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.

August 12: Strange Old Man, Normal People, Displays of Nudity

Santiago knows he's a strange old man . . .

Although it is unjust, he thought. But I will show him what a man can do and what a man endures.

"I told the boy I was a strange old man," he said. "Now is when I must prove it."

The thousand times that he had proved it meant nothing. Now he was proving it again. Each time was a new time and he never thought about the past when he was doing it.

I think a lot of people would characterize me as strange.  My son certainly would.  I write poems about Bigfoot.  Play organ/keyboard at two Catholic churches, two Lutheran churches, and a Methodist church (occasionally).  Watch depressing films compulsively (River Phoenix marathon at my house, anyone?).  Teach writing, film, literature, and mythology.  Get excited about things like Nobel Prize announcements.  I. Am. Strange.

I wear that badge proudly.  Normal people bore me.  If you see me at a social gathering (which doesn't happen very often--I detest small talk), please don't try to engage me in conversation about the weather, Green Bay Packers, or the price of gasoline.  I will quickly extricate myself by feigning a stroke and disappear.

However, if you approach me and say, "I once saw Adrienne Rich picking out tomatoes at the grocery store," you will have my complete and undivided attention.  I may, in fact, ask you what kind of tomatoes she was looking at and if there was any other produce in her shopping cart.  Spinach.  Kale.  Kumquats.  That's kind of shit is interesting.

I don't think strangeness is a bad quality, unless it involves public displays of nudity during a Christmas Eve church service, and, even then, I may ask if said nudity involved a well-placed Christmas bow or wreath.  I'd rather be remembered as "the Bigfoot poet" than "that guy whose lawn was always really green."

So, if you are an oddball, embrace it.  Climb onto your roof and shout it to the moon.  (Do this especially on a night when your neighbor--the one who has a "Trump 2024" sign in his yard--is waxing his car.)  Give people something to talk about.

Life is too short to be boring.

Saint Marty's blessing for tonight:  sunrise on the roof of the library.

August 11: All His Greatness and His Glory, Poetry Workshop, Perseids

Santiago feels much better, but is still suffering . . .

With his prayers said, and feeling much better, but suffering exactly as much, and perhaps a little more, he leaned against the wood of the bow and began, mechanically, to work the fingers of his left hand.

The sun was hot now although the breeze was rising gently.

"I had better re-bait that little line out over the stern," he said. "If the fish decides to stay another night I will need to eat again and the water is low in the bottle. I don't think I can get anything but a dolphin here. But if I eat him fresh enough he won't be bad. I wish a flying fish would come on board tonight. But I have no light to attract them. A flying fish is excellent to eat raw and I would not have to cut him up. I must save all my strength now. Christ, I did not know he was so big."

"I'll kill him though," he said. "In all his greatness and his glory."

Santiago admires the fish in all its greatness and glory, but he is still determined to kill it.

I'm not sure if that is just normal human instinct--to see something wondrous and somehow need to subdue and conquer it.  That's what we've been doing since we crawled out of the primordial ocean ooze.  If there's a mountain, we want to climb it.  If there's a large body of water, we want to sail across it or drill for oil in it.  Forests are cut down for roads, and animals are killed for sport or money.

Humankind is a pretty destructive force on this little blue rock of a planet.  Just ask the next glacier you see.

Tonight, I led a poetry workshop that was all about wonder and mystery in the universe.  Currently, the Perseid meteor shower is lighting up the night sky.  There's nothing like lying on your back in the grass, staring up into the heavens, and seeing lights spark and zip in that black bowl.  That was the inspiration for tonight's writing.

Only a few people showed up.  That's fine.  It's mid-August, and residents of the Upper Peninsula know that our warm days and nights are numbered.  We have to take advantage of them.  I guess writing poetry is my way of subduing the mystery of the universe.  Maybe a better word would be "understanding."  But isn't the comprehension of mystery a way of controlling it?  

Very few people can live with negative capability--just accepting a situation without having to explain it fully.  It's not comfortable to live next door to mystery without going over and introducing yourself.  That's why things like lunar eclipses and meteor showers were historically seen as omens or portents.  I'm sure, in times past, the Perseids were seen as precursors to something wondrous or catastrophic.  That belief, however misguided, gave those zagging celestial sparks meaning and purpose.  Because everything that exists should have a purpose, right?  Beauty for beauty's sake or mystery for mystery's sake is an alien concept for most human beings.

Perhaps I'm being a little too deep tonight.  Wouldn't be the first time.  My point is fairly simple:  embrace mystery and wonder.

Saint Marty's blessings for tonight:  a beautiful sunrise and writing poetry with friends.