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

Out on the street I was talkin’ to a man
He said “there’s so much of this life of mine that I don’t understand”
You shouldn’t worry yes that ain’t no crime
Cause if you get it wrong you’ll get it right next time (next time).

You need direction, yeah you need a name
When you’re standing in the crossroads every highway looks the same
After a while you can recognize the signs
So if you get it wrong you’ll get it right next time (next time).

Life is a liar yeah life is a cheat
It’ll lead you on and pull the ground from underneath your feet
No use complainin’, don’t you worry, don’t you whine
Cause if you get it wrong you’ll get it right next time (next time).

You gotta grow, you gotta learn by your mistakes
You gotta die a little everyday just to try to stay awake
When you believe there’s no mountain you can climb
And if you get it wrong you’ll get it right next time (next time).

“Get it right next time” by Gerry Rafferty

Special dedication tonight as I recall a smoky dive from the 50′s called the ‘Waltz Club’  . . .
Long story and definitely not one for this blog.
I knew of one of the patron saints of the place, from what I’ve heard.
Sweet dreams, lady, sweet and smoky dreams
Maybe I’ll see you in them . . .

[11.9.09]

*I find it intensely gratifying (for very personal reasons)
to give you the list of the players on this archaic recording:

Johnny Hartman, vocal
John Coltrane, tenor sax
McCoy Tyner, piano
Jimmy Garrison, bass
Elvin Jones, drums

God must have been engineering.

I remember a moment 28 years ago like it was just yesterday.
And here we are still trying to imagine.
And Lennon’s memory lives on . . .

Slice to 0pen, staple to close
the mar00n red smear of a greasepaint smile, a calling card in cumulonimbus,
pregnant with dark water

Black crack, skies 0pen
0pen eyes close
an inc0mprehensible and maniacal palette of colour; in whites, greens, blacks and reds
a primary psych0tic mind in full fundamental whack
as the world begins to hem0rrhage innuend0

No way 0ut, dead end streets
rain falls like shattering glass
n0thing makes sense in this n0nsensical w0rld
c0nfusing time with the present, time with the past

Tomorr0w draws its shades, a sullen and squalid twist
his brain cells turning to a darkened shade of 0chre
Slice to 0pen, staple to cl0se
to the NetherWorld goes the J0ker . . .

There’s a sacred moment lost somewhere between the dreamworld and my waking hours
that you are alive, still within me, heart beating, the assuring rhythm of your breath
Though the moment quickly dies, the memory of you continues to live; a complex composition of stars shining down from the heavens,
the genesis of untold galaxies,
the perpetual continuation of time as I know it

Days turn to weeks, weeks to months and the months to years and your memory continues to grow,
continues to soften, continues to go on . . .
And though my soul weeps tonight,
there’s a bitterweet solace in my heart knowing that, in the grander scheme of things,
tomorrow morning is just stolen moments away
When the lavender dawn will find you once again . . . at peace

{for Mom 7.15.2005 ~ 7.15.2008}

I want to live my next life backwards:

You start out dead and get that out of the way.

Then you wake up in a nursing home feeling better every day.

Then you get kicked out for being too healthy.

Enjoy your retirement and collect your pension.

Then when you start work, you get a gold watch on your first day you work 40 years until you’re too young to work.

You get ready for High School: drink alcohol, party, and you’re generally promiscuous.

Then you go to primary school, you become a kid, you play, and you have no responsibilities.

Then you become a baby, and then… You spend your last 9 months floating peacefully in luxury, in Spa-like conditions – central heating, room service on tap, and then…

You finish off as an orgasm.

I rest my case.

this was attributed to Carlin.
Not sure if it’s entirely true but it sure sounds like something he would say.
I saw the man many years ago at a small venue in Rhode Island.
He was incredible.
I am deeply saddened by his death.
A true clown has died.
Rest in pieces, George.
You were an original.
Long live the Toledo Window Box

~m

[googlevideo=http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=-7509689256581769845]

Dan Fogelberg ~ (1951 – 2007)

In my early years of playing music, Fogelberg was a definite musical influence on me.
I saw him perform in 1976 at the Orpheum in Boston (the first night I ever smoked a joint, now you have some serious dirt on me).
I wooed my wife way back when performing many of his tunes.
Whether you liked the guy or not, he was a peaceful man and a very talented songwriter.
I saw this news clip on Yahoo this afternoon.
God, I have another reason to hate Mondays.
I am very sad tonight.
I’ll stop there.
Should you ever get a chance, listen to “Souvenirs”.
Click on the photo above for Fogelberg’s website.

And here is a sunrise
To set on your sill.
The ghosts of the dawn
Moving near.
They pass through your sorrow
And leave you quite still…
Sitting among souvenirs . . . 

Sleep in heavenly peace, Dan . . .

~m