I put my keyboards up for sale a short time ago and truth be told it was harder to do than I thought it would be.
My gigging days are, for now, over.
30+ years of playing has left me gasping at the changes in the entire music scene in general.
[a post all by itself]
Don’t get me wrong, I still love my piano, my Taylor acoustic, my two didgeridoos and will continue playing them
just not in the capacity I once did.
Yes, I will be playing piano at the house on Christmas Eve.
That’s tradition.
While a part of me is sad looking at the possible end of my performing career another part of me is
thrilled to be home on New Year’s Eve.
I’ve toyed with the idea of getting a group together should I reach the ripe age of 70.
The name of said group would be ‘Comb-Over 7000′. (an idea from a close friend)
We could be sponsored by Geritol, Depends undergarments and Poligrip (a marketing frenzy would ensue, no doubt)
People in wheelchairs would get in for free.
With a cane, half price admission.
Hell, maybe we could offer free blood pressure checks at every show.
The possibilities are truly endless.
And the t-shirts could change the world!
I found this little tome I wrote from many years ago and decided to share it again.
Life is cyclical from time to time as is writing.
The merry-go-round stopped here today.
Enjoy my ‘old’ list . . .
Feel free to add to it . . .

You might be too old to gig if:

Ø Before each gig, you find you’re warming up more parts of your body

Ø It becomes more important to find a place onstage for your boxfan, than your amp.

Ø During the second set, you scream for the drummer to please stop hitting those annoying cymbals

Ø You refuse to play out of tune

Ø Your gig clothes make you look like George Burns out for a round a golf

Ø Your fans have left by 10:30

Ø All you want from groupies is a foot massage.

Ø You love shopping the dollar store because you can sing along to most of your playlist.

Ø You hire band members for their values instead of their talent.

Ø Instead of a fifth piece, your band wants to spring for a roadie with the extra money.

Ø You’ve lost the directions to the gig

Ø Prepping for the gig involves plucking hair from your chin or nose

Ø Most of the hair you’ve plucked from your chin or nose are gray

Ø You need your glasses to see your amp settings

Ø You need help on and off the stage

Ø You’ve thrown out your back jumping off the stage because no one would help

Ø You’re thrilled to have new year’s off

Ø The waitress is your daughter

Ø You stop the set because your bottle of ibuprofen fell behind the speakers

Ø Most of your crowd just sways in their seats

Ø You find drink tokens from last month’s gig in your guitar case

Ø You refuse to play without earplugs

Ø You ask the club owner if you can start at 8:30 instead of 9:30

Ø You want an opening act

Ø You check the TV schedule before booking a gig

Ø High notes make you cough

Ø Your gig stool has a back

Ø You’re related to at least one other member of the band

Ø You need a nap

Ø You eat before the gig, you get heartburn then need the nap.

Ø You don’t let anyone “sit in”

Ø After the third set, you bug the club owner to let you quit early

Ø On the breaks, you now go to your van to lay down

Ø You prefer a music stand with a light

Ø You say you double on bass

Ø When shopping, you consider the instrument’s weight as well as tone.

Ø When in the music store, the hip sales people ignore you even though you have cash.

Ø You don’t recover until Tuesday afternoon

Ø You can’t operate without a setlist

Ø You know all the words to “Hotel California”

~m

[photo courtesy of Kelly]

I’ve been mulling over in my mind the past several weeks wondering if I could
crystallize my many thoughts into one fine black point.
The little voice inside my head just said, “Are you really serious?”
Since the night I wrote ‘Boxes’ my world has changed dramatically.
On one level, there is this welcome sense of relief regarding the final end for my father and his long fought ordeal; another level acknowledges a deep sadness knowing and accepting the fact that he is truly gone.

