September 27: The Big Leagues, Niece's Birthday, Mean Girls

Santiago thinks about something that makes him feel better--baseball . . . 

He felt very tired now and he knew the night would come soon and he tried to think of other things. He thought of the Big Leagues, to him they were the Gran Ligas, and he knew that the Yankees of New York were playing the Tigres of Detroit.

Let me tell you about someone who always makes me feel better about myself.

It's my niece's birthday.  She turns 26 today, and she is smart and beautiful and funny and compassionate.  At family gatherings, we often sit by each other because we share the same sense of humor.  A little dark.  A little sarcastic.  We can whisper and be mean girls together.

This past weekend, when I posted about my struggles over this last month, my niece sent me a text message, just saying that she loves me.  In the middle of a particularly dark moment, her words lifted me up.

I am loved.  I know that.  But it's good to be reminded every once in a while.  My niece always does that for me.  

Today, Saint Marty's blessing is his niece, who is embarking on her twenty-seventh trip around the sun today.

September 26: Very Strange, Son's Fourteenth Birthday, Teenage Boy

Santiago marvels at the fish . . . 

"If you're not tired, fish," he said aloud, "you must be very strange."

The fish seems almost preternatural in strength and stamina.  Like some prehistoric creature.  Strange and beautiful.  A little scary, perhaps.  And the old man respects that.

Today is my son's fourteenth birthday, and he is a marvel to me.  Full of humor and love.  He's still learning how to navigate the world.  He can hold his own in a roomful of experienced adult poets and bring me to my knees with his writing.  

Yet, he's still a young teenage boy who loves to play Dungeons & Dragons, listen to weird indie music, and eat Little Caesar's cheese pizza.  He gets crushes-at-first-sight.  Pushes boundaries like crazy.  Feels everything deeply.

And, for some reason, he's been entrusted to my keeping for the past 5,110 days.  This strange, preternatural child.  Of course, I know that I stand no chance of actually landing this prehistoric fish of a boy.  He will eventually slip away into the wide, deep ocean, as all children must.  And he will leave me in wonder and thankfulness that I was given the privilege of being a part of his evolution.

Happy birthday to my sweet, trouble-making boy.

Saint Marty's blessing today:  fourteen years of adventure with the mystery of my son.

A poem for my son:

Arrangement in Pink and Blue No. 1

by: Martin Achatz

He basks before his sister, does this thing
they planned together, she with her 19-year-old
college girl generosity of time, he with his
11-year-old boy hunger for her attention.
On the floor, they face each other,
heads almost touching, his neon
pink hair bathing her face like a sunrise.
They talk about small things. Rain. Cheetos.
Skunks under our front porch. She holds
his hand. He allows her to hold
his hand. She paints each of his fingernails
Pacific Ocean at night, a blue so dark
it could hold sea monsters. My daughter's touch,
meticulous, does not miss with her brush.
My son's cuticles, knuckles remain pristine. White.
He sits there, the way Whistler's mother probably
did as her son arranged dress, bonnet, asked her
to fold her hands just so, gave her a stool
for her feet, told her not to move, hold still.
said "You're perfect" and "I love you, mom,"
as he mixed his oils while she stared
at the wall in front of her, counted rosettes
in the wallpaper, and felt herself
becoming her son's masterpiece.

September 25: Uncramped, My Mojo, a Little Cold Light

Santiago thinks about the fish swimming below him . . . 

Once in the afternoon the line started to rise again. But the fish only continued to swim at a slightly higher level. The sun was on the old man's left arm and shoulder and on his back. So he knew the fish had turned east of north.

Now that he had seen him once, he could picture the fish swimming in the water with his purple pectoral fins set wide as wings and the great erect tail slicing through the dark. I wonder how much he sees at that depth, the old man thought. His eye is huge and a horse, with much less eye, can see in the dark. Once I could see quite well in the dark. Not in the absolute dark. But almost as a cat sees.

