashed in the sun and glowed like a coal from some forge or cauldron of the gods.

Well, sparrows and robins and mockingbirds.  Nests.  Red berries glowing like embers from some divine Crock Pot.  Each creature in this passage is hopping or bobbing or swooping, mouths filled with food.  It's a passage that's bursting with life and abundance.

You know, I spend a lot of time talking about things I don't have.  Today, I'm going to focus on something that makes my life feel abundant:  writing.  One of the most peaceful moments of my day is when I sit down to type my daily blog post.  Author Anthony Doerr says, "A good journal entry ought to be a love letter to the world."  That's what a good post should be, too:  a love letter to something or someone.

Tonight, both of my children are packing for Bible camp.  My son is going as a camper.  My daughter is going as a camp counselor.  They're both pretty excited.  There have been a few bumps in the road today (my daughter was diagnosed this afternoon with strep throat--she's on antibiotics; the material for my online class wasn't uploaded properly, and I had to spend two hours figuring out the problem).  But those were minor distractions, and they have been resolved.

So, the abundance of my day is medicine for my daughter's sore throat.  My online class, which is providing extra income for the next month or so.   I have good kids who really love the Lord.  And I have a laptop on which to write this love letter to the world.  And I don't have to pay for said laptop; it's given to me by the university.

And Saint Marty has a comfortable bed that is calling to him.

May 9: Malawi, Poet of the Week, Tracy K. Smith, "The Good Life"

Compared to 99% of the world's population, I live a pretty good life.  Plenty of food to eat.  Fresh water to drink.  A house and warm clothes.   I own two cars and have two healthy kids.  I don't have to worry about things like dysentery or malaria.  And I make money.  Lots or money compared to citizens of Malawi or Burundi who subsist on $1.25 a day.

Some days, however, I need a George Bailey moment--a reminder that, despite all of my problems, I really have a wonderful life.  George had a second-class angel to help him out.  Me?  I've got poetry.  In particular, I have Tracy K. Smith.  Pulitzer Prize-winning writer. Poet of the Week.

Tonight, my son is sick.  He has strep throat.  Now, in a different country with different circumstances, my son's life might have been in jeopardy.  Instead, he's in bed, asleep, antibiotics filling his body.  He's going to wake up tomorrow morning, feeling better, ready to go on a field trip with his second grade class.

Saint Marty has a good life.  He's lucky.  Blessed. 

The Good Life

by:  Tracy K. Smith

When some people talk about money

They speak as if it were a mysterious lover

Who went out to buy milk and never

Came back, and it makes me nostalgic

For the years I lived on coffee and bread,

Hungry all the time, walking to work on payday

Like a woman journeying for water

From a village without a well, then living

One or two nights like everyone else

On roast chicken and red wine.

May 2: Early Start

I have to get my daughter up early tomorrow.  I'm not looking forward to it.  My daughter is thirteen-years-old and wakes up like a hungry grizzly after hibernation.  If I'm lucky, she won't even speak to me until she takes her shower.  If I'm not lucky, she will whine and scream when I rouse her.

She is feeling better today, with several doses of antibiotics in her system.  But she went to bed quickly tonight, which indicates that she's not 100% yet.  She would still be awake right now, diddling with her iPod, if she were completely healthy.

Wish Saint Marty luck tomorrow morning.  He's hoping not to lose any appendages.

Go ahead.  Wake her up.

May 2: To the Fair, Howell, Fairy Tale Road Trip

"Everybody in!" called Mr. Arable.  He started the motor.  The ladies climbed in beside him.  Mr. Zuckerman and Lurvy and Fern and Avery rode in back, hanging onto the sideboards.  The truck began to move ahead.  The geese cheered.  The children answered their cheer, and away everybody went to the Fair.

This edition of Saint Marty comes to you from Howell, Michigan, home of a Holiday Inn Express and the WiFi I am currently using.  We are not going to the Fair, like the Arables and Zuckermans.  We are here for another dance competition.  My daughter and her friends will be competing all day tomorrow, with very few breaks.  Considering that my daughter is currently recovering from strep throat, I have a feeling it's going to be a really long day for her.


The trip was fairly uneventful.  No major catastrophes, unless you count my five-year-old son asking "Are we there yet?" every five minutes.  I'm not exaggerating.  It was a cold, rainy journey, and I am sad to report that Howell is not much warmer than the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  I was hoping to be surrounded by spring.  Flowers.  Green grass.  Sunshine.  The only hint of spring I encountered was the smell of manure wafting across the fields of corn stubble.  That's it.  The only evidence of the beginning of May.  Cow shit.

Once upon a time, an adjunct English professor/itinerant saint named Marty went on a long road trip with his family.  On the trip, he encountered rainstorms and fog and a lot of roadkill.  When he got to his destination, he was so tired that he ordered pizza and went to bed.

Moral of the story:  Jet's Pizza is pretty damn good.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Saint Marty cooked tonight!

November 2: Old Phoebe, Old Poem, New Cartoon

Old Phoebe didn't say anything.  When she can't think of anything to say, she doesn't say a goddam word.

Holden says that about his little sister, Phoebe, who's mad at him for getting kicked out of school again.  I can say that about my twelve-year-old daughter, as well.  She is perfecting the teenage sulk.  She doesn't have it down cold yet.  I can still cajole her out of it with a few well-placed jokes or strange faces.

My daughter has been holed up in our house all day, recuperating from strep throat.  She's doing tons better now that she's been taking the antibiotics for over 24 hours.  I heard on the radio recently that some medical organization recommends no medicine for strep throat.  I guess the doctor is supposed to just look at his/her patient and say, "Suck it up."  I think that's a load of crap.

