Unconscionable
Apathy that’s palpable
As [St.] Anthony bleeds . . .

The last time I saw you, I gently closed your tired eyes and
somewhere in the lingering distance the church bells played their melancholy melody,
a dark but fitting soundtrack for the raw and rainy Tuesday night that it was . . .
I kissed your all too cold forehead and covered you with the prayer shawl they
laid out on your bed, a sign of warmth, solace and a loving, sympathetic God. [?]
The physical connection I’d come to take for granted was now severely severed, frayed and ultimately final.
I never liked the word ‘final’.
I cried, wondering why some people had to suffer so much in the endgame, like you did.
The crucifix hanging on the wall opposite your bed answered my question, I guess.
I sat next to you in silence, Pamela and me,  maybe you,  listening to the fingers of the rain tapping on your window,
the Morse Code of the Great Beyond, perhaps, beckoning.

The last time I saw you, I cried because all that was left was the ‘goodbye’.
As my heart cracked open with love, I took you into it hoping you would never leave me.
Although you got your much deserved wings, in my heart, I know you never left.
I never did either, Walter . . .  Dad.

Sweet peace, my father, the sweetest of peace.
I will see you in my dreams . . .

~m

I tend to go all indigo at this time of the year,
not for the laughs, and not for the seasonal tears,
I just go this funky shade of blue; no reason, no tears, no season, no fears . . . no.
And once again,
No.
It’s a seasonal dysfunction in need of correction,
a part of my life in need of direction,
in need of some indigo inflection and words that will never rhyme no matter what I do.
And I do.
Black. Obsidian. Shaft. Last.
Map of nowhere that I will ever be found.
It’s a yuletide cave of sorts; one that’s long, dark and godforsaken for seasonal reasons that will forever elude me.
Indigo . . .
is simply bluer than blue
Like Me.
Merry Me.
Merry, merry, me, where intricacies of the heart are a silent but beautiful holiday accident   . . .

~m

Yes, I am . . .
A thank you to all that have emailed me regarding my current literary aspirations.
It’s all good.
Hoping that everyone is well.

~m

What can you say to a wall?
Not much, I guess.
What can you do when there is so much left to do but nothing left to accomplish?
Wait.
Who do you talk to when the one person you need to hear is no longer present?
Wait.
Why do some people believe they are always right?
Because that’s their ‘truth’.
When will people realize that life is a journey with happy endings, awkward beginnings AND unhappy endings?
Never.
When will the telling of one-sided fairy tales stop?
Ask Walt Disney.
When will you get off of that cross? [someone else needs the wood]
*no answer*
Where are the answers?
But more importantly where were the questions that should have been asked?
Never sent.
Ask and you shall receive.
Unless you aren’t prepared for the answers.
If you don’t have the intestinal fortitude to ask,  zipper that talkbox shut.
(say that 3X real fast) [LOL]
Amen, my brothers and sisters, amen . . .

I am: in transition and wondering about my future
I think: the world went to hell in a hand basket . . .
I know: I miss writing
I want: new teeth
I have: questions, too many
I wish: I could find some answers
I hate: goodbyes and temporary crowns
I miss: the old me
I fear: insomnia and more root canals
I feel: like I’m on the verge of something, maybe good, maybe bad
I hear: a fan cooling my sweating cueball head (I shaved this  morning)
I smell: a lit cigar
I crave: being 8 years old again running through my neighborhood
I search: for signs of my Mom and Dad everyday
I wonder: about my new neighbor next door and the fact that he wants to swindle me (NOT)
I regret: not finishing college and working retail. I’m so much better than that
I ache: for calm, for indigo breezes and purple sunsets
I care: about the future of my three wonderful girls (I am: so lucky)
I always: look before crossing  Boylston Street
I am not: perfect
I believe: in dreams
I dance: when I’ve had too much Maker’s Mark
I sing: because I can
I cry: more often than I believe I should
I don’t always: look before crossing Boylston Street
I fight: to stay alive
I write: because I can’t afford therapy
I never: wanted to be President
I stole: my wife’s heart
I listen: to things no one else seems to hear
I need: a creative kick in the ass and to play my didgeridoo more
I am happy about: my dear friends from Australia that will be here in less than 3 weeks.

