Wonderment

As I was driving home Sunday morning after spending a night with Keith, I was overwhelmed with a sense of wonder.

He and I ate at a funky burger joint the night before. A cool place that is frequented by the local college crowd. The place was crowded with youth. Which means it was filled with laughter, conversation, energy,  and unbridled positivity. Because life has not yet robbed them of hope and optimism. Beautiful.

It was fucking great. And the burgers were damn good.

Then we went to a UNH/Boston College hockey game and watched a game that was so good it should have been illegal. BC is #1 in the country, UNH is pretty shaky. BC should have won 58 to 0. Instead, UNH took them to OT, and then a shoot out, when they finally lost. Heart-braking.

Again, the arena was rocking. Lots of youth and lots of alumni exuding equal intensity of enthusiasm. The atmosphere was fantastic.

I spent the night in a hotel and headed home in the morning.

Travelling from Belmont to Portsmouth and vice versa, GPS's first choice is a route that follows back roads. And I mean some seriously back roads. There is even a half mile stretch of dirt road along the way.

I navigated that route once before and was afraid that GPS was shitfaced. I could not believe it. I was so worried that it was all wrong that I didn't enjoy the ride as much as I should have. But it did make an impression on me. It was gorgeous and left an imprint in my brain.

Ironically on the way to meet Keith I avoided it and took a typically boring route. But on the way home I was a bit looser and went with the flow.

Spending the night with Keith greased the skids. Spending time with my sons is the best thing that can happen to me. It opens me up and makes me come alive. We had a great night and I was happy. So when I drove home my senses were wide open and receptive.

New England, man - it is beautiful. Even on a 14 degree morning when the ground is covered in snow. I was thinking about these hardy people hunkered down at home on a freezing Sunday morning living their lives free of work and obligations for a day, reading the Sunday paper, having a special breakfast, being themselves unfettered and feeling alive.

New Englanders are indeed a special breed.

Stereotypical New England homes. So much character. My head was on the swivel, which was OK because it was Sunday morning early, there was no traffic at all, and the speed limits were conservative.

Abandoned pickup trucks in the yard. Falling down fences, peeling paint, porches on the slant, steps in need of repair. Beautifully maintained houses, freshly painted and in good condition, expensive trucks, farmer's porches inviting me to visit, smoke billowing out of chimneys. I drove through it all in sheer amazement.

Wonder welled up inside of me uncontrollably, making me feel so good that three years were added on to my life. No question.

I came to a four-way intersection and sat at the stop sign alone, just sat there for minutes because the view was so damn gorgeous. Surrounded by funky houses, yards, smoking chimneys, sun bouncing off windowpanes, snowdrifts sparkling.

Eventually a car came from my left and another from my right and stopped at the stop signs. Still, I sat. Until I realized they were waiting for me since I was there first. I looked at one driver, then the other, and they were both staring at me. So I turned left and kept on appreciating.

I am trying very hard to hold on to the nourishing good vibe that originated on Saturday night and Sunday morning. Doing pretty good too.

There is hope for me yet, surprisingly.

Relax

 It is easier to invent stories than to live in reality.

Certainly One Perspective

 "Love is a lie. It is a trick played by the cruel on the foolish and the weak, poisoning your mind. Cast it from your mind. Never let it render you frail of mind or will because in my kingdom there is but one law - do not love!"

Freya the Ice Queen, from the movie The Huntsman: Winter's War

Too Much of a Reach, Paul

Paul McCartney closed the SNL special that focused on 50 years of musical guests.

Makes sense. He's a Beatle, for Christ sake - one of four from whom all good music is derived.

The special is excellent, by the way. Find it.

But Paul overreached, he chose to perform a portion of the Abby Road medley - specifically Golden Slumbers, Carry That Weight, and The End.

I know he wanted to close out on a rockin' note, and I don't blame him, but he couldn't pull it off. He couldn't do the power, he couldn't handle the range. The man is 82 years old. His voice was strained, it cracked here and there - it was not powerful.

There are a million Beatles' songs and his own songs he could choose from, songs he can probably sing beautifully - many he can even probably, maybe, still rock out on, but he chose these three.

It was painful to me.

I hate that all these people who I worshiped as a kid, still do, are clawing their way to the grave. I fucking hate it. Because in large part it means I have plenty of dirt under my fingernails too.

You gotta be selective about what you choose to perform as an octogenarian. Especially if you are Paul McCartney, the man with such a beautiful voice over a lifetime.

Paul Simon opened the special. He is 83 years old. He sang Homeward Bound, such a beautiful, atmospheric song. But he sang it with Sabrina Carpenter - they split the load, which was smart. And even when Paul sang solo, he was restrained - he did not overdo it. Even then it was a little painful to listen to, but it was not horrible.

I see a lot of these people perform, and why not? They are icons, they have earned the right, they deserve the respect. But most of them make adjustments - they don't go for the high notes, they don't go for maximum volume. As professionals, they know how to recognize their limits and stay within them.

And still create beauty, still bring tears to your soul.

Broke my heart a bit to listen to Paul McCartney straining. It wasn't pretty. I know I sound like a hypocrite - I have shit on him a lot in here. But I also know that I will wake up one of these days to the headline "Paul McCartney is dead at the age of --. Maybe, hopefully, ---.

And on that day I will be crushed.

Dissembler

 I was reading some tasty fiction recently and one of the characters was described in this way:

"She was a dissembler."

Holy shit, I thought - that's me. That's a perfect description of me. And I like it because it's a bit of an obscure word - you never use it, do you? Actually, neither do I.

Google AI (which we cannot live without from now on - how did we ever get by without it) defines a dissembler as " a person who hides their true feelings or intentions, or who pretends to have different ones. Synonyms include: hypocrite, pretender, charlatan, deceiver, impostor, fake, and phony."

Wait, what? That's a bit harsh, don't you think?

I dissemble to survive. I tell you what you want to hear because it takes too goddamn much effort to set you straight. Where's the harm? You walk away happy, and I walk away with some energy left in the tank.

If you are family, you get pretty damn close to the truth. I don't bullshit family. Unless you want the truth about what's really going on in my head - you're never going to get that. Shit, man - if I told you the absolute truth about how I feel about myself and my life, you'd put me on suicide watch.

Wait a minute - that's what I've been doing in here for 14 years now.

Shit, now that I think about it, I feel naked. Although there are only a handful of people who read the effluvia that pollutes this blog.

I think it's safe to continue dissembling. Only a few will know the truth.

You look quite distinguished wearing that cravat.

You Gotta Start Somewhere

 I am in desperate need of an opening gambit.

Perfect Description

On the back of every dust jacket on every hardcover book are the tributes.

"Best story I ever read." "Best writer of this genre." "Best writer of diverse genres." "Best writer in the world."

Tributes from fellow writers, from magazines, from professional book review websites.

I have read a million of them. I have ignored a million of them. I recently read the best one ever.

Vince Flynn on John Connolly: "The intensity of a madman and the subtlety of a poet."

It is how I see myself.

No one else sees it because my soul is encased in lead - nothing gets in, nothing gets out.

Still, there is hope.