The sun and his steady movement of his fingers had uncramped his left hand now completely and he began to shift more of the strain to it and he shrugged the muscles of his back to shift the hurt of the cord a little.

The old man has been fishing all his long life.  It is second nature to him.  Even when his hand is cramping and the fishing line is digging into his sore shoulders, Santiago keeps fishing.  Because that's who he is.

Last night, I published my first blog post in a long time.  As I described yesterday, I've been struggling, unable to write, for a while.  This morning, as I prepare to go into rehearsal for a show I'm in tonight, I feel like my writing muscles are uncramping, and I'm not fighting with my lines so much.  In fact, I wrote these first two paragraphs in less than a minute.  Perhaps I am finally getting my mojo back a little.

I am a writer.  Words are how I understand the world.  When I am joyful, I write about it.  When I am in despair, I write about it.  When I am hungry, I eat some chocolate, and then I write about the chocolate.  That is how I mediate my experiences, and I've been doing it for a very long time.  Some people take pictures and post them on Facebook.  I compose poems and blog posts and essays and stories.

It feels good to be friends with language again.  These last 30 or so days, I was lucky if I could write two words in my journal without descending into an existential crisis.  Now, here I am, writing my second blog post in less than twelve hours.  And my head seems clearer, as if, just by sitting with my laptop, tapping on the keyboard, I've opened the windows in the attic of my head, blown away the cobwebs, let a little cold light shine in.

Thanks to all my faithful disciples--family and friends--for putting up with this tired, sad saint.

Saint Marty's blessing today:  words.

September 24: Dream About the Lions, a Little Derailed, My Daughter

Santiago is getting tired . . . 

I wish he'd sleep and I could sleep and dream about the lions, he thought. Why are the lions the main thing that is left? Don't think, old man, he said to himself. Rest gently now against the wood and think of nothing. He is working. Work as little as you can.

It was getting into the afternoon and the boat still moved slowly and steadily. But there was an added drag now from the easterly breeze and the old man rode gently with the small sea and the hurt of the cord across his back came to him easily and smoothly.

The old man has been out on the boat a long time, and he's tired.  He wants to close his eyes and dream of lions, but he knows that he still has a lot of work to do.

It has been a long time since I have written a blog post.  The last blog post I wrote was published on August 12.  My life got a little derailed last month, and I've been struggling to find my equilibrium ever since.  In the past thirty days, one of my best friends died, and my daughter decided to move out of my house.

In short, this summer did not go out with a whimper.  It sort of grabbed me by the throat, dragged me out into the jungle, and used me as a chew toy.  The blue funk that I'd been battling since July has come roaring back.  Every time I pass the stairs to my daughter's bedroom, I feel the emptiness on my shoulders.  

Emptiness is a strange thing.  Even though it's weightless and shapeless, it's still heavy.   Like a trunk filled with clothes and pictures and shoes and books belonging to someone you loved and lost.  Currently, my trunk holds items from my mother, sister, friend, and, now, my daughter.  I am tired of loss.

There's no way around this grief.  I know that.  I haven't really been able to write or think clearly for a while.  I was able to come up with a poem for my friend's celebration of life, but it took me nearly two weeks.  I struggled to find the words for what I was feeling, and words that would truly honor my friend's spirit.  

So, here I am, sitting in a hotel room in Calumet, Michigan, finally hammering out a new blog post.  Tomorrow night, I'm performing in a radio variety show, and it will take all the energy I have.  No worries.  When I was in a similar funk a while ago, a therapist friend gave me this advice:  fake it 'til you make it.  I'm pretty good at doing that, even under the weight of emptiness.

I am the old man in a very large ocean right now.  No land in sight.

Saint Marty's blessing tonight:  the laughter of his son.

P. S.  I'm going to be writing forward and backward from this point on, trying to catch up on posts I have missed and keep current on my daily posts, as well.  So, start reading ahead and behind.