November 14: Restaurant at the End of the Universe, Perfectly Happy Lives, Christmas Every Day

"Okay, baby, hold tight," said Zaphod.  "We'll take in a quick bite at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe."

If you read my post from yesterday, you probably know that I was not having a good night.  I'm worried about my friend and where life is going to take her.  Sometimes, things work out, and sometimes you end up sitting alone at an empty table in the Restaurant at the End of the Universe, trying figure out how things went so wrong.  Having seen my friend go through the cycle of addiction and recovery several times, I kind of know how things are probably going to end, and it ain't "happily ever after."

I have a second friend whose voice is playing in my head right now.  This friend is telling me, "You can only control your actions.  You can't control what anyone else does."  That is certainly true.  I know that.  This self awareness doesn't make the situation any easier to deal with.  In fact, it sort of makes it a little worse because it takes away any sense of power I like to believe I possess.  I feel better laboring under the illusion/delusion that I have at least a little control over the outcome of my friend's choices.  I don't, but I like to pretend that I do.

I wish everyone could live perfectly happy lives, all the time, but that's sort of like wishing it was Christmas every day.  As my daughter learned long ago in Elmo Saves Christmas, Christmas every day is a terrible idea.  It would mean that Christmas would become ordinary as corn.  Nothing special.  Just another square to X off the calendar.  That's it.

My life has never been perfectly happy.  (I don't know a single person who can make this claim.)  Perfection is an illusion.  Happiness seems like an illusion, as well.  The best I can do on some days is be happy I didn't call anyone a "moron" or any of its variations--"fucking moron" or "brain-dead fucking moron" or (one of my favorites) "fuckcheese" (which implies the state of moronhood).

Happiness, in comparison, is a state of complete contentment.  Nothing to want.  Nothing to worry about.  Just inner calm and peace.  I don't know how to obtain this state at the moment.  (Right about here, my second friend, of the "You can't control what anyone else does," is rolling her eyes at me while she reads this post.  Why?  Because that friend believes happiness comes from complete surrender to God's will, or, as she would phrase it, "Giving it up to your Higher Power.") 

I had a session with my therapist this evening.  I spoke with her about happiness and control and my addict friend.  My therapist said a lot of things to me, about my need for control and the power of addiction.  At the end of our hour, she said to me, "Just take it one day or hour or minute at a time.  Control the things you can, and lift the other things up."  Translation:  you only control you, and the rest is up to God.

So, God's been knocking quite a bit on my front door today, sending me the same message, over and over and over:  surrender and submit.

Saint Marty is waving his white flag this evening.

July 26: Danced About Four Numbers, Open Windows, Fairy Tale Friday

We danced about four numbers.  In between numbers she's funny as hell.  She stays right in position.  She won't even talk or anything.  You both have to stay right in position and wait for the orchestra to start playing again.  That kills me.  You're not supposed to laugh or anything, either.

Anyway, we danced about four numbers, and then I turned off the radio.  Old Phoebe jumped back in bed and got under the covers.  "I'm improving, aren't I?" she asked me.

Holden has a good moment here.  One of the few good moments of the novel.  And, no surprise, his sister, Phoebe, is the reason he's happy.  Phoebe makes Holden forget his problems.  He's still been kicked out of school.  He's still incredibly depressed over his younger brother's death.  He's still alienated from his parents.  And, yet, he's dancing.  He's found some joy.  He's found an open window.

Last night, I wrote about all the doors that have been closing in my life recently.  I was a little frustrated.  I've been looking for some way to overcome my frustration.  An open window to fly through, if you will.  Instead, I've been looking through the windows at the scenery.  Pretty trees.  Beautiful seascapes.  No way to get to them.

I went to a therapy appointment today with my wife.  I talked about the doors, the windows.  My therapist said something that really hit home:  "Perhaps you're at the wrong window."  I've had an idea of what window I want to see opened.  I applied for a job at the university, and the view from that window looked damn good.  I wanted that window to open.  It didn't.  However, while I was standing with my nose pressed against the glass, I wasn't looking at any other window around me.

Yes, I'm doing what I always do.  I try to control situations that I have no control over.  I don't like feeling powerless.  My therapist gently nudged me in the direction of other windows, other opportunities, that might be coming my way.  She suggested I try a little window shopping, and I'm going to try to take her advice to heart.

