February 12: Abundance Rejoices, Extra Money, New Cartoon

"Under the impression that they scarcely furnish Christian cheer of mind or body to the multitude," returned the gentleman, "a few of us are endeavouring to raise a fund to buy some meat and drink, and means of warmth.  We choose this time, because it is a time, of all others, when Want is keenly felt, and Abundance rejoices.  What shall I put you down for?"

Of course, this speech comes from one of the two gentlemen who visits Scrooge's office on Christmas Eve, soliciting money for the poor.  Of course, Scrooge isn't buying what he's selling.  Scrooge doesn't buy much of anything, unless it somehow puts more money in his own pocket.

As I've said a few times before, there's a little of Ebenezer Scrooge in me.  Not out of greed or gluttony.  Out of necessity.  This morning, as I was sitting in church, writing out the check for my weekly contribution, I actually considered not giving anything, or reducing the amount.  For a few fleeting moments, I almost gave into the Scrooge side of myself.  I didn't, but I was sorely tempted.

I still don't know how I'm going to pay those taxes that are due on Tuesday.  I'm waiting for some kind of miracle to happen.  I hoping that I'm going to come home and find an envelope with four, crisp, new one-hundred-dollar bills taped to my front door.  I'll settle for eight, crisp, new fifty-dollar bills.  Or twenty, crisp, new twenty-dollar bills.  I'm not that picky.

I don't think of myself as stingy, but every time I buy something right now, or contribute financially to some cause, I cringe a little bit, think about the piles of unpaid bills on my dining room table.  I've become obsessed over the last week or so with figuring out ways to make some extra money.  I've haven't come up with any feasible ideas that are legal and ethical.  Instead, I crank the thermostat down a few more degrees at home, and I contemplate which of my organs would garner the highest bid.

Saint Marty isn't a miser, but he's feeling Want keenly. 

Confessions of Saint Marty

February 11: Poor Boy, Regrets, New Cartoon

Then, with a rapidity of transition very foreign to his usual character, he said, in pity for his former self, "Poor boy!" and cried again.

"I wish," Scrooge muttered, putting his hand in his pocket, and looking about him, after drying his eyes with his cuff:  "but it's too late now."

"What is the matter?" asked the Spirit.

"Nothing," said Scrooge.  "Nothing.  There was a boy singing a Christmas Carol at my door last night.  I should like to have given him something:  that's all."

Scrooge has a lot of regrets in his life.  The one to which he refers in this passage is pretty small potatoes, as regrets go.  It's a missed chance for a small kindness.  Scrooge's list of missed chances is huge:  he's missed the chance to be married; he's missed the chance to have children; he's missed the chance to take care of his only kin, his nephew, Fred; he's missed the chance to enjoy his financial success for most of his life; he's missed the chance to alleviate the suffering of the London poor for most of his life.  I could go on.

Most human beings live with regrets.  Missed opportunities.  During the past two years on this blog, I've pretty much talked about most of my regrets.  It's not a very healthy exercise, this kind of naval gazing, wondering about the might-have-beens in my life.  It can lead to some pretty dark places.  For instance, if I had finished my Ph.D. (I was about a year from being done), I may right now have a full-time, tenured professorship at the university, instead of a part-time, contracted adjunct position.  That's a big one.

Regrets are kind of useless things to carry around.  They ruin the present and cast a pretty dark shadow over the future.  Thinking about my Ph.D. now, I struggle to be happy with my current jobs and life.  Instead of enjoying what I have, I regret what I don't have.  Looking into the future, I can become a little bitter as I see jobs at the English Department going to people who are younger, less-experienced, and less-talented.  The difference between me and them:  three letters--"P" and "h" and "D."  It's been happening for years.

I frequently interact with people who have no connection to the university.  Well-meaning people who are clueless about how academia works.  Inevitably, these people will ask me, "When are you going to get a full-time job at the school?"  Each time someone asks me this, I die a little inside.  My usual response is a joke:  "I'm planning to kill off all the poets in the department.  Do you know any hit men?"  They think I'm kidding.  And I am.  Sort of.