Just updating my life status is all.
This post may turn out to be a monthly occurrence.
Tanks for the nudge, M

~m

As uncomfortable as this picture makes me feel
THIS makes me feel even more uncomfortable.
And it gets more uncomfortable as the days grow long reading about people
that think they deserve equality and justice.
Will we ever wake up and smell the coffee?
When will we finally call a spade a spade?
From the leviathan Gulf oil spill and Mexican border breaches to the ever-simmering clusterfuck in the Middle East,
I feel doomed somedays, for so many reasons.
Just like today.
Maybe we just haven’t found the answers . . .
Yet.
Got testicles?

~m

***I changed the post picture for the mental stability of my wife

It used to be so easy years ago – this blogging thing.
Most people know this blog was my own personal bridge to an understanding of a disease that
has all but consumed the better part of the last 12 years of my life.
Writing used to be so easy, life was the hard part.
Now everything has changed.
The bridge is permanently closed and my journals have been painfully empty.
Empty can be a real painful place for a writer.
I write every day but much of what I write now is too personal and heavy for blog posts.
Many will say that the bridge never closes but for me, this one has.
My reasons for needing it in my life have changed.
I have changed.
My mind is currently like a dark grey and forbidding sky that appears to be swiftly moving yet
still appears the same.
Enigmatic, much like my grey matter.
I need to find a way to connect with my insides again.
The entrance was emotionally sutured in late March of this year.
So where do I go from here?
I’m really trying to find my way back in.
Or out.
Sorry for my absence, if you missed me.
I’m hoping you have.
I’m praying for a light to go on any day now.
And I’m thinking I’ll be alright.
But time will tell . . .

~m

What is it all about?
My wife asked me this question the other day and I have to admit it puzzled my puzzler.
It’s a good question.
A deep question.
As busy as we both are with work, the 3 girls, the house, getting the cars fixed,
cooking supper, making a life, at the end of the day we look at each other and
shake our heads and wonder; what is it all about?
There was a point in our lives that we thought we knew but now we’re not so sure.
I know what it’s not about.
It’s not about the internet, Facebook, Yahoo, Gmail, the Stock Market, major league sports,
water polo, horse races or the lottery.
Not about cats, dogs, parakeets, beta fish, koalas or
freshly shucked oysters with freshly squeezed lemons.
It is definitely not about horseradish. (although I like to think so)
It’s not about the greenhouse effect or the nasty oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico.
The question is why do we work our fingers to the bone only to die so soon after we have retired?
Tired is a lonely town.
I realize that bills need to be paid and food needs to be put on the table
so work needs to be done.
But at what cost?
It is something to ponder.
Pamela is still thinking about it, I’m sure.
Me, too.
And for most of us, life goes on.
Or so we hope.
Maybe it’s just (in the words of Douglas Adams) all about the number 42

{1 \over T}\int_0^T \left| \zeta\left({1 \over 2} + it\right) \right|^6\,dt \sim {42 \over 9!}\prod_p \left\{1-{1\over p}\right\}^4 \left( 1 + {4 \over p} + {1 \over p^2} \right) \log^9 T

Yeah, I didn’t think so.
Here’s to the answers and the endless Questions . . .

M

Yeah,
Me,
Michael,
total comment & blog slacker.
I admit it and hang my head in total blogosphere shame.
The past few months have been a bit difficult and have not
allowed for me to visit and comment as I usually do (or try to)
I have answered almost every comment on this blog from the past few months, I think.
If I missed one, please kick me in the ass.
I need it.
And deservedly so.
Just trying to make things right here at S&M tonight . . .
Back to my blogging cave . . .
{insert maniacal laughter .wav file here}
If I haven’t been by your blog lately, watch out.
I will be soon . . .

M