i’m going to let this one speak for itself.

this started as an attempt at an original song for the kids to sing for new year’s, as is our tradition. but the further i went, the heavier it got, and in the end, it was just too much fun to resist going all the way with it. this one definitely sounds good loud!

i’m hoping to be a bit more consistent posting music in 2012. though i’ll be recording a couple of albums, i hope to release something at least once a month. basically, every time i write something after a break, i can’t help wonder what songs didn’t get written. that’s life, i suppose…

happy new year!

but in the weeks since ‘balloon’ i have been actively working on a pair of album projects, each composed entirely of monday songs. i will be releasing something next year, though at the moment, i’m not sure which.

there will be more songs to come: i’m sure i will release a few while i’m recording.

in the meantime, here is a homespun video i put together for the first ever monday song. you may be hearing a new version of it soon…

he was holding her hand when the world changed.

one moment she was laughing and he was admiring her generous spirit. her freedom.

and then it hit him.

something had changed.

profoundly changed.

this was not the same person.

this was not okay.

she was not okay.

and a hot electric wave crested within him.

a bitter taste and shortness of breath.

this last day.

this last week.

the brilliant sunshine after a month of rain.

this happiness.

it wasn’t real.

a part of him wished he could step into her head and ignore the rising panic.

but there was nowhere to hide.

and she turned and looked at him with a pure and unsheltered love in her eyes, and he knew.

he knew it without reservation.

within the next hour he would have to take her to the hospital.

he would have to give her away.

she had described it, but he had never seen it.

this promise of hope, the dazzling warmth, it was all just a brilliant fuse.

and he had to get her help before the fuse ran out.

and he is still holding her hand as he tugs her slightly south.

they can continue their walk.

but in a new direction.

no use mentioning his plan.

let her enjoy this feeling.

while he dissolves beside her

while he oozes down into the sidewalk cracks.

it’s not betrayal if it saves her life.

he’s trying hard to convince himself.

and he holds on a little tighter.

and he remembers to breathe again.

it’s the first time he’s been alone with her.

he scheduled a six-top conference room to prep a powerpoint deck explaining third quarter dividends. it’s his presentation, but her boss asked her to contribute a pair of slides, 3-d pie charts breaking out revenue by market.

she grabs the monitor plug and connects it to her laptop, ‘i’ll drive.’

she’s not much of a speller. he had to correct an impressive number of errors. normally this would mean being crossed off his list. but he could care less. he even felt a bit giddy every time he made an improvement. her guardian angel.

he’s been waiting for this opportunity for two months. pretty much from the day he first laid eyes on her.

they work on different teams, but she has to walk past his desk to get to her cube. each pass  kills at least ten minutes of his concentration. fortunately he only needs half his brain for this job. plus, he can work at night in his apartment without distraction, if push comes to shove.

she’s plugging and unplugging the cord for the display. she can’t get her laptop to project. she doesn’t wear a wedding ring.

she can’t be more than thirty. a tasteful green blouse accentuates her figure. a black knee-length skirt gives way to muscular calves, stockings and heels. always heels. in his dreams, she wears those heels.

she’s starting to get flustered. as she leans in to inspect the tiny embossed writing, he sees a hint of a red tatoo at the base of her neck, under her collar. some kind of woven celtic pattern. he instantly wishes he hadn’t seen it.

when she’s struggled enough, he comes to the rescue. he leans in close, pretending to inspect the cords.

he can’t tell if it’s perfume or just a strong shampoo, but she smells wonderful. some kind of flower. jasmine? lavender? he doesn’t have a broad vocabulary of flower smells. the only one he has any certainty of is roses. this is not a roses smell. it is something more exotic. something tropical.

‘let me check the line.’

he makes as though he is tracing the wire, and ends up beneath the table where he discovered six months ago that the cord comes undone if you kick it. he pushes the two cables together, male into female.

‘try now.’

‘yay!’

this could not be going better.

when she arrives at work in the morning, her lipstick already looks worn. he’s thought about wearing down that lipstick a bit more. you can tell by the way she carries herself, the way she talks, that she would be a good kisser. she’s be good at a lot of things.

when he emerges he sees that she has the deck on the first slide. ready to get to work.

her hair is very straight, neck length and pulled back behind the ears. when she concentrates she looks stern. every once in a while she let’s her guard down. when she smiles she just lights up. like her whole life just bursts to the surface. it must be an exciting and fulfilling life. what he wouldn’t give to have her smile that way about him.

he sits back in his chair and as he brings his notes up on his laptop, he realizes he just missed that smile. she said ‘yay!’ just like that. like junior high. he needs to say something charming. there will be no better set up than this.

sometimes things just feel right. like there is an underlying logic to the universe, and once you state the equation, the answer follows, out of necessity. this could be the moment they tell their grandchildren about. ‘it was love at first sight…’

he’s feels good. he hit the gym this morning: thirty on the stairmaster, thirty on the treadmill before hitting the weights. he’s wearing his best suit. he even had a haircut the day before yesterday. he was never a boy scout. but he knows how to prepare.

she says something to him. he doesn’t quite catch it.

when he looks up, he sees that she is looking at him. a curious look on her face. inquisitive.

something is wrong. he feels a sweat coming on.

he can’t quite pull off the confidence he wants in his smile, ‘excuse me?’