I could drive myself crazy with thoughts like this, spend my days bitter and angry, trying to make other people bitter and angry.  In short, I could be Ebenezer Scrooge.  I refuse to allow myself to fall into that trap.  If I do get caught in it, I gnaw my foot off pretty quickly and escape.  As I said earlier, I don't want to spend my entire life mourning the things I missed doing.

And now that I've said all that, I'm going to leave my regrets right here in this post.  Today, I'm going to enjoy the things I have.

Saint Marty needs to gnaw off an appendage now.

Confessions of Saint Marty

February 10: "Clash of the Titans," Poetry, Desperate

Harryhausen and friends

Currently, I'm watching the film Clash of the Titans.  Not the new version.  I'm talking about the real Clash of the Titans, with Harry Hamlin in his toga and plenty of bare breasts flapping in the wind.  And, of course, the special effects of the great Ray Harryhausen.  I'm showing the film to my mythology classes next week.  I thought I'd better preview it, to make sure the DVD didn't skip or freeze.  I'd forgotten how good this movie really is.

It's been a fairly long day.  I taught the second graders this afternoon.  I'm not sure how well my lesson worked.  I was only there for about an hour, and the atmosphere of the classroom was just this side of controlled chaos.  I liked the kids, and they seemed to respond to what I was doing.  Whether they learned anything or not, well, that's another matter.  However, it's over and done.  I don't feel as good about it as I thought I would.  Maybe I will in a couple of days.

I'm still struggling to find the money to pay the taxes next week.  I had to go grocery shopping this afternoon.  We were completely out of diapers.  The shopping list wasn't long, but I still ended up spending over $100.  It sucked.  And now, I'm even shorter on funds than I thought I was going to be.  I'm trying to trust that God will help me, but God better send His check in the mail pretty soon.

Okay, Harry Hamlin in his toga is about to battle a titan.  I'm going to have to sign off.  Plus, there's another nude scene coming up.

Saint Marty is ready.  Bring on the breasts and  the Kraken.

February 10: Good As Gold, Tiny Tim, Counting Blessings

Lame beggars, blind men...

"And how did little Time behave?" asked Mrs. Cratchit, when she had rallied Bob on his credulity, and Bob had hugged his daughter to his heart's content.

"As good as gold," said Bob, "and better.  Somehow he gets thoughtful, sitting by himself so much, and thinks the strangest things you ever heard.  He told me, coming home, that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk and blind men see."

This passage is Charles Dickens at his sentimental best.  He can always take a small child, preferably one with a terrible affliction, and wring out your heart and put it on the clothesline to dry.  That's my heart, flapping in the wind there.  Of course, Tiny Tim is meant to represent all the sick, unfortunate, poor children of the world.

I was thinking of this little exchange between Bob and Mrs. Cratchit last night.  (Yes, I have a very boring life.  I spend my time thinking about famous Victorian novels.)  The reason I was focusing on these two paragraphs is simple:  I tend to lose sight of the important things in my life.  When I'm in the middle of some kind of crisis (financial, medical, personal), I don't think about who made lame beggars walk and blind men see.  I think, "Holy shit!  What am I going to do?"

At Christmas time, it's a little easier to maintain a proper perspective.  I'm reminded on a daily basis during the holidays about people who are less fortunate than myself.  Bell ringers remind me.  Toys for Tots reminds me.  Food banks remind me.  And, of course, Tiny Tim, in his various incarnations, reminds me.  I am a blessed individual.

However, come February and March, Tiny Tim has been packed up with the Christmas tree and manger scene, stowed away in the attic until next November or December.  My life becomes all about me again, and I pick up my burdens and carry them around, all day.  I forget to give thanks for the great things I've been given:  jobs, home, wife, kids, family, church, toothpaste, drinking water, underwear, oxygen, breath.

That's why I was thinking about this passage last night.  I was stressed, working feverishly on the poetry lesson for the second graders.  I started getting upset with small things--a dried-out pen, a blob of spaghetti sauce on the throw rug.  I forgot Tiny Tim and his little crutch and everything he is supposed to embody.  Remembering Bob's little story about Tiny Tim in church brought me back to reality, made my count my blessings.

Saint Marty needs to keep counting today.  One, he woke up.  Two, he made it to work safely.  Three, he...