No one knows what it’s like,
maybe even him
the days are like carbon copies of days gone by, yesterdays passed;
more of the same, the blooming of a thousand shades of grey
And life is grey; maybe it’s the only shade he knows . . .

No one knows what it’s like
maybe even me
as I take in his awkward smiles, I wonder just who they’re really meant for
Does he miss her?
Yes, he does, and he tells me so, in sotto voce syllables
I’m still unsure of what I must believe and choose to believe in him because
what’s left is all I have to believe in

No one knows what it’s like
Perhaps, God does, but He is forgetful too;
like the saving grace of His mercy, of dignity and compassion,
the sadness of detail, the complexity of why
And He cries,
for all fathers present and past, but maybe for a world He ultimately created
in love . . .

My father knows what it’s like
when it’s time for me to leave and
long forgotten tears of understanding reach his tired eyes,
tears I can no longer wipe away
because unlike him,
I already know what it’s like to say goodbye
And I do . . .

The picture above is a favorite poem I wrote that I pasted into Wordle.
I found the site through Kat, a poet/writer and wonderful new blogging friend.
She ‘Wordled’ a poem she’d written and I so loved the image it gave me.
Wondering how many readers here know what poem I Wordled . . .
Any guesses?

btw- Pamela did most of what you see above. I just supplied the words.
Click on the picture for a larger view

His shadow, embedded in ice
frozen in time,
Inescapable in ways unimaginable
with cold that numbs the very soul,
winterness

Night train, with no destination in sight
on the broken hands of time,
a window seat overlooking an arctic world
searching for signs of his life,
winterness

Eyes cry freezing rain
a polarized crystalline blue
with hopes of some homeward bound image
but it’s never safe from zero
winterness

michael’s on ice,
a seasonal flatline in black
like the snow-tipped mountains of forever
with a soul numbing wind of 1 below zero,
winterness

I’m a bad Santa, a Grinch and yuletide curmudgeon of the highest order and I admit it.
Just the thought of this most blatantly commercial and candy-cane-twisted holiday sends me running for my dimly lit cave high on Mount Crumpit.
I’ll level with you and say that in my icy-cold heart I will always harbour a love
for the Christmas holiday with its ‘peace on earth, goodwill toward men’ mentality
but jeepers creepers how many lameass Mercedes Benz commercials can these ding-a-lings make?
Even if I had the dough I would never put a giant red bow on an SL550 and give it as a present.
You gotta be one hell of a pretentious douchebag to pull that one off.
I hardly ever watch TV and at this time of the year, even more so.
Television is where your radar picks up on all the subliminal horseshit this holiday has sadly come to represent.
Every year I try and trick myself into believing that I still hold close the personal ties of holidays past.
I’d be better off sticking my head into a steaming pile of reindeer shit.
Working retail does little but mar and mutilate a spirit that’s sadly on the ropes anyway.
I don’t hear the silver bells and I can’t see the blinking colored lights (unless they’re from a cruiser pulling me over for a busted taillight, Merry Christmas, ossifer)
Maybe it’s a psychological omission on my part, a defense mechanism to keep me from losing my plate of milk and cookies.
I should have dumped this post to Crumpit when I had the chance but I also felt it was only fair to explain my ‘month of December’ frosty sense of discontent.
If you visit here around the holidays you’ll notice that Mick gets very quiet.
I choose to leave my thoughts in a quiet place where silent snow falls, stars twinkle and the moon is always full.
It’s only in this blue crystal space that I build my sky-high snow forts of thought, ideas dripping like icicles in my frozen castle of winter words.
Maybe this will be the year that I somehow find a way to melt the walls of snow I’ve piled high, my vast emotional fortress of sorts.
Maybe this will be the time I find the absolute truth that lives peacefully inside a holiday I can honestly say I miss.
Then reality taps me on the shoulder and says, “Read This, Grinch.”
Yeah, we’re off to a brilliant start.
And people wonder why I despise this holiday and what it currently represents.
God help us, everyone.
I’m going back to my dimly lit cave, thank you very much . . .

