Chill.
Grab a coffee, English Breakfast tea, Chai, cognac, scotch, bourbon, water and maybe a smoke,
all depending on where you are in the world of time zones.
Plug in some decent headphones and give yourself 7:40 minutes to just . . .
Chill.
This is 'Both Sides Now',  Herbie Hancock from River: The Joni Letters
Hancock is and has been a jazz piano God to me.
Forever.
And believe it or not he is 70 years old. (born in 1940)
At any rate, get a drink, perhaps a smoke and just
Chill.
for 7:40 . . .
Your brain will thank me.
This is musical/cerebral Zen at its finest.

Writer reading.
It is winter and a time of introspection and reflection.
I am in the midst of a badly needed reading spree.

On the list?

*Just finished: Wishin' and Hopin': A Christmas Story
by Wally Lamb (Christmas gift from my girls. It was hysterical)

*Next: Raymond Carver: 'A Writer's Life'
by Carol Sklenicka (this years birthday gift from Pamela. I love Carver. Always have.)

*Next: (finishing)  The Hour I First Believed
by Wally Lamb (should have finished this long ago)

*Next: A Confederacy of Dunces
by John Kennedy Toole
(a used book from Hyannis, Cape Cod, July 2009, remember, Moe?)

*Next: The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao
by Junot Diaz
(always wanted to read this)

Is this a wish list?
Nope.
I have every book on the list (except for the Diaz which I plan on getting sometime tomorrow)

There's more after that but I'm thinking that's a pretty good start. Yes?
Might be a bit quieter than usual around here but hey, it's winter.
Time to chill out.
And definitely time to read . . .

 

After I hit the 'publish' button on this post I will be away from the blog I so love for a little bit. I have so many wonderful things to cook for the holidays over the next few days that I will have no time to sit down and visit here. I want to wish each and every person that visits a wonderful Christmas filled with all the things you've come to know and love over the years. I pray that broken hearts can be somehow mended, shattered spirits can be lifted, a little grace can be restored and that at least one person finally finds the true meaning of the holiday. May God bless all of you. Thanks for reading here. I leave you with one of my favorite renditions of a Christmas classic. And have yourself a Merry Little Christmas . . .

There are things that happen in our lives that occasionally defy space, time, gravity and logic. While we experience these types of phenomena on a daily basis we are sometimes too busy to see and embrace it. There are two areas that require attention in my backyard: the lawn and the flowers. I generally mow the lawn while Pamela tends to the flowers. The flowerpots lining the yard and hanging from the shed looked especially good this year but the garden looked like some fat lady sat on it. The poor appearance of the garden had something to do with the amount of rainfall we had in June. It rained 28 days out of 30 and the garden flowers suffered. Pamela hates weeds and is constantly plucking them from the garden and the mulch that surrounds the outside of the yard. I tell you this so you understand that she has a keen awareness of all things growing in the backyard. As I said before, all of the Cape Cod goodbyes were difficult but nothing could have prepared me for August 2nd, the day Maureen and Mark left. Pamela & Hannah went with me to the airport that afternoon. The skies were greyslate over Boston and the tone in the truck was a bit somber compared to the first drive to the Cape two very short weeks ago. We somehow managed the ‘goodbyes’ and went our separate ways, more difficult than I ever could have imagined. I was walking and wearing my Akubra, my arm around Pamela. She took my arm and placed it over Hannah’s shoulder who was hurting more than Pamela. This would be our hardest and saddest goodbye. We got home and tried to keep busy straightening up and getting the house back in order for the work week ahead. I poured a few fingers of Maker’s Mark and made Pamela a Rum Swizzle. I was in the kitchen on my laptop when I heard Pamela yell from the backyard, “Hey Michael! Come here!” She was standing by the enormous hostas (so big I call them Jimmy Hostas) staring at the ground. “Look at those two flowers.” “Yeah,” I said, in that low to high tone I use when questioning her. “They weren’t there before. I swear. I’ve never seen them.” “Then how did they get there,” I asked. “They’re Impatiens. They need to be planted.” “And you didn’t plant them?” I asked. “Nope.” She got teary and said, “It’s Maureen and Mark. They didn’t want to leave. They didn‘t.” What do you say to a woman crying over two mysterious flowers that have grown out of nowhere? You don’t argue, for one thing. You shake your head, agree, and give her a huge hug. As a dear friend of mine once said of wonderful and mysterious things in this life, “Sometimes, it just is.” I’m also thinking that those plant roots run quite deep. Now that’s something I can definitely relate to . . .

