I’ve de-activated my Facebook account because I go there when
I really should be doing other things.
I’m a great one for talking about all my writing goals and how I’m achieving them
but truth be told, I get sidetracked by things that are too easy to do.
Like Facebook.
Like Twitter.
Like Youtube. (that’s a tough one)
No more posting funny pictures.
No more posting really cool links.
No more fucking around with stuff that will ultimately get me nowhere.
Real fast.
I’ve finally come to the realization that if I want to write a damn book, I need to write.
Period.
No distractions.
No games.
No Facebook.
No Twitter.
And NO YOUTUBE.
Kind of like a self-imposed ‘Lent’ for writers.
And if I truly want to call myself one then that’s what I need to do.
That’s my story and I am sticking to it.
Until next time.
Check my archives.
There’s much reading to be done.
Thanks all.
~m

ps. if you really need to get in touch with me?
Go to the page that says, ‘Email Me’.
I check email daily X 12 . . .

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 . . .

Red Ivy, on me
disgusting, invisible
blood, splatters, body

~m

I feel like a sad song
One that feels as I do right now
no rhyme, no reason;
just overcrowded staves of emotional chromaticism making no sense; no reason, no rhyme

I feel like a sad song
One that sounds different than the one I’ve sung for so long, too long now
out of time and tune, out of my mind with more questions than the distant answers found on the worn pages of a fake book, my book of life

I am that sad song
One deep inside the why’s and the what ifs of a book;
moments in time, this book of liars, of blue tears
of grace notes unnoticed and songs unsung, a song of the heart still waiting silently to be found
maybe to be sung . . .

~m

When I started this blog over 5 years ago,
I had no clue as to just how much it would transform my life; the many people I’ve met, to the
relationships I’ve formed have amazed, humbled and yes, inspired me.
Maybe it was my heart splashed on the pages here that have brought some my way.
Many having been caught up in the same labyrinth I somehow made it through.
I’ve gained friends and lost some.
Made people cry and made them laugh.
What amazes me most is the unexpected things, the deep friendships that just ‘happened’.
Next week, Pamela and I will drive to Logan airport (read: Arrivals!)
to pick up two people that have not only forever changed our lives but have
found their way into the heart of this family.
They understand us as we understand them.
(although they both can still take the piss out of me at will. I guess I’m an easy target)
They will spend the better part of three weeks with us as we make our way
through a list of ‘to do’s’ that has been building since last August.
There will be music, food, drink, cigars, music, didgeridoo, laughter, jokes, sightseeing,
a long-awaited 4 day trip to the North Country and some very special conversations at midnight.
And I just aquired a nice CharBroil  ‘No-Oil’ infrared Turkey fryer.
The boys are going to have us some fun!
Mark has taken notes on several notable Boston eateries that he wants to visit. (no worries, she’ll be right mate)
Maureen just wants good cheeseburgers and pink lemonade. (after your Cincinnati Chili!)
I ask that you say a prayer for their safe arrival here.
This year we will have connectivity (unlike last year!)
Watch for some funny blog fluff.
Pamela, the girls and me are jumping like maggots on a barbie as we wait.
Our trip to Logan will be complete only after we see 3 Australian Akubras.
I will definitely be wearing mine.
There’s one Akubra 

~m

ps. I will personally be happy when Maureen and Mark see the gorgeous skyline below . . .

There’s a subdued purple crimson suggestion of a new day off to the east and I can’t help but wonder
what today will bring.
It’s yet another pedestrian Monday morning;
another chance to make the pieces somehow fit, a seemingly impossible task.
But there’s always that “what if” that keeps us all steadily on track.

I took a nice long stroll yesterday with my wife through a cemetery right near our house.
I cherish these walks because they set me straight,
keep me sane and burn calories (something my physician loves).
It’s quiet and peaceful and my wife and I consider the many folks there our personal friends.

Over the years, they’ve been privy to our most intimate conversations;
our quandaries and concerns, our aspirations and clandestine dreams.
As we walk and try to somehow figure it all out; this life,
this frantic situation we always find ourselves in.
Most days, we leave the cemetery with more questions than we came in with
making me wonder if that’s the way it’s really supposed to be.

The cemetery is surrounded by water and my wife sees a lone swan off in the distance,
floating silently on the water.
There’s no breeze and the murky water appears to me as black glass; static and dim,
the reflections of indigo sky above screaming of a visual paradox.
So much like our lives, I think.

“I wonder where the other one is.” She says.

“The other one?” I ask.

“Yeah, they always travel in pairs. Like us. That’s the way it is with swans.”

“I didn’t know that,” I say, “I only see one.”

“Me, too,” She says.

My wife scans the area surrounding the pond and seems sad the swan is alone;
an almost bittersweet sentimentality.
Our conversation veers off on another relatively impossible tangent as we continue our walk
around the winding cemetery road,
both of us unconsciously searching for the second swan.

