I StumbledUpon a short article one night that stopped me in my tracks. It was titled, "If your blog disappeared, who would miss it?" I thought about the question for a good long time and came to the conclusion that, yeah, there are many people that would miss it. I do hope I'm right. I am no egomaniac but I do feel that some folks would, yours truly being one. I've been blogging now for almost five years with no foreseeable end in sight. It's been the reaction to my words and thoughts that's kept me going strong for 5, to be honest. Some comments I've received are seemingly deeper than the posts I've written. It would seem that I'm fishing for compliments here, but I am definitely not. I have 5 questions for anyone kind enough to take the time to answer them. I appreciate your honesty and feedback.

1. What is it that makes you visit me again?
2. What do you not like about Smoke and Mirrors? (be honest)
3. What would you like to see more of (or less of) in the future?
4. Would you like to see something different?
5. What is your favorite post and why? (longtime readers only)

There are more questions that I have but I don't want to keep you here forever (a little white lie, methinks) I made this post relatively short to give you a few moments to comment. I thank all of you dearly in advance.

You know you’re getting out there when the only reason you know it’s Monday is because there’s an NFL game on tonight. My Tweet this morning was telling to say the very least: “I’ve officially lost track of where the week ends and where the new one begins.” Everything seems just so helter-skelter these days and Monday only serves to exacerbate the issue. For instance; last Monday night, a train I occasionally ride home was dispatched and routed improperly. Long story short, the outbound train was traveling on the same track as the inbound train. Never a good thing with that inertia thing and all. Both were going @ 30-40 MPH. The phrase ‘as subtle as a train wreck’ springs to mind. There would have been some serious carnage, folks. Mucho carnagio, muchachos. Thank God the situation was recognized and thank God it was rectified. Still makes me wonder, what if? Some assflap person was not on their game that day and many people could have paid the ultimate train fare. The MBTA would have loved that, too. The money grubbing bastards. Sad, huh? It was a small revelation of sorts for me. A ‘holy-crap-I’m-still-alive kinda thing'  because I rode a different train that night. ( a 25 minute delay, medical emergency . . .  sheesh) Even the automated train announcements were strange today. It’s a woman’s voice that tells you what stop is coming up. The voice sounds like June Cleever from ‘Leave it to Beaver’. I’m tired but I am definitely not kidding. “Beave? Wally? The next stop is Framingham. Get ready Beaver!” (the sampled voice even mispronounces the approaching town’s name as well which adds to my Monday weirdness. It should sound like ‘Fray-ming-ham’ but the voice says ‘Fram-ing-ham’ God help us all.) Steve, the conductor, walked by and said to me, “Oh, man . . .  Mondays.” Oh, man, he is absolutely right.

There is a speck of truth to this Hemingway quote for yours truly. I'm thinking for everyone else as well. I do love my sleep and the thought of turning off the invisible faucet still dripping with the miscommunications and shortfalls of the day now past me. Maybe it's no surprise that tomorrow is only accessible by passing through the mysterious and stygian gates of slumber. The world of all things nocturnal has always held a strange fascination for me. I've found that when I write a fair amount of memoir during the day, my dreamworld is filled with many things, some good and some not so good. I searched the net and found some incredible facts regarding sleep . . . Read the whole story »

"Come to the edge." "We can't, we are afraid." "Come to the edge." "We can't, we will fall." "Come to the edge." And they came. And He pushed them. And they flew. ~G. Apollinaire Graduation '09 is done and dusted but the torrential rain of emotions put Pamela and I through the proverbial ringer. As we both sat outside the other night mesmerized by the roaring firepit she quietly said, "Things are changing again." When things change, a subtle discomfort settles in. For as happy and proud as we were for Sarah, we also share her sense of trepidation, a subject not many people talk about. But it's there in every single family attending a graduation. After the ceremony we had an old fashioned BBQ back at the house with burgers, hot dogs and salads galore. There was laughter and music, beer and cigars, goodbyes and tears when roommates and friends had to leave. Later that day, Pamela, myself and the girls went to move the remainder of Sarah's belongings from her room and let her say goodbye to her college high atop Mt. Saint James. As I waited by my truck for Sarah to come out of her dorm for the last time, I looked around at the ivy-covered buildings that had occasionally surrounded me over the past 4 years. My own sadness at saying goodbye leaving the comfort of this place surprised me. Thank God for sunglasses. It was quiet in the car on the way home with everyone lost in their own thoughts. I thought about a large Monarch butterfly I'd seen in the air that morning as I listened to the list of graduates being read. It flew gracefully down towards the moving sea of black mortarboards below disappearing amidst the caps and gowns; almost like it was going home. For Sarah, another class has already started as of tonight. She must want stronger wings . . .

