I’ve de-activated my Facebook account because I go there when
I really should be doing other things.
I’m a great one for talking about all my writing goals and how I’m achieving them
but truth be told, I get sidetracked by things that are too easy to do.
Like Facebook.
Like Twitter.
Like Youtube. (that’s a tough one)
No more posting funny pictures.
No more posting really cool links.
No more fucking around with stuff that will ultimately get me nowhere.
Real fast.
I’ve finally come to the realization that if I want to write a damn book, I need to write.
Period.
No distractions.
No games.
No Facebook.
No Twitter.
And NO YOUTUBE.
Kind of like a self-imposed ‘Lent’ for writers.
And if I truly want to call myself one then that’s what I need to do.
That’s my story and I am sticking to it.
Until next time.
Check my archives.
There’s much reading to be done.
Thanks all.
~m

ps. if you really need to get in touch with me?
Go to the page that says, ‘Email Me’.
I check email daily X 12 . . .

I am: in transition and wondering about my future
I think: the world went to hell in a hand basket . . .
I know: I miss writing
I want: new teeth
I have: questions, too many
I wish: I could find some answers
I hate: goodbyes and temporary crowns
I miss: the old me
I fear: insomnia and more root canals
I feel: like I’m on the verge of something, maybe good, maybe bad
I hear: a fan cooling my sweating cueball head (I shaved this  morning)
I smell: a lit cigar
I crave: being 8 years old again running through my neighborhood
I search: for signs of my Mom and Dad everyday
I wonder: about my new neighbor next door and the fact that he wants to swindle me (NOT)
I regret: not finishing college and working retail. I’m so much better than that
I ache: for calm, for indigo breezes and purple sunsets
I care: about the future of my three wonderful girls (I am: so lucky)
I always: look before crossing  Boylston Street
I am not: perfect
I believe: in dreams
I dance: when I’ve had too much Maker’s Mark
I sing: because I can
I cry: more often than I believe I should
I don’t always: look before crossing Boylston Street
I fight: to stay alive
I write: because I can’t afford therapy
I never: wanted to be President
I stole: my wife’s heart
I listen: to things no one else seems to hear
I need: a creative kick in the ass and to play my didgeridoo more
I am happy about: my dear friends from Australia that will be here in less than 3 weeks.

Just updating my life status is all.
This post may turn out to be a monthly occurrence.
Tanks for the nudge, M

~m

As uncomfortable as this picture makes me feel
THIS makes me feel even more uncomfortable.
And it gets more uncomfortable as the days grow long reading about people
that think they deserve equality and justice.
Will we ever wake up and smell the coffee?
When will we finally call a spade a spade?
From the leviathan Gulf oil spill and Mexican border breaches to the ever-simmering clusterfuck in the Middle East,
I feel doomed somedays, for so many reasons.
Just like today.
Maybe we just haven’t found the answers . . .
Yet.
Got testicles?

~m

***I changed the post picture for the mental stability of my wife

Taking an unexpected break folks.
Not entirely sure why but I’m not writing much and reading even less these days.
Not a good combination.
This boy needs to rediscover his priorities.
When I have nothing to say, blogging is meaningless.
As a writer, you can only post so many videos before you admit you’re only
appeasing your internal editor.
(who thinks you suck)
Back soon.

M

There are several things I do know about my nocturnal comings and goings.
I dream in vivid color, for one thing.
Not just fundamental colors either.
My synapses and neurotransmitters treat me to a 4th of July palette of incredible and wondrous things.
My dreams are intensely complex, symbolically speaking, and I have yet to
understand what they truly mean.
I have also been known to get out of bed at 3:47AM to write down many a
soon-to-be elusive thought.
For the past ten years or so,
I have yet to have a dream that included both my mother and father.
It’s always been one or the other.
Given the circumstances surrounding the past chaotic decade,
that makes some logical sense, I guess.
As I said, my dreams have had ‘Ginny’ some nights and ‘Wally’ on the others.
Never together.
Until last night . . .

