May 15: Speaking of Ideas, Poetry, A Writer Friend

I do have a new idea for my next collection of poetry.  I've even started working on the first poem.  However, I haven't really shared my idea with anybody but my wife so far.  For me, it's a matter of superstition.

You see, the moment I start talking to people about a book I'm working on, the book fizzles.  I start losing interest.  I get writer's block.  All sorts of bad writing afflictions happen.  The worst sort of distraction for a writing project is ideas for other writing projects.  You see, the grass is always greener over the septic tank, to quote Erma Bombeck.  The new writing project always seems more exciting and challenging and fun than the old writing project.

Writing is a very isolating sort of endeavor.  I may have a great writing day, but I don't have anyone to share the experience with.  Yes, I have writer friends.  Yes, I can read my work to my wife (who,  by the way, is my toughest critic).  But, when I write something about which I'm excited, I want instant gratification.  I want someone to tell me how great I am.  I want someone to tell me I'm the greatest writer since William Faulkner.  Instead, I just sit wherever I happen to be writing, and I allow myself to sort of buzz or hum.  Feel good about myself.  (Until I show whatever I've produced to my wife, who'll say something like, "The ending doesn't quite..."  Then I get defensive and pout a lot.)

Therefore, I will not speak of my ideas.  I may share a poem or two.  I may post a chapter of a novel or memoir.  However, I will not divulge all the details until I'm near the end of the writing process.

I'm meeting a good writing friend, Matt, after work today.  He says we're meeting for a beer.  I'm going to order a Diet Coke.  Maybe a gin and tonic if I'm feeling adventurous.  At the moment, I'm not feeling very Indiana Jonesish.  I may speak to Matt about my new writing project.  Or not.  It may surprise you to know that, when writers get together, we don't always talk about writing. Sometimes we talk about things like the general stupidity of the Republican Party.   Or porn.  Or famine and AIDS in Sub-Saharan Africa.  You know, normal things. 

Saint Marty has a poem to finish now.  A writer's work is never done.

What writer friends are for...

May 15: Reeked With Crime, Crystal Meth, Trailer Park

They left the busy scene, and went into an obscure part of the town, where Scrooge had never penetrated before, although he recognised its situation, and its bad repute.  The ways were foul and narrow; the shops and houses wretched; the people half-naked, drunken, slipshod, ugly.  Alleys and archways, like so many cesspools, disgorged their offences of smell, and dirt, and life, upon the straggling streets; and the whole quarter reeked with crime, with filth, and misery.

The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come brings Scrooge to this quaint little neighborhood.  Scrooge will soon witness a trio of unsavory characters selling items they have stolen from his death chamber.  Most of this stave reeks with crime and filth and misery.  Despair is rampant.  Tiny Tim is dead.  The Cratchits are in mourning.  To top it all off, the Ghost brings Scrooge to this London ghetto.

I live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  I'm surrounded by forest, and the shores of Lake Superior are only about 20 miles from my doorstep.  The town in which I live is tiny, and the university where I teach is filled, mainly, with students who grew up in the U.P.  Sounds idyllic, doesn't it?

However, the area is economically depressed, like the rest of the country.  Businesses are closing.  Alcoholism is a huge problem, always has been.  Most of the available jobs are for minimum wage (read that as"not enough to pay the rent and buy oatmeal for dinner").  And crystal meth is a huge problem.

Over the last few days, I've been watching local news coverage about the newest crystal meth lab bust.  It was in a local trailer home park.  The news keeps showing footage of the drug dealer, a man around my age who looks like he's been rode hard and put away wet.  I'm not joking when I say he looks like he's approaching 70 years old.  He's a tattooed piece of shoe leather.

Most people who live in the U.P. live here because we are, supposedly, so far removed from the urban problems of poverty, drug abuse, murder, and the like.  Late last year, there was a homicide in another crystal meth house.  We also had our first drive-by shooting in town that didn't involve a rogue whitetail deer.  (Again, I think it involved drugs.)  Like Dickens' Victorian London, the U.P. is not immune to the darker elements of human existence,

Some of my friends and family tend to blame "outsiders" for these problems, people who come to upper Michigan to take advantage of our welfare system.  That is a fallacy.  Most of the problems I just described are as home-grown as blueberries and iron ore.  When you have people living in an isolated environment with an unstable economy, you're going to have problems.  People will turn to drugs and alcohol out of sheer desperation.

