May 8: Long White Spine, Mother's Day, "Heart to Heart"

Santiago's fish gets admired . . . 

That afternoon there was a party of tourists at the Terrace and looking down in the water among the empty beer cans and dead barracudas a woman saw a great long white spine with a huge tail at the end that lifted and swung with the tide while the east wind blew a heavy steady sea outside the entrance to the harbour.

Mother's Day.  We went to church in the morning.  Our son went with us.  Then, we drove to a couple cemeteries to place flowers on the graves of my wife's mother and grandmother, my mother, and my sister.  First Mother's Day since my mother died at the end of October.  It was tougher than I thought it would be.

Had lunch with our kids.  KFC.  Played some games.  I made loaded baked potatoes for dinner.  Then I led a poetry workshop.  My wife loved every minute of her day.

Saint Marty's koan for tonight:  never judge a day by the size of a fish's skeleton.

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
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 7: Crying Again, Church Services, Nicolas Cage

Santiago admits his suffering . . . 

"Bring any of the papers of the time that I was gone," the old man said.

"You must get well fast for there is much that I can learn and you can teach me everything. How much did you suffer?"

"Plenty," the old man said.

"I'll bring the food and the papers," the boy said. "Rest well, old man. I will bring stuff from the drug-store for your hands."

"Don't forget to tell Pedrico the head is his."

"No. I will remember."

As the boy went out the door and down the worn coral rock road he was crying again.

A day of distraction.  Spent a lazy morning putting together music for church.  Practicing.  Then I drove my wife to work.  Played two church services this evening--Catholic and Lutheran.  

This evening, I went to a movie with my kids and some friends.  The new Nicolas Cage--The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent.  It was Nicolas Cage good--intensely funny.  Plus, the popcorn was really, really tasty.

After a shitty end-of-week, my son had a good day.

Saint Marty's koan for tonight:  a good day is only a walk down a coral rock road.

May 6: Your Clean Shirt, Suspensions, Each Other's Company

Santiago talks about getting well . . . 

"We must get a good killing lance and always have it on board. You can make the blade from a spring leaf from an old Ford. We can grind it in Guanabacoa. It should be sharp and not tempered so it will break. My knife broke."

"I'll get another knife and have the spring ground. How many days of heavy brisa have we?"

"Maybe three. Maybe more."

"I will have everything in order," the boy said. "You get your hands well old man."

"I know how to care for them. In the night I spat something strange and felt something in my chest was broken."

"Get that well too," the boy said. "Lie down, old man, and I will bring you your clean shirt. And something to eat."

I don't know how to heal my son's heart right now.  He came to work with me today.  I wrote reports and compiled statistics.  He played on his laptop.  At lunch, we streamed an episode of Whose Line Is It Anyway?  We didn't talk about suspensions or appropriate behaviors or language.  We just basked in each other's company.

Saint Marty's koan for today:  a good day is a clean shirt.

May 5: Much to Learn, Rough Day, Meanest Creatures

Santiago knows he is loved . . . 

"Now we fish together again."

"No. I am not lucky. I am not lucky anymore."

"The hell with luck," the boy said. "I'll bring the luck with me."

"What will your family say?"

"I do not care. I caught two yesterday. But we will fish together now for I still have much to learn."

A rough day.  My son, who has been struggling in school since the pandemic began, got a five-day suspension this afternoon.  I won't go into details, but my wife and I had a meeting with the principal and the special education coordinator.  My son cried through most of it.  His first words when he saw us were, "I don't want to be expelled."  

Now I am struggling with my feelings toward the school, administrators, and my son's classmates.  My son is not perfect by any means.  But, without getting into any personal details, I will only say that middle school and middle schoolers suck on many levels.  And kids can be the meanest creatures on the planet.

In the evening, I led a poetry workshop.  My son attended.  He's a really good poet.

Saint Marty's koan for the day:  the hardest life lessons involve hungry, eighth grade sharks.