Off in the gossamer covered distance I could see them standing together,
holding hands . . .  smiling . . .  still.
They were underneath a tree of great age that was surrounded by what looked like
thousands of these tiny purple flowers.
I was physically moved (somehow) closer and I immediately noticed that they both looked happy,
healthy and totally at peace.
My mother was wearing a royal blue, knee length coat.
My father, a crisp white shirt and grey pleated trousers.
I smiled at the sight of the two of them, so obviously happy together and said,

“What are all these flowers?”

My mother smiled and said,

“They’re bluebells, Michael.  Each flower is a dream of ours that somehow came true.
No more sad, just more good.”

She turned (in slow motion) and kissed my father on the cheek.

They stood underneath the bluebell tree as small white flowers began falling like an unexpected springtime snowstorm.
They faded into the distance, transforming themselves into a Monet-like watercolour.
I faded into my dreamworld distance as well.

Before I went to bed last night, I had never heard of a flower called a ‘bluebell’.
I found it quite appropriate that the beautiful flower is not quite blue but purple – a color closely associated with Alzheimer’s Disease.
Thinking back on the dream I found it odd that my father never said a word,
though he appeared to be quite content.
Maybe the serenity I saw in his bright eyes told me all I needed to know.
I feel that their hearts have healed after all these godforsaken years apart.
Although mine is still on the mend,
I now believe that there are better days ahead for them
and for me . . .

*a little something from the wonders of the internet regarding ‘bluebells’

“Bluebells have long been symbolic of humility and gratitude. They are associated with constancy, gratitude and everlasting love. Bluebells are also closely linked to the realm of fairies and are sometimes referred to as “fairy thimbles.” To call fairies to a convention, the bluebells would be rung.

Bluebells are widely known as harebells in Scotland.
The name originated due to the hares that frequented the fields covered with harebells.
Some sources claim that witches turned themselves into hares to hide among the flowers.
Another name for bluebells is Dead Man’s bells.
This is due to the fact that fairies were believed to cast spells on those who dare to pick or damage the beautiful, delicate flowers. The people of Scotland are fond enough of the flower to continue this tradition
in the hopes of protecting the little flower.”

M

Deep inside this garden of souls lies the bones of a lifetime drowning in half-truths,
Of long and slowly forgotten days that were sadly beyond repair,
Of nights not unlike the darkest side of the moon

A few insignificant touches of the brush would be all that it took,
to make life go on as she thought that it should;
Unbroken and bright, the simple and small
while echoes of unwanted things filled the silent grey halls . . .

Of her Gothic cathedral, sadly visited by few, where three skeleton keys
were kept hidden from view
because life wasn’t meant to be that easy, and she kept it that way, anyway
maybe all the way

The tall stained-glass windows soaked with rays of the sun
kept the white light of truth from touching the soul of anyone, near or far,
it never really mattered
distance was never a fragile thing

Deep in this garden of souls lies the bones of my life, my blacks and my blues, and yes,
my oh-so-not-insignificant life
But you will know I was here by two things left behind
originally unwanted but in the sweet by and by
they would find . . .
You.
Somewhere
deep in Gethsemane
with two deep sunset roses nearby . . .

Blessed.
Grateful.
Incredibly fortunate.
Thankful beyond my wildest dreams.
To 2 very special people who shall remain anonymous.
I will sleep well tonight . . .
with a confirmed warmth for the upcoming Winter as well.
Blessed.

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.