Things haven't changed that much since Charles Dickens wrote A Christmas Carol.  Until human beings learn to look out for every segment of society, there will always be things like crystal meth labs.  Drive-by shootings.  Crime.  Filth.  Misery.

Saint Marty isn't a desperate segment of society.  Not any more.  He's had breakfast.

This is your face...               This is your face on meth...

May 14: No Blessing, New Poem, "Garden of Eve"

Well, my Carol dip lied to me this morning.  I received no blessing.  I was looking for a free repair of my daughter's broken iPod.  Didn't happen.  After about half an hour on the phone with Apple, I realized it was going to cost me close to $200 yet again.  I'm not a happy blogger at the moment.  My wife just dropped the iPod off at the UPS store to be shipped to California.  I'm sure in a couple of days, my daughter will be the owner, yet again, of a new 4G iPod Touch.

It's going to be a long night of chauffeuring my kids around.  Religion class.  Dance class.  Many miles on my car.  My wife is going out with friends, so I am a solo act this evening.  Mother and father.  Snack-maker and SpongeBob-chooser.  Bath-giver and lullaby-singer.

Well, I promised a poem this afternoon, and I always deliver on my promises.  Well, I deliver on my promises most of the time...OK, I try to deliver on my promises 50% of the time...OK, I deliver on my promises when I already have the poem written and all I have to do is cut and paste.  This is the poem I wrote for the mother/daughter dinner at the Lutheran church last week.

Remember, Saint Marty isn't about perfection.  He's about progress...OK, he's about trying to moving forward a little...OK, he'd like everything to stay exactly the same, all the time.

The Garden of Eve

I have found stones, blood
In this soil. I have dug deep,
Until my fingers struck dirt
As black as Eden’s mud.
I pressed seeds into this mud,
Covered them with more mud.
Waited. Dreamed of the nights
In Eden, when the Lord walked
Through the trees, his footsteps
Filled with mango and banana,
The sigh of plum and peach. I didn’t
Have words for pear or persimmon
Then, knew them only by tongue,
Their sweet meat and water.
Name was not important.
I was curve of rib, sickle
Of bone. I was deep sleep.
Companion. Eater of wisdom.
I try to grow Eden’s gifts now.
I listen at night for the Lord
To pass over, listen for pineapple spine,
The hairy cheek of kiwi.
My womb has blossomed many times.
Like a seed, I have split open,
Born bitter blood orange,
Rubies of pomegranate.
I nursed them to green summer,
To bud and flower.
Now, I watch you, as you stretch,
Reach toward rain, sun. You.
Rib from rib. Bone from bone.
I accept my garden labor.
Drought. Flood. Grub. Sand.
I work with my hands
Until they turn hard as adobe.
All for you. First daughter.
Garden and gardener. Eve’s song.

May 14: "Carol" Dip, Shattered iPod, God Bless Me

It's Monday.  And if it's Monday, it must be time for another Carol dip.

My question relates to something that happened yesterday morning.  If you are one of the two frequent readers I have, you will recall that, a couple of months ago, I had to shell out close to $200 to have my daughter's iPod repaired.  I used the term "repaired" loosely, because Apple simply sent me a replacement iPod.  Well, yesterday morning, my daughter dropped her new iPod on a cement sidewalk, and the screen shattered.  It didn't just crack.  It literally shattered.

My daughter is devastated, and I'm hoping that the new iPod is covered under some kind of warranty, although I'm not holding my breath.  And that is the story behind my question for the great book of Dickens today.

That question is:

Will getting my daughter's iPod fixed be free or covered under some kind of warranty?

And the answer from that great Victorian novelist is:

"A Merry Christmas to us all, my dears.  God bless us!"

Which all the family re-echoed.

"God bless us every one!" said Tiny Tim, the last of all.

That answer seems pretty straightforward.  God's going to bless me.   Tiny Tim's going to bless me.  I'm not going to have to pay another $200.  It's going to be like Christmas in May.

I will accept that answer because I don't like thinking about the alternative.  Therefore, I'm ready to break into song.

Sing with Saint Marty:  "Deck the hall with boughs of holly!  Fa la la la la la la la la..."

'Tis the season to be jolly!