~m

the echoes of goodbye,
cross a yawning chasm of fog and thought
find me sitting in this Darkroom,
the pictures of my life, languid and swirling above me

familiar fingers of blacklight penetrate me,
violating my inner walls of thought,
a fortress once impervious yet fragile, yes, once like me

galaxies of sotto voce secrets, skeletons in my locked closet
seem to drip like candle wax from the hanging pictures
the memories of my sweet by and by
they were prints I lost so damn long ago
souvenirs, as lost as I

this Darkroom embraces its secrets,
never letting go of the subtleties of the ‘why’
some things just simply refuse to let go of me
like the distant echoes of goodbye . . .

~m

*repost of a  dark angel

During my lunch hour today I wanted to drop off a fountain pen for repair.
This meant a walk to Downtown Crossing in the shopping district,
an area swarming with people today due to the warm summer weather.

The Bromfield Pen Shop is a place I have dreams about with all their pens, cool ink and exotic paper.
It’s the only place in Boston to take a sick pen; the patient of the day: a Mont Blanc fountain pen.
As I walked down Washington Street, grilled sausages, onions and red and green peppers assaulted my olfactory senses.
I was hungry and had multiple thoughts of mustard.
Spicy, brown mustard.

I was limited on time so I dropped off the pen and didn’t chance a look at the new inks
that had undoubtedly come in.
I am a big-time sucker for creatively colored inks.
Thank my lucky stars I didn’t have the time to spend money I don’t have on inks I really don’t need.
And ink is sooooo cool.
You have no idea.

I left the pen shop and walked up Bromfield Street when I saw a sign for a tres cool sandwich shop.
I walked in and saw a line longer than the bank on payday.
I would settle for a grilled chicken sandwich from Burger King. (yummy, right?)
I sat down to eat and noticed an older black man panhandling right outside the front door.
This guy was a bit different though.
He wasn’t asking for money, though he did hold a large BK cup in his hand.
I watched through the glass as he mouthed ‘hello’ and ‘have a nice day, now’ to the many people walking by.
He was polite and generally unobtrusive for a needy guy.

And he was needy.

He stood about my height (5’8”) and had on ratty clothes, the overall effect topped off
with a weathered Boston Red Sox hat.
His toothless smile seemed almost innocuous. . . inviting.
You almost wanted to forgive him though he’d done no wrong, if that makes any sense.

As a rule, I don’t give money to street people.
I might offer a piece of fruit or a bottle of water if I have an extra.

I reached into my BK bag and took out an order of French Fries that I hadn’t ordered.
I brought them up to the register and told the woman that waited on me that I hadn’t ordered them. She waved her hand in a ‘no comprende’ way and said ‘keep them’.

I haven’t been eating fries lately and decided my windfall would be a snack for the man outside ‘working the street’.

I ate my lunch and continued to watch this man smile, say hello, give directions and take whatever this unblinking society would give him.
I finished my sandwich and grabbed the bag with the fries (still sufficiently hot) and left.
I walked up and handed him the bag and said, “Here, eat these. You do eat fries, don’t ya’?”

You would have thought I’d just given him a winning lottery ticket.

He smiled and said, “Bless you, my brother. Bless your heart.”

I walked across Tremont Street and through a warm, sunny Boston Common back to work,
oddly happy to have been sincerely blessed.

~m

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

*a repost from a time I can’t seem to forget

This morning, the highway was filled with a multitude of disembodied headlights, each one searching through a seemingly inexhaustible mist, an optical illusion a bit tough to handle at 6AM when you’re still sleeping.
I made it onto the train and stared out the window at the relentless sheets of rain.
The dark and rainy skies made me think of a night many years ago when I went to my parent’s house after a slew of frantic phone calls from my mother.
She would freak out on a fairly regular basis back then.
At the time, she was in the late beginning stages of Alzheimer’s and I was still in total denial.
I pulled into the driveway and saw her silhouette standing in the open doorway.
I remember thinking she looked peaceful standing there
and not the frantic woman I’d just spoken to on the phone.

I called her name.

“Mom?”

No response.
As I walked up the stairs, I could see her staring off into the distance, detached and trance-like.
I stood next to her to try and see what she was looking at when she said,
“Look. There’s million’s of them.”

“Millions of what, Mom?” I asked.

“Stars,” she said, “Can’t you see them?”

In the front yard there was an old oak tree, the leaves still dripping from the heavy rain.
Behind the oak, I could see the front porch light from the Jacobson’s house
up on the hill illuminating the thousands of falling raindrops.
Stars, I thought, it’s raining stars.
I took off my glasses to see the world, if only for a moment, through my mother’s eyes.
A simple oak tree was being transformed into an impressionistic masterpiece right in front of me, thanks to a few misfiring neurons located somewhere in my mother’s brain.

“It’s beautiful, Mom.” I said.

“Yes. It is…” She replied.

I didn’t realize it at the time but the raindrops falling from the tree closely echoed the neurological avenue my mother was currently traveling down.
The drops of rain falling and disappearing into the waiting earth were so much like her failing memory,
a collection of antiquated shooting stars ultimately destined to crash and burn, their celestial beauty gone all too soon.
As we stood silently on the porch, an internal cog clicked inside me.
It was a frightening moment of absolute realization.
My phase of denial had finally come to an end.

~m