reds, crimsons and bloods
there's a rose in the meadow
snow-covered in love . . .

for a very special flower
and for Deb

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 . . .

Enjoying a bit of badly needed time off. I will be reading and checking in but won't be posting until next week sometime. Have some personal things that need some attention. Thanks for stopping in. Now back to my fine Montecristo No. 2 . . . (and no, that's not me sitting in the comfy chair. I am in a dark cellar with a rocking chair and three cats. But somehow that's okay)

Pamela- I've always dreamed of singing this song for you. In my heart, I know that I have, maybe someday I actually will. It's everything I've always wanted to say to the only person in the world that I could ever say it to. Our love is a slow, sweet dance . . . Happy Anniversary, my Pamela (put on the headphones I've left for you. Loggins is simply amazing LIVE.)

Forever

Now, while we're here alone and all is said and done Now I can let you know because of all you've shown I'm grown enough to tell ya You'll always be inside of me. How many roads have gone by So many words left unspoken I needed to be be your side If only to hold you. Forever in my heart Forever we will be Even when I'm gone You'll be here in me Forever Once, I dreamed that you were gone I cried, I tried to find ya I begged the dream would fade away and please awaken me The night took a hold of my heart And left me with no one to follow The love that I grasped in the dark, I'll always remember Forever in my heart Forever we will be Even when I'm gone You'll be here in me Forever Forever in my heart Forever here you'll be Even when I'm gone You'll be near to me Forever in my life Always thought I'd be I'd be yours Forever . . .

It’s not only the way it feels, it’s the way it makes me feel . . . a conditional freak of my own mind, my own doing, my own flesh and candy-apple red blood, and a host that lives inside of me . . . It grows asymmetrical outside my body, the unwanted lichens of all that I can’t bear It’s only when I look in the mirror; I am sadly reminded that it’s still there . . . Someday perhaps it will leave me, that time just isn’t right now but I still ask when, Dear God in heaven, when? And I shall curse forever the very day it found me, this visible demon of my flesh I gladly let the steam cover the bathroom mirror and for the moment, I can put the thing to rest Perhaps

I figured out that I spend approximately one month a year riding the train back and forth to Boston. One month. 30 days. 720 hours. 43,200 minutes. 2,592,000 seconds. I write, read, sleep, text message, eat, drink and look out the slightly opaque windows and think. I’ve been doing this for over 4 years and if it weren’t for my writing stuff and my Ipod Nano (thank you M), I think I would have thrown in the towel years ago. I will say that it endlessly fascinates me when I look back and read some of the things I’ve written on the train; the original thought process with my cross outs and all. It’s the true ‘me’ that not too many people see. Pamela and the girls have seen much of it and one other special friend but my journals tend to get sequestered soon after they’re filled. The journal I’m currently writing in has ‘Beginnings, mishaps & didgeridoos’, ‘Akubra’, ‘Communion’ and ‘Serenissima’. The corrections and edits are actually quite funny in a way; silly things, inconsequential explosions of neurons misfiring and my internal editor trying to patch it up. It's a literary ER of sorts going on in my mind 24/7. Though I’m very proud of much of my work, there’s so very much more to do. Tough pill to swallow when I look at the stacks of yellow legal pads & journals filled with my thoughts, blues and dreams. I currently have 7-8 stories waiting to see the light of day. It makes me sad because I just don’t have the time to devote to editing them and finishing them in the fashion they deserve. When they’re ready, the will let me know. I honestly think that what I’m trying to do here is keep myself sane as I think about those 2,592,000 seconds. You know what my commute needs? A 20 minute neck massage times 2; into the city and out. Maybe a rub or three on the soles of the  feet on the way home. Hey, a writer can dream, can’t he?