Most of you know that I received a didjeridoo of the highest order from Australia when I was at the Cape. (thank you Maureen and Mark) (especially Mark, for the packaging . . .  thanks, mate) I have, in all honesty, devoted myself to playing it. Although I've yet to master the art of circular breathing, I can play the didj now. When I first blew into the beeswax mouthpiece the first thing I thought was, "Wow, this thing tastes funny." It was the beeswax. No worries. No more chapped lips either. The first sound I got was something similar to what would come out of my ass after 13 bowls of kidney beans. Yup. It was shit. Sounded like a blunder under water. Since I've been reading and practicing, I can get the fundamental drone (sweet spot) and actually make this sucker growl. I do promise to put up a YouTube video when I feel proficient enough to not look like a total American asshole trying to play an authentic instrument from another country. I've so much of Australia in my blood right now (Vegemite, too) that it's only a matter of time. Stay tuned folks. This is going to get interesting. Promise. The short video below is an aboriginal playing the didj. Pretty amazing in my opinion. The dude can blow. Don't look for me wearing the makeup though . . . As far as the hair? I might get a wig just to be funny. Stay tuned. Check it out, y'all

Sarah and I went to visit my father yesterday to feed him lunch and sit with him for a while. Lately, he’s been overly emotional for reasons I may never be privy to. The minute he saw us, he broke down completely. I feel terrible saying it but I’ve almost gotten used to it now. I had to. My empathy for him that once seemed to be an impossibility to avoid feeling has now turned into an acceptance of sorts that boggles my mind. He was in the rec room that overlooks the city waiting to be fed. I wheeled him to his room where I know it’s quiet and had Sarah get his lunch. He’s a finicky eater these days around everyone except my sister and me which makes total sense. His diet is now 100% pureed making his meals look more like and artist’s palette than a meal. I learned yesterday that spinach makes my father cry. On his plate were potatoes, spinach and something that would resemble pasta and meatballs in the ‘baby food’ format. 20 years ago, the thought of drinking an Italian meal through a straw had never occurred to me. My father’s daily nutritional needs are now thrown into a blender ala ‘Bass-O-Matic’. And I wonder why he cries? I can’t get away from the feeling that a small part of him is frightened. Not of me or Sarah or Maureen or Pam and the kids but he seems almost Fear Factor scared. My sister says he’s a tortured soul and I would have to agree. There are so many things that run rampant through my mind as I feed him, spoonful by blessed spoonful . . . (I’m looking at a rainbow hovering over Boston as I write this. Truth) there was the day we brought my mother to assisted living and took my father back to our house for a BBQ. That may have been one of the last times that I actually ‘had’ him. He was making sense and I could talk to him and he could understand me. He was profoundly sad about bidding farewell to his wife for two weeks but at least he still liked the taste of beer (something he’s since lost long ago) Spoonful by blessed spoonful . . . the soft, cool grass beneath my feet in the backyard as we played catch after he got home from work. We never talked when we played catch but there was conversation that he and I understood. Especially when he threw a ball with some mustard on it, smiling as I caught it. That was my own personal field of dreams. Spoonful by blessed spoonful . . . the Christmas night I went to the facility he was staying in and found him in a self-induced sugar coma after polishing off an entire bag of Dove’s chocolates that someone had given him. There were candy wrappers everywhere, discarded like wrapping paper on Christmas morning. He seemed ready to do jumping jacks, for Christ's sake I keep praying for a rainbow in his future but he’s having one hell of a time seeing through the gauzy reality he’s currently living in. I finish giving him lunch and to my surprise he’s eaten everything save for the Popeye spinach soup. I’m happy because he has a belly full of food but he’s the farthest thing from a happy ending because he knows it’s time for me to go. I kiss his forehead and say, “I love you, Dad,” to which he replies, “Yeah.” Sarah and I walk to the door and she says, “Bye, Grampa.” More Wally tears. We walk down the corridor to the elevators in silence as I allow myself to cry a bit on the inside wanting badly for the seemingly inconsequential goodbyes to finally end. It’s then that I have an small epiphany; as I feed him lunch, he’s actually feeding me. It’s a Communion of sorts between my father and I. I change my mind then and there. And all of a sudden I don’t want the goodbyes to end.