One night at the Cape all of us went to Baxter’s in Hyannis for dinner.
It was a beautiful night as we sat watching the ferries come and go in the harbour.
Not sure what everyone ordered to eat but no one was talking and I’m assuming it was all good.
I do remember that Mark got an enormous Fisherman’s Platter that looked incredibly good,
no, it was ‘call your cardiologist before eating’ good.
He gave me a fried scallop that was roughly the size of an Aussie cricket ball which I split with Pamela.
It was so good I had to go back up to the counter and get a side order for us to split.
I’ll never learn.
It was such a beautiful night that I suggested we walk Main Street in Hyannis and check out some of the shops.
While the womenfolk were looking at Cape Cod jewelry,
Mark and I wandered over to a leather store across the street.
The rich, earthy aroma walking in was almost narcotic.
I love the smell of leather.
Mark and I were immediately drawn to the hats hanging on a wall in the back of the store; there were porkpies, fedoras (ala Indiana Jones), top hats, baseball caps and one very special hat that I somehow missed.
Mark asked to see a now familiar hat on the very top row.
“Check it out, mate. It’s an Akubra made in Australia,”  He said,
as he showed me the inside label of his hat by the same maker.
I loved the hat he was wearing when he first showed up at the house and now I knew why.
He asked the price ($85) but by now Pamela and all the girls were standing next to us ready to go.
I wanted to buy the hat because I really liked it and I wanted to offer a showing of solidarity to Australia.
Alright, the solidarity part was my brain making up bullshit but I really loved the hat.
I could hear Pamela in my head saying, “You Have Enough Hats!”
I’m thinking now there was a reason I didn’t get it.
Move forward in time to Logan Airport on the Sunday Maureen and Mark were leaving.
Pamela, Hannah, me and M&M were standing at the gate, all of us knowing what was coming next.
Mark patted Moe on the bum and said, “Alright. Let’s go. Let’s get this done.”
Probably some of the hardest words my friend has ever had to say.
The Tear Factory was now open for business but before it closed, Mark took off his Akubra and placed it on my head and gave me a huge bear hug.
“Take care of this for me until the next time, buddy.”
Translation: How Michael got his very first Akubra.
You never forget your first.
I don’t know much about the road ahead of me but I do know this; the next Akubra I put on my bald noggin won’t be from some leather shop in Hyannis, Ma.
I’m thinking someplace much more exotic . . .
Like Queensland, Australia

There are days when my eyes open on the world and I see things as they are.
I notice the difference immediately because most days my vision is subconsciously selective;
I see the things the way I want to see them.
Today, I saw sadness.
I know, big surprise, huh?
On my way to lunch I saw a woman sitting in the rain by a water fountain and she was crying as she talked softly on her cell phone. I heard her say, “Please just don’t . . . ”
It seemed like I was the only person in the screaming city of Boston that noticed.
I felt bad as I walked by but there was nothing I could do.
Truth be told I’m no saint or archangel but when I notice a situation like this it tends to rattle me.
As a writer maybe I tend to notice a tad more than the general populace does.

I got to South Station tonight and witnessed a homeless woman counting, folding and re-folding what I assumed were her only earthly possessions.
She placed them in a rucksack that looked like it had been dragged through a muddy puddle.
And again, people walked by her without so much as a passing glance.
She was far from invisible and the look on her face told the world at large
that she was the farthest thing from a happy ending.
It was profoundly sad.
If it were another day, I may have just walked by as well, too caught up in my own life.
I sat down on the train and scratched my head wondering what highway to nada leads someone to a hell like this?

Many years ago I waited on a woman that bought her daily ciggies from me.
She always tried to look her best in terms of her hair and the clothes she wore but she could never quite pull it off.
I always felt there would be no hot fudge sundaes in her near future.
One day she stopped coming in and I would wonder for years what ever became of her.
My heart sank the day I saw her pushing a rusty old shopping cart on the sidewalks of South Main Street in a bad section of downtown Worcester.
Her cart was filled with dirty cans and empty bottles that she would undoubtedly redeem to get cash for God only knows what.
She was a broken woman and a sad commentary on a reality I pray I never have to experience.
So, is it selective vision?
Lord knows we all use it from time to time because it’s easier just to look the other way sometimes.
Maybe that’s why we also have days that we ‘see’ the world as it is.
And perhaps that’s what keeps us all just a bit more humble and human in the end.
Say a prayer the next time you see a fallen angel walking the walk.
It can only help.