I took a ride yesterday afternoon to North Cemetery where my mother and father are now buried.
It was unseasonably warm with a cobalt-blue sky, a Cape Cod-like sea breeze and enough
brilliant sunshine to make me start daydreaming about the summer months ahead.
This place where the earth now wraps its arms securely around my parents has become
hallowed ground for many reasons.
For me, it is a tangible point of communication, a visible portal to somewhere I’ve never been,
a place where special things happen and are accepted for all that they are.
It was no different yesterday as I stood staring at the rose granite bench bearing the names:
Virginia A. & Walter M.
Best friends, I thought.
The engravers had paid a visit and finished the stone.
The circle was now complete.
I was alone in the cemetery and sat down on the sun-warmed bench, stretching my legs out into the sunshine.
To my right was the small flag stuck in a holder that now marks my father as an American veteran.
I was sitting for less than a minute when the wind picked up.
The tiny flag began waving gently and touched my arm.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, smiling at the thought.
The flag continued to wave, touching my arm, my soul, my heart.
It was sitting there that I began to finally accept the finality of these past few weeks.
The stone was done, seeds were planted and tears rolled down my cheeks watering the dry earth below me.
As I stood up, the breeze ceased and the flag drooped down.
I kissed the palm of my hand and placed it on the warm rose granite bench that now held their names.
“You’re finally home, Dad,” I said to an empty cemetery.
I got in my truck and drove away a different man then when I originally came in and
for the first time in many years, something felt right.

~m

He stares blindly out the window of another night
down on Bleeker Street, where nothing seem to change except a world gone mad.
He exists.
I exist.
I go to him, touch his shoulder feeling the quivering bone underneath my hand
but he doesn’t move, nobody is home it seems.
As I bend to kiss his forehead,
I think back to my childhood remembering the smell of him;
a rich elixir of leather, spice and a fatherly scent I could never quite put my finger on.
It was a smell of  total comfort and one of extreme familiarity.
His scent is different tonight; he smells clinical, preserved and abandoned.
He smells like a familiar stranger, an ancient decade of melancholy memories,
echoes of voices lost in an obsidian mist . . .

I sit there with him as we both blindly stare out the window, watching a world gone by
and we sigh,
we cry,
we say goodbye to the too many words left unspoken,
the things we once took for granted,
and the once welcome spaces where we no longer belong.
I take his frail and shaking hand and wonder (as I have thousands of times before)
how many more nights will he sit here all alone and stare?
And simply exist.
There is little left to say but with my father, somehow that’s okay.
Somehow, I know he understands.
He has taught me well.
He was never big on words anyway.
It will be very hard to forget the nights down on Bleeker Street and even harder to forget
the little man just sitting staring out the window . . .

It is during this time of the year that I generally go into an emotional cocoon;
my own kind of hibernation and self preservation mode.
December 1st until January 2nd, my internal sensors (censors) go into a Lockdown setting.
Life is hectic, loud and screaming with white and pink noise.
I need a celestial graphic EQ (equalizer) to take out the nasty sonic peaks and hisses of the daily grind.
Ah, were it that easy.
Maybe there’s an app on the Iphone for that.
The only place that I can find some silent respite is when I fall asleep.
But sometimes even sleep doesn’t work.
The other night (this just came to me now) I was dreaming that I was standing in the middle of some godforsaken superhighway with cars and trucks whizzing by me at what seemed to be light-year speeds.
I could feel wind on my face but the cars and 18-wheelers were just horizontal blurs of colour.
I was frozen, frightened and couldn’t move without getting reduced to a platter of road kill.
I did finally wake up at 3:03AM.
My skin was clammy and I was thirsty.
I went downstairs and got a glass of water and back up to bed where I began tossing and turning my nocturnal thoughts like a mad chef tosses a freshly ordered Caesar Salad.
At 5AM I got up and made coffee.
The act of trying to sleep was maddening.
This dream was symbolic for me and the perfect allegory of my life.
It also made me think of a story someone once told me.
It could have been told to me by my mother – but like my dream’s unknown ending, I just can’t remember.
I do remember the story though.
Its author is unknown so I’ve taken the liberty of changing the POV.
This story inspires me and brings hope to the heart because a worldly truth is that we are all in this thing together.

I was at the end of my rope. Seeing no way out I dropped to my knees in prayer.

