It began as an innocent and seemingly serendipitous friendship that came by the way of my personal weblog some 5+ years ago.
If you’ve read my blog before you will know the backstory of all that I am about to say.
If you haven’t, this will be a good time for reading a pretty amazing story.

How this friendship happened seems to defy any logical explanation because that’s how many friendships start.
What happened in the ensuing years is the stuff of fairy tales and Ripley’s ‘Believe it or not’ stories, all but true.
I still have to pinch myself some days though; days when I find myself woolgathering about whether me and Pamela did actually visit Australia for two simply incredible weeks this past July.
It’s taken some time to not only process the whole experience but also to figure out
just what I want to say . . .
[Interpretation: this is gonna take a lot of  posts]

We left Boston on a sunny,  pure and crystal late Friday afternoon in July -  our first destination: LAX.
Good weather, nice takeoff, flight is smooth, everybody is happy, life is good . . .  piece of cake, right?
As we crossed somewhere over Lincoln, Nebraska at approximately 30,000 ft my gorgeous wife grabbed my hand and said, “I don’t think I can do this.”

“Do what?” I said. [me thinking about the mile high club]

“Flying this far. I don’t know if I can do it.”

“Sure you can,” I said, “we’ll be fine,” as I squeezed her hand harder in mine.

“You promise?” She said.

“You betcha,” I said.

Not what you want to hear from a wife on the verge of tears and only 3 hours from your point of departure.
We still had another 13+ hours in the air to get to Brisbane after getting to LA.
This was not working out as I’d planned.
It rarely does though, right?
It was about this time that I was able to connect to the net with my laptop.
I have never loved Facebook more than I did at that particular moment in time.
“Here,” I said,  passing her my laptop, “Play Farmville or chat with someone who’s on.”
Maybe sometimes a human connection is all you really need to get you over a flying hump.
The Facebook diversion worked and we landed safe and sound in the City of Angels at 9PM (PST) Midnight (EST).
Our flights were connecting so we didn’t need to worry about our checked luggage as we would pick it up in Brisbane on our arrival on Sunday morning (thanks in part to the International Dateline)

Turned out that our 11PM flight was delayed and we didn’t take off until 1AM (PST) or 4AM (EST).
We were both sleeping in the terminal like oh, so many homeless people when our plane started boarding.
We made our way onto a V-Australia huge ass airbus and found our seats.
We were ready for some sleep.
After a nice snack we both hunkered down for a long summer’s nap, as visions of the calming waters of the great barrier reef danced in our heads . . .
(alright, I made that part up)

If anyone tells you that flying to Australia is easy and you could ‘do it in your sleep’, tell them they can go pound sand.
It is a long ass ways away and when we finally landed in Brisbane [19+ hours later] if all that we saw was two crazy kangaroos getting their freak on with some abo playing the didj, we would have left happy campers.
Truth.
That’s not what we found.
The air was different.
The sky was different.
The layout of the land was different.
The spring water was different.
The birds sound were different.
The toilet water flushed the wrong way.
And the people are friendly! [unlike some in Boston]
And they drive on the wrong side of the road (a trip unto itself!)
I think I actually shit my pants as we drove through our first roundabout.
Bringing adult diapers is merely a suggestion.

We found out very quickly that Australia was more than just an island,  a huge ass country, and a continent unto itself.
It was a place of incredible beauty and majesty, a place of tropical fish the likes of which we had never seen, wildlife that boggles the mind, food that makes us yearn for more, Cadbury chocolate that will never see the US shores and nighttime constellations that are unique to the southern hemisphere.
We also found out that Australia is a place where one very special family would open their hearts and homes to two American strangers they’d never met before.

We got our suitcases in Brisbane and headed to Australian Customs before embarking on the final flight to take us to Tropical Queensland and the home of Mark and Maureen Harrod, friends of a lifetime.

We didn’t know it then but we’d already fallen in love with this magical place called Australia.
As I looked at the Southern Cross in the sky on our first night,
I decided I should stop dreaming. I was here, we were here.

to be continued . . .

Back in 1972, the Stylistics released ‘Betcha by Golly Wow’ to the masses.
Although I’m not sure just how high it climbed on the charts, it was an amazing song in so very many ways.
The song’s harmonic complexity was something of a rarity for the ’70′s.
I loved the song back then (musically, not really knowing why but understanding it now)
and had all but forgotten about it until today.
A friend had given me the new Pat Metheny CD to listen to,
I put it on my Ipod and completely forgot about it.
Shuffling my way to South Station tonight this old familiar song came streaming into my headphones.
Betcha by Golly, Wow?
On guitar?
Who the hell is this?!?
Ayup.
Pat Metheny.
I can’t believe that there are still people that have never heard of him.
If I can turn one person onto this incredible musician, this post will have done its job.
If you have 10 minutes, please listen to the original and then to Metheny’s rendition.
Maybe you will hear why I am just so amazed by this man (and the Stylistics)
Either way, enjoy them both.
Expect some posts about my sojourn to Australia in the next few weeks.
Right now my cranium us still sifting through the incredible and amazing details . . .
~m

Now and then someone comes into your life and changes it.
They improve and inspire it, smoothing out the rough edges and pushing you towards
your own personal creative and artistic dreams.
For me, the writer, I have been blessed to have met Mira Bartok, a gifted artist, musician and writer.
How we met is a long story and not fodder for this particular post.
Mira has a memoir coming out this January [1.11.11] called, ‘The Memory Palace‘,
a story about growing up with a gifted, incredibly talented but schizophrenic mother.
I was honored that Mira sent me an ARC [advanced reader copy] of the book
which I devoured in less than a week.
Mira’s words and images took me on a journey I won’t soon forget.
For me, the memoir confirmed the idea and thought that, ‘Love conquers all.’
I refuse to give anything away except to say that this book literally took my breath away.
It’s about love and forgiveness, music and art, memory and the present tense, home and the homeless.
This book changed the way I feel about the many panhandlers I walk by every day in Boston,
a city filled with sad stories and sadder characters.
Watch the promo trailer and please, please, please leave a comment.
If you could pass the Youtube link on to several friends, I would be forever grateful.
When someone does something wonderful for my writing and creative life, I need to return the favor.
This book is incredible, as is Mira . . .
[and her husband, my dear friend and multi-talented colleague Doug Plavin]
just watch . . .