If you can start the day without caffeine; If you can get going without pep pills; If you can always be cheerful, ignoring aches and pains; If you can resist complaining and boring people with your troubles; If you can eat the same food every day and be grateful for it; If you can understand when your loved ones are too busy to give you any time; If you can forgive a friend's lack of consideration; If you can overlook it when those you love take it out on you when, through no fault of your own, something goes wrong; If you can take criticism and blame without resentment; If you can ignore a friend's limited education and never correct him; If you can resist treating a rich friend better than a poor friend; If you can face the world without lies and deceit; If you can conquer tension without medical help; If you can relax without liquor; If you can sleep without the aid of drugs; If you can honestly say that deep in your heart you have no prejudice against creed or color, religion or politics; then, my friend, you are almost as good as your dog.

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 . . .

Only my wife can say to me, (as she did tonight) "When are you going to write something on the blog? There's been nothing of substance lately. Where's the writing?" I hate when she's right. Write. Right. I have a few things cued up in need of definite editing so please check back on Monday. Thank God I have someone to give me some much needed toughlove, huh? Not everyone is as lucky. ;)

We have our bad times, those days filled with gray and bruised thunderheads ready to burst with raindrops of frustration. It's in getting through the inevitable storms; riding the dark waves of our lives to the safety of some waiting harbour that we realize the sun can still shine, just for us. It takes a real strength to weather it all. And we are that strong. The stuff we're made of is ultimately all that's really needed to see us through to the other side. And we will get there. Although we can't control the winds, we can carefully move the sails that will someday guide us home. We have to hold on, just the 2 of us, if only for the three tender and beautiful hearts we've been so blessed to receive in this life. Everything will be alright. So for now, just hold my hand and don't be afraid to feel that at the end of the longest day, that the moon and stars are shining, just for us.

His shadow, embedded in ice frozen in time, Inescapable in ways unimaginable with cold that numbs the very soul, winterness Night train, with no destination in sight on the broken hands of time, a window seat overlooking an arctic world searching for signs of his life, winterness Eyes cry freezing rain a polarized crystalline blue with hopes of some homeward bound image but it's never safe from zero winterness michael's on ice, a seasonal flatline in black like the snow-tipped mountains of forever with a soul numbing wind of 1 below zero, winterness

Every night I walk through the pulsing heart of Chinatown here in Boston on my way to the train. I've witnessed a kaleidoscope of urban situations from drug deals to being solicited by "China Blue" of the night. There's a muted sense of mystery lurking around every dark corner, dimly illuminated by paper-cut hanging lanterns and humming neon. Occasionally, I get a whiff of pungent sesame oil in the air creating visions of steaming woks and maniacal chefs in the process of creating some outlandish order of Dim Sum. I pass by the Lucky 88 Supermarket on Essex Street and glance in, surprised to see a beehive of activity. From the front window I see a fish tank filled with anything but what I consider to be a fish. It's a subculture that thrives amidst the sometimes chaotic city of Boston. Chinatown is also a place where I would never want to find myself at 3AM. Crimson lace dragons peer from the backlit and smoky windows of Villa Moon, a quiet restaurant tucked away on one of Chinatown's many dark side streets. While there's something oddly enticing about it, there's also a sense of foreboding and no access, a ‘you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave' kind of mentality. I know it's all in my head but it's what my eyes see. As the fall days melt into winter dusk, the sun sets earlier and my journey to South Station grows just a bit stranger. The shadows stretch and move, neon and fluorescent lights from the stores and restaurants give the ever so slight suggestion of a carnival at night. Maybe that's what this is. It's only when I take the time to actually ‘see' this mysterious place that I come to grips with its all too stygian appeal. Dim Sum, Fried Wontons. Stir fry and Karaoke. Boston's Chinatown . . .