Speaking of windows, I have a little fairy tale to share with you.

Once upon a time, a man named Montel lived in a cottage by the sea.  Montel was a gifted painter, but he only painted one thing.  Every day, Montel set his easel at the same window and painted the same seascape, over and over.  He thought it was the most beautiful view in the world.

For a while, the people of the kingdom loved Montel's paintings.  They would travel hundreds of miles to purchase one from him.  Eventually, though, customers stopped showing up at his door.  Nobody wanted to purchase another painting of the same seascape.  Art critics started saying that Montel was a one-hit wonder, like Billy Ray Cyrus.  They started calling his paintings "Achy Breaky Breakers."

One morning, as Montel was setting up his easel at his window, the Blue Whale Fairy appeared in the sea before him.  "Montel," the whale said, flipping his tale, "you should paint the view from your upstairs window today."

Montel shook his head,  "No," he said, "this window gives me the best light and the best perspective.  It's perfect."

"But--" the Blue Whale Fairy said.

"Go peddle your fish some place else," Montel said.  "I'm not changing windows."

The Blue Whale Fairy shook his head and swam away.

Later that morning, as Montel was sitting at his window painting, a tidal wave swept in from the sea.  Montel drowned, and his body was swept away.

In the days following the tidal wave, Montel's paintings began selling for millions of dollars.

Moral of the story:  don't live by the sea.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Don't mess with the Blue Whale Fairy

January 15: Screwballs, Saint Arnold Janssen, Missionary

We got to the Edmont Hotel, and I checked in.  I'd put on my red hunting cap when I was in the cab, just for the hell of it, but I took it off before I checked in.  I didn't want to look like a screwball or something.  Which is really ironic.  I didn't know then that the goddam hotel was full of perverts and morons.  Screwballs all over the place.

The most ironic thing about this passage is that Holden is probably the most messed up person at the Edmont.  He's depressed, angry, manipulative, and lost.  Basically, he's a teenager.  At this point in the book, he's left Pencey, the school he's just been expelled from, and he's on his way to New York with a vague plan of taking a vacation before he returns home to face his parents.

I think adults react differently to Holden's story than young people do.  I remember really identifying with him as a kid, wanting to be his friend.  When I read the book now, as the father of a twelve-year-old girl and four-year-old boy, I want him to get his crap together.  If Holden were my son, I'd send him to military school or something.  Granted, he's troubled, but he needs to use some goddam common sense.

Of course, that's not a very generous attitude.  I should feel some compassion for him.  He's grieving the death of his little brother.  He has parents who don't know what to do with him, and most of the other adults in his life simply want to lecture him about responsibility.  I know that's what I'd do if he were my son.  I've already had a few of those "responsibility" talks with my daughter.  Holden is floundering, and I want to slap him upside the head.  I guess I'd make a terrible therapist.  Or saint.

Today is the feast day of Arnold Janssen, who was born in Goch, Germany, in 1837.  At around the age of 24, Arnold became a priest and taught science for twelve years.  That's right, a priest/saint who taught science.  Believe it or not, science and religion are not mutually exclusive.  In fact, for a lot of scientists and priests, the two go hand-in-hand.  But Father Arnold wasn't just a scientist.  He was also a magazine editor.  He edited a journal about the missionary work of the Church.  This guy was a true Renaissance man.  Eventually, he started the Society of the Divine Word, and its members became missionaries in Toga, New Guinea, North America, Japan, and Paraguay.

Arnold Janssen puts all of us to shame.  His simple life of science and faith changed the world, spreading charity and love across the globe.  Saints have this annoying habit of making me feel inadequate.  Saint Arnold Janssen in no exception.  I sit at my computer and complain about having to wake up before dawn.  I bitch about how tired I am.  I watch the clock and dream about having a few minutes to read a Stephen King novel.  I sound like the most shallow person alive.  I'm one of Holden's phony bastards.  When he was my age, Arnold Janssen was organizing societies to educate children in Third World countries.  Compared to him, I'm Homer Simpson.

I know I shouldn't compare myself to a saint.  It's a good way to batter my self esteem.  I simply need to be the best person I can be, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day.

Saint Marty is trying to be a good person today, even if he would rather be at home, in his pajamas, watching reruns of M*A*S*H.  And slapping the hell out of Holden.

This guy isn't good for my self esteem