My wife would never consider this particular name for a daughter of ours.
For some reason I love it.
Check out this performance by Sting.
Although he may be a prick, the boy can seriously sing.
His vocal range makes me want to kill him.
Not much in the way of substance here but wanted to let people know that
I am still alive. [and writing]
Peace.
Out.

~m

Holl amrantau’r sêr ddywedant
Ar hyd y nos
‘Dyma’r ffordd i fro gogoniant
Ar hyd y nos.
Golau arall yw tywyllwch
I arddangos gwir brydferthwch
Teulu’r nefoedd mewn tawelwch
Ar hyd y nos.

O mor siriol gwen a seren
Ar hyd y nos
I oleuo-i chwaer ddae ar en
Ar hyd y nos.
Nos yw henaint pan ddaw cystudd
Ond i harddu dyn a’i hwyr dydd
Rhown ein goleu gwan i’n gilydd
Ar hyd y nos.

Translation

A sleeping beauty that I will meet, someday [God willing]
I may even have your glass slipper by then, Stell.
Not like you ever needed it . . .

~m

I’ve played piano for 40+ years and one thing that’s always
pissed me up the wall is the size of my hands.
They’re incredibly small and very unlike Sergei Rachmaninoff, Dave Brubeck, Ray Garland,
McCoy Tyner, Bill Evans, George Gershwin and Charles Ives. (and I love them all)
These guys have gorilla sized hands.

Palm a basketball?
No problem.
Palm a watermelon?
Easy.
Hand me that piano?
No worries.
Play a chord with more notes than the fingers on two hands?
Got more ivory?

To try and play a Garland or Gershwin tune you need about 800mgs of ibuprofen an hour
before playing so you don’t cramp up too much.
I’m serious.
Chopin?
Small and fast hands, the little bastard.
He was a magician and quite the sex fiend from what I hear.
Russian hands and Roman fingers.

I saw this video a while back and forgot all about it.
Tonight I am tickled pink to post it.
Interesting though that to play the Charles Ives ‘Concord Sonata’ you need several pieces of wood
cut to specific sizes and weights in order to play the piece.
I guess his hands weren’t big enough.
Enjoy this amazing and funny video.
I love it from a musical standpoint as well as a comedic statement.
This is Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C-sharp minor with much added levity.

“Small hands. But only hands small.”
I like this guy.
Alot.

What would Christopher Walken do?
I have a real hard time believing that Walken has a hard time doing anything.
Maybe transcribing chords for a Steely Dan song or playing a digeridoo but jeepers,
the guy acts, sings, and does comedy.
Not everyone likes him but I am a definite fan.
If you haven’t seen these videos (and are a Walken fan) you are in for a serious treat.
The guy amazes me from the standpoint of an artist.
If they ever come up with a ‘WWCWD’ bracelet, let me know.
I want one.

He dances too . . .

Good stuff.

M

It is an impossibly gorgeous day today.
There’s copious sunshine, more than ample warmth, stuff growing and skies bluer than blue.
We haven’t had a spring here in New England for about 15 years.
I am overwhelmed with gratitude to be alive and enjoying a day off such as this.
Life is good . . .

M

I wrote  ‘The Frozen Man’ after listening to this song from James Taylor.
The song subject is a bit different than that of my poem but I credit JT with
the creative kick and ultimate catalyst I needed to write those words for my father.
My daughter Hannah, read ‘The Frozen Man’ in the pouring rain last Monday morning at North Cemetery.
Amidst the silence, there was nary a dry eye under the tent, especially me.
I listened to this song on my Nano tonight and got a bit misty.
I remember the day it inspired me to write the original poem for my Dad.
My deepest thanks to Yvonne for making my words
look so damn beautiful in calligraphy
(they were on display at his wake, btw)
Remembering my Dad today, who is no longer the Frozen Man.
He is finally free and I am slowly moving on . . .

Got this from a close friend of Sarah’s.
It is, in a literary sense, quite haunting and spoke to me in ways unimaginable.
It was supposedly written by a 15-year-old girl.
Pretty amazing and apropos for this particular time in my life.
Thank you, Katherine.
You are, in many ways, an angel,
although you would never admit it . . .

“The soul and the body exist separately.
While the soul uses the body as a vessel to express itself,
they never truly become one.
For this reason, when one’s body passes on,
the soul does not follow.
Instead it remains living; free to wander where it pleases.
Visiting its favorite places, or doing its favorite things.
And if, while on Earth, the soul found someone so special that it wants never to leave them,
it will enter that person and continue to live.
It chooses to stay in that person.
Forever watching over them,
Protecting them,
Loving them.
Forever being with them.
Realize this, remember this, keep this with you.
Because the bodies of the ones we love will pass on,
But their souls will never die.”

*thinking about Dad and angels