I am: always waiting, endlessly hoping
I think: the world is going to hell in a hand basket . . .
I know: I’m not the only one that thinks so
I want: just enough
I have: a sad heart . . .
I wish: it weren’t so
I hate: Winter . . . (it’s coming)
I miss: Summer
I fear: things I have no control over
I feel: tired, like always
I hear: conversation, the rustle of a newspaper, a train on the tracks
I smell: like a fine cigar . . . (that nobody likes)
I crave: anything but
I search: for ‘the’ words . . .
I wonder: exactly what they mean
I regret: so very many things, so many mistakes, wrong turns and unfulfilled dreams
I ache: daily
I care: deeply
I always: keep ‘hope’ somewhere very close
I am not: a brain surgeon, but I’m pretty freekin’ smart
I believe: in my three wonderful daughters (my 3 hopes)
I dance: like an epileptic underneath a manic strobe light
I sing: rarely these days, which is sad
I cry: behind locked doors (not often enough)
I don’t always: shave my head
I fight: for what I truly believe in
I write: to simply stay sane
I never: feel that life is fair
I stole: a nice four-wheel dolly from a ritzy Hotel in Boston many years ago
(actually, I just ‘forgot’ to return it)
I listen: to those that truly need to be heard
I need: something
I am happy about: the fact that the dung-slinging elections are almost over.
And I could give two sweet shits about them.
Politics suck. Period. Amen.

Feel free to tag yourself on this.
No tagging here.
I borrowed this from Moe.
Great Meme . . .
Maybe too much information?
Ah, well, it had to come out sooner or later . . .

found this on the Jonathan Carroll website/blog.
written by 20th century German poet Rainer Maria von Rilke::

God Speaks to Each of Us

God speaks to each of us before we are,
Before he’s formed us then, in cloudy speech,
But only then, he speaks these words to each
And silently walks with us from the dark:

Driven by your senses, dare
To the edge of longing. Grow
Like a fire’s shadowcasting glare
Behind assembled things, so you can spread
Their shapes on me as clothes.
Don’t leave me bare.

Let it all happen to you: beauty and dread.
Simply go no feeling is too much
And only this way can we stay in touch.

Near here is the land
That they call Life.
You’ll know when you arrive
By how real it is.

Give me your hand.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

~going to try and get back to a state of blogging equilibrium here this week.
Life has been crazy. Thanks to all that have read and commented.
Much appreciated.
~m

This post is approximately 5 years in the making . . .
I’ve been an avid fan of writer Jonathan Carroll for the better part of ten years and have read almost everything the man has written. Although he’s relatively unknown in some literary circles he possesses an almost cult following for many readers, like me.
It was January 10, 2004 (my birthday) that I happened to find a rare book by Carroll floating about on Ebay.
It was called ‘The Panic Hand’, a collection of short fiction.
The item on Ebay was listed as ‘first edition, hardback, excellent condition’.
For whatever the reason, I had to have this book.
If you’re a reader, you understand the desire and obsession.
I began bidding and got into a war with someone that wanted the book almost as much as I did.
As I said, almost.
I was working that night and gave my wife instructions to place a bid of $60.00 about 30 seconds before the auction ended. If the book was destined to be mine, then so be it.
I ended up winning the auction and the book was mine.
I’m looking at it as I type this.
‘The Panic Hand’ has some of the best short fiction I think I’ve ever read especially a story called, ‘The Sadness of Detail’, my personal favorite.
Seeing that it was a first edition book, I wanted to have it signed and began looking for the next time Carroll would be in the states.
Sadly, I came up empty-handed and sent him an email inquiring about his schedule (and the fact that I had just purchased a first edition of said book and would love to have it signed).
To my surprise, I received a reply back from him that same afternoon.
He thanked me for writing and said that he didn’t get over to ‘this side of the pond’ too often seeing that he lives in Austria but suggested I keep an eye on his website for future visits.
In my email, I also mentioned how much I loved his story, ‘The Sadness of Detail’ asking where the inspiration came from. He wrote that the story was a ‘very old friend’ and one of his favorites but the inspiration for it escaped him at that time . . . but that he would be happy to sign the book should we ever meet.
Well, folks, next Tuesday night I’ll be going to Cambridge to the incredible Harvard Bookstore to listen to Carroll read from his new book, ‘The Ghost in Love’.
He’s doing a short Q&A session and a signing after that.
And yes, I plan on asking him about how he deals with ‘Writer’s Block’.
I will happily buy a copy of his new book and have it signed and hopefully be able to tell him just how much he’s inspired me in my own writing, although I write in a very different genre.
Then I will plead with him ask him to sign ‘The Panic Hand’ and hope he smiles.
Judging from the tone in his email, I should be one damn happy writer this time next Tuesday night.
Look for a follow up post.
If you haven’t read anything by this brilliant man, at least visit your local library and take something out.
I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.
Don’t sound too excited, do I?