Anyway, I'm still working on my Christmas essay, so I'm giving you another old poem this evening.  However, I do have a new cartoon.

Saint Marty's going to watch The Lawrence Welk Show now.  Yeah, he's living the dream.

Bizarre Disease Keeps People
From Hearing Their Own Voices

Walt Whitman had it, couldn't hear his barbaric
Yawp over the rocking Atlantic surf.
His lines didn't beat his eardrums
To sound, the hammer and anvil still

In his gray head.  In the hospital wards,
He pressed his lips to the lips of dying
Soldiers, whispered his wordless love
For their fevered brows, boy cheeks, absent arms and legs.

Sitting naked in the sun, noiseless,
A spider in the dark green spears, he sang
His gossamer songs to the bright dew of dusk and dawn,
To the leaves of summer, breathless and tender.

And when the lilacs bloomed in his silver
Beard, he ate his tears in silence.

Confessions of Saint Marty

 

November 1: The Plague, Tina Kelley, "People Who Live Near the Hospital"

Yes, I have the plague in my house.  My daughter has strep throat, possibly mono.  My son has conjunctivitis in one eye, possibly two.  The school nurse sent three e-mail messages to parents this week.  The first was about strep.  The second was about conjunctivitis.  The third was about head lice.

Strep.  Check.

Conjunctivitis.  Check.

Head lice...Nit yet.  (Get it?)

I'm still healthy at the moment.  No guarantee that will continue.  But my eyes aren't oozing, and I can still swallow my kids' Halloween candy.

I have a poem from poet Tina Kelley that is very appropriate for my situation tonight.  It comes from her collection The Gospel of Galore.

Saint Marty's going to go take some Vitamin C and eat an apple now.

People Who Live Near the Hospital

Sick ones and survivors look down and see
real life going on, presumably unscarred,
the tricycle on the lawn, the garage door open,
the truck on the highway going under
the overpass, emerging on.

From the solarium window the scene below
looks fragile, cinematic and deaf,
a model railroad, an oasis of health,
the people there unknowingly blessed
by the wishes of those who wait.

A great book

November 1: So Damn Dizzy, Sick Kids, Fairy Tale fo All Saints

After I came out of the place where the mummies were, I had to go to the bathroom.  I sort of had diarrhea, if you want to know the truth.  I didn't mind the diarrhea part too much, but something else happened.  When I was coming out of the can, right before I got to the door, I sort of passed out.  I was lucky, though.  I mean I could've killed myself when I hit the floor, but all I did was sort of land on my side.  It was a funny thing, though.  I felt better after I passed out.  I really did.  My arm sort of hurt, from where I fell, but I didn't feel so damn dizzy any more.

Holden is one sick puppy by this time in the book.  He's probably got pneumonia.  He hasn't eaten anything substantial for a couple of days, and he's gotten really drunk at least once.  That doesn't even count the two or three packs of cigarettes he's smoked.  And he's on the verge of a nervous breakdown.  He's, to put it mildly, a hot mess.


The day after Halloween.  My daughter woke up complaining of a sore throat.  My wife took her to the doctor.  She has strep.  My son came home from school with a case of conjunctivitis.  Obviously, my plans for today have changed drastically.  My daughter is no longer going to a hair appointment or her dance lesson or an overnight birthday party.  My son is longer spending the night at his grandma's house.  Currently, I'm waiting for a phone call from my wife to go pick up prescriptions for my kids.  Like Holden, they are both hot messes right now.  They'll be better by tomorrow, thank goodness.

I'm in my office at the university at the moment.  It's quiet here.  Most people (faculty/staff/students) don't come to campus on Fridays.  I can usually get a lot of work done, including getting my blogging done.  I like my Friday afternoons.  No interruptions.  No distractions.  And it's the first day of November.  All Saints Day.  Halloween is a memory, and Thanksgiving and Christmas are fast approaching.  The year is quickly drawing to a close.  It hasn't been the greatest year of my life, but it hasn't been the worst, either.  It certainly could have gone a whole lot better.

Once upon a time, a traveling bard named Barney came to a little town called Hamlet.  Hamlet was so little it consisted of only three cottages.  In one cottage lived the Hamlet's baker.  In the second cottage lived the blacksmith.  In the third lived the sheriff.

Barney took out his mandolin, put his hat on the ground, and started to play and sing.

The baker, blacksmith, and sheriff came out of their homes to listen to Barney.  Barney sang songs about love and betrayal and death.  He even sang a few Lady Gaga tunes.  When he was done singing, he waited for Hamlet's residents to throw some money into his hat.  The three men didn't move.

"What's wrong with you?" Barney finally asked.  "Didn't you like my music?"

The three men nodded slowly.

"Then why don't you put some money in my cap to show your appreciation?"  Barney said.

The sheriff said, "Well, I was just wondering if you had a permit to put on a show in the town square."

The baker said, "I didn't know if you liked cinnamon rolls, which I just took out of my stove."

The blacksmith said, "And you don't have a horse."

Barney shook his head.  "I don't have a permit.  I'm allergic to cinnamon.  And I sold my horse two villages ago."

The sheriff said, "Well, then, you're going to have to move along, son."

"Don't I get anything for my performance today?"  Barney said.

The baker stepped forward and handed him two dead bugs.

"What are these?" Barney said.

"I found them on my windowsill," the baker said.

"Why would you give me two dead insects?" Barney said.

"We're trying to solve an argument," the blacksmith said.

"What's the argument?" Barney said.

"We want to know if these are two bees or not two bees," the sheriff said.

Moral of the story:  never stop in a town named Hamlet.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

That is the question

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