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

Happy Memorial Day folks.
Please don’t forget to thank a soldier today.
At the very least, pray for one.
Lighting a candle here . . .

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

The tree is up and dressed with soft, white lights, ornaments and icicles.
The cats are already stripping them off and methodically leaving them on the floor where my unsuspecting feet find them at 3:02am.
The other morning I found a ceramic reindeer the sole of my left foot was violently impaled
with the antlers of an unsympathetic and ceramic reindeer.
*%&^$&(#)@!!!!
Bastards.
Yeah, it’s Christmastime.
Although I’ve yet to hear much in the way of holiday music,
I’ve no doubt that within two weeks time I’ll be deep in the complicated state of Yuletide Dismay
wanting to slit my wrists at the mere sound of the introduction to ‘Carol of the Bells’.
It is at this festive time of the year that I unleash my innermost Mister Nasty, the stygian beast within, the curmudgeon of melancholy, my dark saint.
Part of me still harbours (more like imprisons) that little boy that used to love the snow
and the Christmas lights and yes, even the ’Carol of the Bells’.
These days Mister Nasty can’t come out and play.
Actually, I don’t want to come outside.
I play the dark saint of sorts and find my own personal way to somehow make it to December 26th
(Sarah’s birthday for those of you who will find out anyway on her Twitter).
I think that some of my snowy disdain is rooted in the overabundance of past holiday social fatalities.
Dealing with Alzheimer’s Disease ironically (and sadly) made me forget my ‘Santa’ mentality replacing it with this almost diabolical Grinch-like quality – an issue currently Under Construction.
Humor me for the next month or so as I deal with the bleak canvas of winter as my thoughts turn deeply inwards.
This holiday season has quite a different feel to it though and I think I know why.
Unfortunately, I can’t tell you the reason.
So indulge me, won’t you?
And who knows?
Maybe this Grinch will once and for all find his Christmas heart . . .

This poor little robot is so very much like me.
{sigh . . . }
Almost there, almost there, almost there . . .
Turn up the volume and grab a warm and soothing cup of something
and click ‘play’.

For me this post signifies many things:
loss,
discovery,
deletion,
pain,
expectations,
choices,
devil-is-in-the-details,
denial and
ultimately
The
truth . . .

Cryptic, I know and I apologize for my strange and mysterious ways.
The following poem has been used for many purposes over the years,
based on its various interpretations.
Methinks, that’s why it’s such a great piece of literature.
It spoke multitudes to me tonight.
If you’ve read it, read it again.
If you haven’t, you are in for a real treat.
I’ll be off in the distance chasing away the endless cumulonimbus clouds
again . . .

The Road Not Taken

by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler , long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I marked the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Sometimes when I’m having a hard time coming up with something to write about
I put on a piece of music guaranteed to stimulate a brain wave or two.
I’m currently listening to Charles Ives and his Concord Symphony,
specifically ‘Hawthorne’, the second movement of the piece.
Ives isn’t for the average listener, believe me.
It’s some strange and beautiful stuff.
When I first listened to this particular piece years ago,
I wondered how one man could physically play it.
About three minutes into ‘Hawthorne’ you hear these pentatonic (all black notes) clusters,
an impossibility for the right hand alone given what the left hand is doing at that point.
Trust me.
It’s impossible.
Or so I thought.
I would find out years later that the performance notes for the Concord
require a piece of wood that must be cut to a certain size and
must weigh approximately 8oz or some crazy ass shit like that.
The board is gently ‘layed’ across the black notes on the piano giving the massive ‘cluster’ effect that I heard (and loved)
Nope Ives is not for the faint of heart simply because of the harmonic complexity of his music.
One minute he can sound like Chick Corea while the next he’s Scott Joplin on an acid trip.
I would recommend that everyone listen to Ives but I fear you’d call me insane.
If you want to experience something insanely creative by a lowly insurance salesman from Danbury, Connecticut,
go for it.
Ives is incredible and one of a kind.
I heard someone play something by Ives many years ago and it was something of a religious experience.
Truth.
Check it out.
Be sure and stop back for Weird Wednesday!

~m

For those of you that choose to listen:

Hawthorne Part 1
Hawthorne Part 2

These are performed by Marc-Andre Hamelin,
an amazing pianist and great interpreter of Ives.

Strange mood this evening, peoples
Felt like some appropriate night music.
Enjoy.

Say hello to ‘Sebastian’s Voodoo’ . . .

I close my eyes
trying to dream of something better than this
anything true, a slightly bruised honesty would do
Maybe it’s because nothing feels safe anymore

So I close my eyes
and dream of distant Norwegian lilies
of beautiful and colourful things, the slumbering truths of my past
Although nights of black rain are making it so hard to sleep

But I close my eyes
And dream of opening them to the tragedy of a bleeding truth;
that life is never quite what it appears to be
to these sad and sleepy eyes of mine
And that innocence can only be found caught between the teeth of angels . . .