*I have no clue as to how many chapters are waiting to be written regarding this incredible time in my life. As sure as the Akubra hat on my head, this will be far from the last. I’m not entirely sure where to begin because my grey matter is still processing all that’s gone on these past few weeks. If I haven’t stopped by your blog it’s simply because the last month has consumed me both physically and emotionally leaving very little of me left to visit. As most of you know already my family and I vacationed for a week with Maureen & Mark (M&M), Annie and Evyl & Joyce down on Cape Cod. The week after, M&M stayed at our home and rode the train into Boston with me most days. I worked and they did everything from walking the Freedom Trail to taking a Trolley Tour all over the city. I was blessed on one night with a surprise game at Fenway Park. (saving that for a later post) M&M also had their own personal city guide, my daughter Hannah, who has found a new best friend in Morky (Moe, as well) Cut to Day 1: The flight carrying M&M, Annie and a very special present for yours truly landed late the Saturday they arrived. No worries, right? Planes land late all the time. Little did I know that this was the proverbial tip of the holiday iceberg of mishaps. I expected a phone call from Maureen when she touched down in Boston and assumed it would be her when the phone rang. The phone did ring and I was surprised to hear Annie’s voice. (cue the bah-da-dum-dum) All I remember from the conversation was Annie saying, “They lost the didj. Don’t worry they will find it and hand deliver it to the house on the Cape tonight.” The ‘special’ present was a custom made Australian Didgeridoo just for me. (click the link for a description) I had already known about it for months because Moe had sent me pictures. This instrument was special; sacred, actually. I realized that Annie had made the call because Mark was physically restraining Maureen from committing her first murder on American soil. This didj was unique as a constellation in the sky, a one and only; a present that M&M held so dear. My heart broke knowing how upset they both were. Thank God Annie was there as the voice of calm and reason. It seems she quelled the impending riot and got everyone to the van that would bring them to my house. We made it to the Cape and got settled and began our wait for the didj. Saturday night, no didj. Sunday night, still no didj. Monday, no didj. 496 phone calls later (by Moe and Annie) told us to expect it Tuesday night around 5:30. Guess what? No didj. More phone calls and a promise that said instrument would be delivered by 10:30PM. Things were getting surreal now. A firepit was lit, many drinks were poured, cigars were lit and we all sat around the fire playing ‘Celebrity Heads’  laughing and listening for the courier to pull up in front of the house with the long lost precious goods. It was at 10:30 that a van finally pulled into the driveway. Like children on Christmas morning, all of us ran out to the front yard of the house totally freaking out the driver. He could tell that we were all very happy to see him (* a bit pissed as well). I high fived the guy and took the didj into the house as Mark and I began opening the nuclear war-proofed package. Mark took the black padded sleeve off, handed it to me and said, “Here’s your didj, mate.” Holding this incredible instrument was not unlike holding a newborn baby. I knew how much it meant to Maureen and Mark and the moment overwhelmed me. I then did what all father’s do when they hold their newborn . . . I cried. Like a baby . . . Still learning to play it and getting close to an actual didj sound. Stay tuned. Annie, thank you for your relentless pursuit and urgent phone calls to the courier. And Maureen? Thank you for not ripping the head off of an innocent American body. (she'll be right, mate) Hooroo! (below is a pic of the actual didj) *slightly intoxicated . . .   :mrgreen: ** btw- this didj is a low F# drone (sweet spot/fundamental tone)

I am all about the stars. Just downloaded 'Stellarium' tonight. Had to share. Even the desktop icon is cool for this program. If you like stars and the night sky this program is nuckin' futs. It's a big file (@40megs) but totally worth it. I've been trolling the sky for the past half hour. Click on the picture above and enjoy. Any guesses as to the constellation up there? (Moe, don't bother) :mrgreen: Enjoy . . .

