January 11: No Morals, Templeton, New Cartoon

...The rat had no morals, no conscience, no scruples, no consideration, no decency, no milk of rodent kindness, no compunctions, no higher feeling, no friendliness, no anything.  He would kill a gosling if he could get away with it--the goose knew that.  Everybody knew it.

Templeton, the rat, is one of my favorite characters in Charlotte's Web.  For some reason, his utter lack of redeeming qualities appeals to me.  He's completely self-centered.  He doesn't give a whisker whether Wilbur is carted off to the smokehouse come autumn time.  Templeton is completely narcissistic, sort of like Kim Kardashian.

Some days, I wish I could be a little like Templeton.  There has to be something very liberating about worrying only about yourself, the rest of the world be damned.  I would venture to say that a majority of highly successful people in the world have streaks of Templeton in their makeups.  Mark Zuckerberg.  Bill Clinton.  Madonna.  Oprah Winfrey.  I'm not saying these persons have zero philanthropic impulses.  However, to get where they are today, they probably have a few rotten goose eggs in their pasts.

On the other hand, I personally know quite a few highly accomplished people who are the kindest, most generous individuals in the world.  For these persons, money and fame and success are merely happy addendums to their lives.  They genuinely care more about their family and friends than about six-figure salaries and book deals and awards.  They're kind of annoying.

As much as I want to be more like Templeton, I think I fall more on the Charlotte side of the spectrum.  I care too much.  I would make a horrible millionaire or billionaire, because I would be giving away most of my money to causes like malaria relief in sub-Saharan Africa and arts programs for inner-city kids.  I wouldn't hold onto my fortune very long.  I'm sure of that.

Right now, I don't have a lot of expendable income.  This past Christmas, I don't think I dropped two quarters in Salvation Army buckets.  I can't remember the last time I put an envelope in the collection plate at church.  Circumstances have turned me into Templeton.  I still have morals, conscience, scruples, consideration, decency, and all that.  They just have to take a back seat to self-preservation at the moment.

Saint Marty would sell his best halo if it would help pay the bills.

Confessions of Saint Marty

January 10: A Winter's Night Poem, David Ignatow, "For My Daughter in Reply to a Question"

I have a poem for you guys on this winter night.  It's a poem that contains longing and love and tenderness.

It was written by David Ignatow and appeared in the anthology Good Poems for Hard Times, edited by Garrison Keillor.

Saint Marty wishes he had written this poem.

For My Daughter in Reply to a Question

We're not going to die,
we'll find a way.
We'll breathe deeply
and eat carefully.
We'll think always on life.
There'll be no fading for you or for me.
We'll be the first
and we'll not laugh at ourselves ever
and your children will be my grandchildren.
Nothing will have changed
except by addition.
There'll never be another as you
and never another as I.
No one ever will confuse you
nor confuse me with another.
We will not be forgotten and passed over
and buried under the births and deaths to come.

Sweet dreams this January night

January 10: Flies and Bugs, Poetry Workshop, Fairy Tale Fly

"Why not?  It's true, and I have to say what is true.  I am not entirely happy about my diet of flies and bugs, but it's the way I'm made.  A spider has to pick up a living somehow or other, and I happen to be a trapper.  I just naturally build a web and trap flies and other insects.  My mother was a trapper before me.  Her mother was a trapper before her.  All our family have been trappers.  Way back for thousands and thousands of years we spiders have been laying for flies and bugs."

Charlotte is a spider.  In order to survive, she spins a web, traps flies and bugs, stuns them, and drinks their blood.  As she says, she's not entirely happy about her way of life, but she can't argue with thousands of years of heredity.  She was built to be a trapper.


I, on the other hand, have a different gift.  I'm a poet.  I spin words into poems, and hopefully those poems are good enough to trap a few readers.  I don't drink my readers' blood.  I don't make a living as a poet.  I don't know anyone, personally, who makes a living as a poet.  Most poets I know are teachers.  That's how they make their living.  Poetry doesn't put flies on the table, so to speak.

I'm teaching a six-week poetry workshop starting next week.  It's a community schools class.  Adult enrichment.  I'm excited to sit in a room filled with people who love poetry.  Don't get me wrong, though.  I'm doing this to make some money.  I found out tonight that only two people are currently registered for the workshop.

That could change over the weekend, obviously.  Most people procrastinate.  There could be two or three or ten more poets out there who will register by Monday.  Or not.  I'm trying to remain optimistic, because I'm tired of being a pessimist.  I want to start 2014 on a high note.

I will teach this workshop, whether I have two or twenty students.  I want to be around poets and wannabe poets.  Perhaps I'll only make $20 for teaching this workshop.  So be it.  Like Charlotte, I need to provide for myself with the gift God gave me.  That happens to be poetry.  I will spend this weekend believing that I will catch a few more flies.

Which reminds me of a story about a fly named Gobert.  Once upon a time, a fly named Gobert livdsed in a bakery.  He loved spending his days in the sunlight, finding a gooey cinnamon doughnut, and getting his feet sticky.

One day, Gobert flew into a spiderweb and got stuck.  Before he knew what was happening, the spider swooped down, stunned him, wrapped him up in a cocoon, and drank his blood.  Gobert never knew what hit him.

Moral of the story:  flies are disgusting, and register for my poetry workshop.

If you do that, Saint Marty will live happily ever after.

Blood, anyone?

January 9: Sleepwalking Son

My son has gotten into the habit of walking in his sleep.  For the past few nights, he's come clumping out of his bedroom, eyes nearly closed, talking complete and total gibberish.  Tonight, it was about a bad dream he'd had.  Last night, he was saying something about the noise waking him up.

I used to be a sleepwalker as a kid.  I did a lot of embarrassing things in my sleep.  One memorable night, I fell asleep in the middle of the living room floor, got up, and stripped naked in front of most of my family and a guest.  Another time, I woke up on the toilet, my legs so numb I couldn't stand up.  I never did anything dangerous.  I confined my sleep activities indoors.

Knowing my son, I'll probably wake up one morning and find him outside, trying to start my car in his sleep.  Or in the kitchen, making himself some Ramen noodles.  Hopefully, he'll keep his clothes on.

Saint Marty hasn't stripped naked in his sleep for quite a while.  It's too damn cold.

I never got this bad...