Dear Mom, I stopped by your grave tonight just as the sun was setting. The town seemed eerily quiet but the burnt orange sky to the west held promise of another day. Maybe it was remembering you, that's the Utopian side of my brain at work. I had little to offer you save for my tears that splashed on your gravestone and a sotto voce 'Hail Mary', slowly spoken for you and all the sleeping souls that surrounded me. I miss you dearly and still see you in the many places and faces in my life. Maybe it's because a part of me still looks for any insignificant trace of you, any sign Dad is still here and I can't understand why when I know you're just waiting patiently for your Wally. He misses you too. I just know it. I guess it's all in time . . . all in His time. For now, I pray you are at peace, cradled in the loving hands of God. always, Mick

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 . . .

I was up and out of bed at 5:45 this morning, a bit early on a Tuesday but I had some things to do before heading into Boston. I could hear freezing rain ‘ticking' off the windows in the living room and thought, "Early train." Icy conditions bamboozle the commuter rail and taking an early train would ensure me an on-time arrival at work. The train left at 7:30 and being an express train should have arrived in Boston by 9 allowing me an hour or so to grab a bagel, coffee and a quick glance at the morning paper while sitting on my perch high above Copley Square. (@Finagle-a-Bagel on Boylston St.) Faulty rail signals, an express train turned local (all stops) and a medical emergency 15 minutes outside of the city got a very livid Mick to Back Bay Station at 9:50am. Smack my ass and call me Betty, but I was ready to kill someone. So much for the leisurely coffee and toasted bagel, so much for a glance at the newspaper, so much for a break from the incessant insanity surrounding the holiday. Fuck a fruitcake, I was pissed. And I gave up 45 minutes of sleep to run to work. Excellent. That was the start of the day. I should have stayed in bed and continued scratching my ass. This was not what I had in mind to start my day. The month of December has me searching, every single year, looking for something that allows me to make some kind of logical sense of the holidays. It gets harder every year, folks. Some years, I'm lucky and it falls into my hands like a subtle grace from heaven. I remember coming home one Christmas Eve several years ago from wherever I was working at the time. I felt grumpy and tired, filled with enough vitriolic wassail that I was eager to share it with anyone unfortunate enough to cross my path. It was snowing that night and the roads were all unplowed, (another opportunity for me to curse the Gods) making the going very slippery. I pulled up to the top of my driveway, turned off my truck and closed my eyes. After a few deep breaths I said, "It's over, Michael. Another season is over." I got out of my truck and began walking towards the house when I stopped. Beyond the candles in our windows and the twinkling Christmas tree I could see Pamela and my three girls. They were laughing, they were happy and they were waiting for me. With snow falling all around me, my mind took a lifelong snapshot of that image. In an instant, the world changed and in that snowflake-filled moment, so did I. I found exactly what I was looking for (and thanked St.Anthony, btw). That Christmas Eve would turn out to be something magical. This year, the task is turning out to be something of a scavenger hunt. 8 days left and I'm still looking . . . and saying my fervent prayers to St.Anthony . . .

It all began back in 1986 when I was living the life of a 'musical' Riley. That, however, is a post for another day. I used to write songs for my wife as unique Christmas presents. After sending a few of them on to a dear friend, she suggested (ever so gently) that I make an attempt to sell my wares. Clearance from my wife and a link to PayPal has opened up a channel of commerce, so to speak. The CD is a compilation of ten songs written and recorded exclusively by me. Accompanying each CD will be liner notes for each song, with my personal thoughts and wishes for each. CD's will be ready to ship immediately. 10 tunes, pure Christmas, pure me. There's also an added bonus track this year, an instrumental called 'Waltz for Mel' written for another dear friend for the wedding of her daughter. I guess you could do worse and order a Britney Spears Christmas CD. Click on the street musician below or the Santa hat in my sidebar. Feel free to pass the link on to someone you know that likes sappy original compositions. Actually, the songs are quite nice, imho. If you're interested but want to hear something first, let me know. I have a tune ready to be sent via email. If you have Itunes installed, even better.