I follow many people on Twitter and one of them is the writer Jonathan Carroll. Although most of his tweets are of quotes and interesting life observations he occasionally will post a link to a website he's found that interests him. Being a big JC fan I inevitably follow his links. I consider Carroll to be an incredibly creative man and am usually glad I clicked on one of his recommended links. Today was no exception and this site has stayed with me all day. Click on the picture above to visit a site called 'Dear God'. As Carroll says in his Twitter, he doesn't know if the site is interesting or creepy. I found it to be much more than that, personally. Follow Carroll on Twitter. He is an amazing man. Maybe he uses Stumbleupon to find these sites but I am forever entertained and enlightened. This site is a bit intense. Forearmed is forwarned.

I began thinking about the old black pot belly stove that sat in the cellar of the house I grew up in. No idea where the thought came from but it triggered a total waterfall of memories for me. The stove was fat in the way a corpulent Santa Claus would be. It had an ornate shiny silver 'belt' of trim around the belly and a flat top where you could actually put a skillet and fry some eggs or place a kettle to boil water. I vaguely remember my father heating some hot dogs and  Boston Baked Beans on it one winter night when the power went out, though my sister would have to validate that. Many magical things happened in that cellar over the years. There were the band rehearsals where I learned to play songs like 'Ohio', 'For What It's Worth' and  'Rocky Racoon'. I learned that Wild Irish Rose was total rotgut at $2.98 a bottle and that weed was something to be smoked and not ripped from the garden to be added to the compost pile. Guild, Fender and Martin guitars were awesome and playing the introduction to 'Black Magic Woman' on a Fender Rhodes while high was a near religious experience. (My Mom knew, but said very little) It was in that special place that I slowly broke away from childhood innocence and began to see all the crazy possibility in the world. It was in the ground level bay window that my father would set up one of those chintzy silver tinsel Christmas trees. You know, the ones that were lit up by a squeaky and archaic tri-color rotating light that turned the tree from red to green to yellow to yack? My father would plug it in and run outside and stand in the side yard and stare at it as he shook his head in total Yuletide affirmation. After my sister's wedding (reception), 100 or so people descended on the house; upstairs, downstairs, in the cellar, 9 Old Worcester Road was transformed into a surreal but quintessential Animal House complete with music, booze, food and crazy people walking through screen doors. I'd never seen my Dad totally blasted until that night. Christ in a sidecar, he was funny. Even funnier the next morning. (don't talk to me, just don't talk to me . . . ) The cellar was also the location of a very special place created by Sarah and Jenna (my two oldest daughters) called, 'Mr. Boston's'. My father had remodeled an old bureau into a bar on wheels, an idea he got from God knows where. Take a bureau and turn it around so the drawers are facing away from you, cover the back and sides with paneling and put a nice wood trim around the top corners and you have a bar. I can still see the tacky yellow linoleum he put on the bureau top. The 'drawer' side faced the bartender where there were drawers filled with drink mixes, napkins, toothpicks, martini glasses, broken corkscrews and booze (except in the off season). There was a maniacal clock with backwards numbers and hands that hung on the wall behind the bar. (the second hand went backwards) On the face it boldly asked "Are you ready for another one?" It's ironic that when you were drunk it actually made some sense. The girls would go straight to Mr. Boston's whenever we went to visit my mother and father. Sarah would usually start out as the bartender because she was older and Jenna would be her soul customer (*ms, intentional). We could hear them laughing and yelling as we all laughed and smiled upstairs. Eventually, they would get a bit bored with the limited clientele and come back upstairs to recruit some fresh meat. We would all go downstairs and 'get served' as the girls became both bartender and waitress. They would take orders on their paper pads and serve us wonderful food and drink. That was until we got our bill. ($768.00 for 2 burgers and drinks!?!?!?! Your prices are too high Mr. Boston) I guess what I realized today was that my cellar was a place where small dreams came true for many people, including my two oldest daughters. And I know that everyone reading this post has their own 'Mr. Boston's' as well. Write about it tonight . . .  and remember. It's only a few pen strokes away . . .