August 2: Bad Mood, "Cowboys & Aliens," More Bad Mood

When I originally started this blog, I meant to write about my attempt to become a better person.  A saint.  All the saints I read about as a child always seemed so calm and relaxed and happy, even as they were being burned alive, disemboweled, or fed to hungry bears.  Even the portraits of saints, with their other-worldly peace, made me want to take whatever they were on--the Holy Spirit or Valium or Xanax.  This blog was my attempt to reach toward heaven, in a way.

Well, after a little over a year-and-a-half, I'm just as screwed up, cranky, and petty as I was when I started.  Today proves that point.  I woke up in a terminally bad mood, and, for most of the day, I have stayed in a terminally bad mood.  This state has nothing to do with the fact that my friend and coworker got an iPad2 yesterday for her birthday.  (I'm happy for her.  Really, I am.  Dammit, I'm happy.)  It has nothing to do with the fact that I didn't win that chapbook contest a little while ago.  (My entry fee for the contest entitles me to a copy of the winning chapbook.  I can hardly wait to read what a piece of crap the winning book really is compared to my chapbook.)  It has nothing to do with the fact that my daughter is away at camp for a week.  (I'm sure she's absolutely miserable without me.)  In fact, I don't know why I'm in such a bad mood. 

I am sure that saints never allow themselves to wallow in self-pity, which has pretty much been my modus operandi all day long.  Actually, it started last night when my wife told me she was having car problems and I started imagining the cost of the impending repair.  I've been in a nose-dive ever since.

Tonight, my wife and I are meeting some friends for drinks and a movie.  We're going to see "Cowboys & Aliens" with Harrison Ford.  I persuaded my friend from the university to attend by telling him it was a postmodern, deconstructionist version of the American western.  He said he would go if Derrida got his ass kicked.  I told him Derrida might be disguised as a really ugly alien or Daniel Craig, but he would get a thorough ass-kicking.

I wish I could say that, after a year of trying to be more saint-like, I feel the presence of God more in my life.  I don't.  I wish I could say I can perform tiny miracles now (cure a hangnail or ingrown hair).  I can't.  I wish I could say my life is more manageable.  It isn't. 

What I have learned, over 259 posts, is that I'm not alone.  I have friends and family, people who care about me.  I have a love of poetry and writing, a passion.  And I know that prayers can be answered (my friend's biopsy result yesterday is proof of that).  Faith.

I may be in a terminally bad mood today.  I'm human.  Just like every other saint I've read about or written of.  Saints are flawed.  They're crabby.  They're self-centered.  Sad.  Angry.  Happy.  Joyful.  Jealous.  They're everything I am.  They're everything I can become.

Saint Marty isn't giving up hope.

August 2: Overslept

Yes, I turned off the alarm this morning and promptly fell back asleep.  I woke up half an hour later, looked at the clock, and had a holy-shit moment.  If you don't know what that is, it's when you look at the clock, realize how late it is, sit up so fast it makes you dizzy, and say loudly, "Holy shit!"

I was at work within a half hour, but, on mornings like these, I know I'm going to feel about three steps behind all day long.  I hate oversleeping.

I did get my poems ready for submission to the magazine Crazyhorse yesterday, and then I found out they no longer read all year long.  They only accept electronic submissions between September 1 and May 31.  I was a little pissed, but I wrote my cover letter anyway.  On September 1, the people at Crazyhorse are going to get a submission very early in the morning.

Well, that's about it for this morning.  I promise to be less rushed this afternoon.

Saint Marty is still in "Holy Shit!" mode.

This picture says it all

August 1: Samuel Z. Arkoff, Empire of the Ants, New Poem

My coworker just left for the day.  Before she left, her husband dropped off her birthday present.  An iPad 2.  Very nice.  Just what she wanted.  I thought I was going to be quite jealous.  However, at the moment, I don't feel anything.  I'm not sure if my reaction means I'm numb, indifferent, or so consumed with envy I've gone into shock.  But my coworker left with a moony expression on her face.  I'm sure she's going to be spending the rest of the day playing with her new toy.

This morning, one of my best friends found out the results of a biopsy which she had performed on Thursday.  The biopsy was negative.  She was quite worried because her brother died of melanoma at a fairly young age.  I've been praying for her all weekend, had a whole army of my friends praying for her, as well.  Nobody can tell me that prayers go unanswered.

This morning, I mailed a letter to my daughter at summer camp.  I know she's doing great, but I still can't help being worried about her.

I have a new poem today.  It's based on my experience battling ants in my house this summer.  Because the weather has been so hot this June and July, these annoying little insects have invaded my dwelling.  Nothing can get rid of them.  They disappear for a little while, only to reemerge in bigger numbers.  After work, I'm going to stop at Walmart to buy a new trash can for the kitchen.  Something with a lid.   I'm about ready to set the whole building on fire if this doesn't work.

My poem is also inspired by a cheap, Bert I. Gordon film produced by the great B-movie producer Samuel Z. Arkoff in the 1970s.  It starred Joan Collins (that should tell you something).  It was incredibly cheesy and wonderful.  It was about a colony of genetically mutated ants that tried to take over the world.

A great, B-movie from Samuel Z. Arkoff

Throw in some Greek myth, and you have the ingredients for today's poem.

Saint Marty's headed to Walmart now.

Empire of the Ants

I remember the film vaguely:

Joan Collins battled an army

Of mutated ants, big as African

Rhinos, things still driven by insectile

Instinct to gather food, store it

For cold months, for a ravenous

Queen and her blind larvae.

Ants swarmed schools, houses, boats,

Like Greeks laying siege to Troy.

They carried off victims to tunnels,

Chambers of sand and decay,

Moved fast, in a perpetual state

Of urgency, because they somehow

Knew it was only a matter of time

Before Collins and her crew

Invented a magnifying glass

Big enough to fry thorax, antenna,

Wreak Armageddon, restore

The planet to its proper, human

Balance.  This summer, ants overrun

My house.  From a June and July

Filled with heat, drought, they find

Sanctuary in my cool kitchen,

The dust of sugar on counter,

Peach residue on bowl and rag.

In the mornings, I flip on lights,

Watch ants scatter like shadows

Across sink, floor, garbage can.

I press my thumb on stragglers,

Feel them curl, burst under

My pressure.  Most retreat until

Darkness returns, until they sense

Safety, like a crumb of brownie,

A core of apple, calling them out.

The way toxic waste called the mutants.

The way the horse called Trojans.

The way sirens called Ulysses,

Made the rocks soft, inviting,

Sweet as Penelope’s thighs.

Joan Collins making out with an ant

August 1: First Day of a New Month, Things to Do

Well, two months of the summer are done.  I've come to think of August as a "let-down" month, sort of like January.  July is always the busiest month of the summer, because of Independence Day.  In the Upper Peninsula, in the city of Negaunee (one city over from me), we celebrate Pioneer Days, with accompanying parade, fireworks, and drunken night on the town.  After that excitement, August just can't measure up, like January can't compare to the Christmas/Hanukkah of December.  It's a let-down, where you sit at home and wonder what happened to all the fun.

My son, chasing butterflies.  A good August activity.

Regardless of the tedium of this month, I still have things to accomplish today.  I have to mail a letter to my daughter at camp.  I have to submit more poems to publication.  And I have to write a new poem to post later.  I also have to call my coworkers from the Surgery Center where I work to remind them about the potluck we're having tomorrow.  Oh yeah, I have to cook something for the potluck tomorrow.  Then there's the normal answering phones, scheduling surgeries, and stomping out fires.

Shit, Saint Marty has a lot to do.