“Lord, I can’t go on,” I said, “I have too heavy a cross to bear.”

The Lord replied, “My child, if you can’t bear its weight, just place your cross inside this room. Then open another door and pick up any cross you wish.”

I was filled with relief.

“Thank you, Lord,” I sighed, and did as I was told.

As I looked around the room I saw many crosses, some so large the tops were not visible.
Then I spotted a tiny cross leaning against a far wall.

“I’d like that one, Lord,” I whispered.

The Lord replied, “My son, that’s the cross you just brought in.”

During this holiday season, it is my hope and prayer that the burdens you carry in your hearts today will seem lighter and somehow more distant tomorrow.
Pax . . .

*the picture I used for this post was taken by Amanda Lucier.
Click here to learn more about this amazing photojournalist and the story behind the photo.

the setting sun burns its shadow into the ever darkening horizon
as the cool and soothing breath of your whisper
reaches my ear
and I say a small prayer for you,
Serenissima . . .

second by second, star by falling star, night by night,
you heal me
and I have to ask the magnificence of the heavens what I did
to deserve the ‘blessing’ of you
the crescent ivory moon sighs,
Serenissima . . .

rising ruby sun chases the silence of lunar incandescence away
and in my heart,
you are still softly sleeping
it’s in the wee virgin hours of dawn when I hold onto
the very thought of you,
the music forever in my soul
my Serenissima . . .

For Elizabeth & Sara and their favorite angel, fast asleep . . .

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.

There are things that happen in our lives that simply defy explanation;
situational outcomes, a much needed phone call out of the blue, an errant email you ‘forgot’ to open that drastically changes some facet of your life.
Lately, my father’s journey has been something of an emotional rollercoaster ride.
In the span of one visit, he’ll laugh one minute to beat the band while the next he’s crying like a baby.
While it’s easy (and enjoyable) to watch and listen to him laugh, his tears and all too complete sorrow are a completely different animal.
Wax on, wax off.
He was never an emotional man to begin with so that takes some getting used to.
My sister and I have been truly baffled by the whole thing.
The last time my sister visited our mother’s grave, she had a brief ‘conversation’ with Ginny.
We both do the same thing when we visit her.
She told her about Dad’s current penchant for a psychological taste of a Six Flags amusement park.
She also told her that her ‘Wally’ is sad and misses her dearly.
One week later while Maureen was visiting our father she noticed a woman standing in the doorway of his room as she fed him lunch.
Her heart skipped a beat.
This woman looked like our mother.
Her eyes, her hair, her glasses, her sunny disposition were all subtle suggestions of ‘Ginny’.

“Hi, Wally!” she said, as she walked in and touched our father’s hand.

Maureen was a bit gobsmacked by the situation but she said our father seemed to enjoy this woman’s company.
He was smiling and laughing.
Her name is Margaret but they call her Peg.
And Peg seems to have a thing for Wally.
We were told that Peg and Walter can sometimes be found sitting together in the rec room that looks out over the city of Worcester.
It’s a wonderful view even on a grey and rainy day.
Peg even holds our father’s hand.
It’s uncanny that after my sister’s visit with our mother this woman should almost materialize out of thin air.
I’m thinking that as poor as my father’s eyesight is, every time he sees Peg, he’s also seeing our Mom.
Rollercoaster ride, explained.
Possibly.
In looking at the situation I’m so tempted to believe this woman was sent by my mother, a surreal gift of a love from someplace truly wonderful.
I know, it sounds way too Disney and formulaic but the situation defies explanation.
Maybe Peg was sent to help my father finally get home.
Perhaps she’ll remind him of the most important things missing in his life, make him close his eyes and dream good things.
Maybe she’ll give him the much needed solace he so richly deserves.
But for now, he shall remain a constant rider on these misshapen, parallel bars of cold steel.
He’s still holding on for dear life, lost on a perpetual track of fragmented emotions.
Destination?
Only God knows when and where the rollercoaster will ultimately arrive.
For the love of my father, I hope it arrives soon . . .