Feels like invisible
no one can see me, but through me, never inside of me
a social quarantine, so absurd, so undeserved; a sucker punch to my internal notion of bravado
it’s the sudden realization of the parallel lines in my life that make it so
invisible . . .

Feels like invisible
not wanting the outside in, the vast shores of my life littered with too many complex intangibles,
opaque panes of cracking glass concealing inadequate truths, bruised skies of lies and the tattered directions to a place Google will never find, written on a discarded paper napkin,
the raindrops fall, rendering the Zhivago ink
invisible . . .

Feels like invisible
wounds, mainly self-inflicted; the worst and the thin, slicing kind
(they never heal and don’t bleed)
you’ll never see them, hemorrhaging my insides
but there’s a mirror in my mind, foggy and grey
and I reach out my hand and with my thumb, I slowly trace the letters:
i-n-v-i-s-i-b-l-e . . .
a shattered mosaic of my face stares back from deep within the dripping script;
the parallel lines of life and light making me a virtual prisoner, a blurred stranger in my own midst

Feels like invisible,
but not like everyday, but maybe for today,
it feels just like I do
invisible

Weather-wise, today will be much like it was seven years ago;
sunshine, blue skies and comfortable temperatures.
I’ll get a particular chill though when I gaze down Charles Street
at the sign for the Milner Hotel.

In my mind, today will be much like it was seven years ago
when I thought the world was coming to an end.
Although I’m still here, the memory of that day will be with me forever.
Click on the picture above for the 9/11 tributes I wrote on the 5th anniversary.
My prayers go out this morning for all that we lost;
the many people, our faith in justice and God, our blind innocence.
Never forget . . .

My wife and I went to Mass at a chapel Sunday night on the campus where Jenna is currently attending.
When I work in Boston on Sundays I can never seem to get to Mass so this seemed like a perfect opportunity; pray and hear Jenna sing.

I’ve had an interesting few days for a multitude of reasons some of which I can share, some of which I cannot. I can tell you I had a soul searching conversation with a friend of mine.
He asked me questions that many would never ask, possibly because they’ve got their own fish to fry, maybe because they don’t really want to hear the answers.
My friend commented that I’ve looked quite ‘down’ since Christmas and he was concerned.
There aren’t many people that deeply understand where it is that my soul comes from these days but I will say that this friend now understands.
We had something of a spiritual conversation about the role that difficulties play in our daily lives; their justifications as well as their meanings.
He told me that until I can ‘surrender’ my life problems (financial, emotional and mental) into the Hands that are patiently waiting to ease the burden, suffering will be in my life.

“We learn through our suffering. Can’t you see that? What’s right, what’s wrong and ultimately what is the truth.”

I told him that a part of me understood while in truth I was for the most part bluffing.
He knew it.

He told me of a book he’d read called “Streams in the Desert“, an interpretation of sorts that makes the sometimes antiquated words of the Bible relevant in our daily lives.
Understanding, I thought, maybe that’s what’s been missing, understanding.
Too simple.
My friend and I talked for a bit more before he said goodbye and left.
It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon in Boston and I couldn’t blame him for wanting to go outside and enjoy it.
I was surprised when he came walking in 45 minutes later.

“Here,” he said, smiling, “Read it. Understand your life.”

He place a fresh copy of “Streams in the Desert” in my outstretched hand.
I was a bit too blown away to actually say much of anything. I did mutter ‘thank you’ almost absentmindedly as he turned and walked back out into the brilliant sunshine.
I did send him an email last night expressing my deepest gratitude for his generosity and empathy.

The Mass at the chapel started at seven and I can’t even begin to tell you how badly I needed to be there.
The music moved me and the service itself touched my heart.
And I got to see my daughter and tell her how happy she’d made me by singing in the choir.
This chapel is a very special place folks.
I’ve always loved the thought that the voice is the only instrument made by God and that when you sing, you pray twice.
This post is in no way a cry for sympathy.
Don’t want it, don’t need it.
But it is one of understanding.
As of tonight, I still don’t quite get it but I do plan to keep on reading.
Changes are in the wind for me.
I just know it.
Sometimes it takes a friend to make you realize that.
Maybe even an angel . . .