‘i asked you if you had garlic for lunch.” and as if there were need for more detail, “There’s a really strong smell of garlic in here.’

if you asked him, he couldn’t tell you how he got through the rest of the meeting. it felt as though he was wearing a diving suit.

they hammered out the details in less than ten minutes. she had a conflicting meeting she had to get to.

it took him hours to come back to the surface.

the only certainty in his life is that he would never eat at emile’s neapolitan grotto again.

once he was in love.

once.

but not anymore. far from it.

it was all the touching.

she liked backrubs, and he was cursed with strong hands. it would have been a perfect match if only he had some patience, if only he liked to give back rubs, if only he found some pleasure in physical contact. it was a task that grew oppressive almost instantly. and when she asked for oil, it crossed the threshold into torture. he tried to breath through it, push on to the other side, but he could never play it off, no matter the intensity or duration, she was always disappointed. he wouldn’t even get credit for the forty seconds when he was nailing it.

it was just too much touching.

she liked to hold hands in the movies. she’d squeeze during the tense parts, caress during the love scenes.

it made it impossible to concentrate on the film. it got so bad that he would purposely pick movies he didn’t want to see, just so he wouldn’t feel disappointed by missing all the key moments.

she really liked touching. he thought maybe she could change him. but that didn’t happen.

she would walk by sometimes and rub his arm, softly, a sexy gesture that never worked for him. it was just too soft, he’d shudder as gooseflesh stood at attention, his neck hairs rigid. it was the tactile equivalent of fingernails on a chalkboard. by the time he’d remember to smile, it was always too late, the repulsion already having slipped through. it would only show for a moment. but that moment was long enough.

when she broke up with him, she said she didn’t feel close to him. she felt like he was holding her off, keeping something hidden.

it wasn’t anything so romantic. he just needed a little room, a cushion of personal space, a set of social bumpers to keep him from too much contact.

it had always been like this.

as a kid he only wore tight clothes. he lived in pajamas through the fourth grade. if a sock had a bump, he’d have to stay home from school. a shirt with a tag was an agony close to crucifixion.

there was nothing he could do. it ran in the family.

he could count exactly two hugs that had ever passed between his mother and he.

both were awkward.

one was high school graduation, some kind of parental peer pressure, his mother drunk with contact high of parental pride, went in for a squeeze and got lost halfway, not knowing whether to retreat or press forward. the hug simply withered on the vine. she tried to play it off as though she were dusting the back of his brooks brothers blazer.

the other time was when they flew east for his grandfather’s funeral. it was newark airport. somehow between the plane and the baggage claim he had gotten separated. he wandered through the airport, lost, afraid to ask for help, not wanting to call attention to himself. feeling a ticking timebomb inside, a growing sense of madness and confusion, so many faces, none familiar. it was when he opened his mouth to scream the he saw her stretching for a handbag caught up high on the conveyor belt.

it probably only lasted a few minutes, but the relief exploded through him. he charged across the terminal and grabbed her, squeezing hard. she lost her grip on the bag, and let out a grunt. without looking down, she pried him free.

“you’re making a scene.”

he caught his breath a while later, and pretended it hadn’t happened.

that afternoon he kissed his dead grandfather good by, the cool cheek chalky with makeup. the room was overpowered by the smell of roses.

his mother stood beside his grandmother.

they were both crying.

there was no touching.

he’s twenty-seven.

he sits in his apartment, a movie on the dish.

he pours himself another drink. he likes to get just the right amount of wasted before calling it a night. it takes careful calculation. with the hard stuff, you really have to pace yourself. it’s not about the number, it’s about the speed, and he’s got a nice momentum going. he has at least an hour more fun.

and if all else fails, he has a safety net. work is better with a hangover.

he treated himself tonight. happy birthday. picked up a nice bottle. he can’t really afford it but what the hell, it’s once a year.

he’s glad to be alone.

he could have told the folks at his store, but the recognition is embarrassing. and they are not really his friends. his family lives many states away. he has a few unopened cards on the counter. there’s never any money in them, so what’s the point.

in the movie, two men are running across a bleached hillside. no one seems to be chasing them. he’s pretty sure he’s seen this one before. he’s pretty sure he couldn’t make sense of it that time either. pretty much a movie about running on hills. it’s got the guy from jaws. and the guy from clockwork orange. running.

he takes another small sip. he shakes his head and takes a close look at his glass. it’s actually worth the money.

the logician in him says it’s time to put the nice bottle away and break out something cheaper. his taste buds are probably fried anyway.

but it’s his birthday.

he looks closely at the bottle.

“twelve years old.”

he considers that fact. he rolls the thought around his head.

“that’s a long time to wait for a drink.”

at the end of the longest day she can remember, mrs. kelly pulls into the parking lot of the children’s hospital. it’s been years since she’s been here. thirteen to be exact.

she’s tired of being exact.

she starts to climb out before she’s turned off the engine. the car bucks forward and hits the low cement bumper. she couldn’t be any more frazzled than she already was, so she takes it more or less in stride.

she opens the back door and coaxes out a large cardboard box. she has to put it on the ground to close the door again. she hoists the box up and makes her way toward the front door, or at least where she remembers the door to be. the box blocks her view. she shuffles forward, inching her feet slowly, one by one, concerned that she’ll to hit a curb. she really doesn’t need a broken arm to remember this day by. there are other broken things.

she angles the box sideways and spies the door where a man walks out with a young boy, he pauses to hold the door for her.

great. now she has to hurry, so she won’t keep him waiting.

she speeds it up, careful not to trip. as she reaches the door, the man smiles. she nods back, but a smile is impossible. a gentleman would have offered to carry the box. and now she’s started to perspire.

the door swings closed behind her and she finds herself at the front desk.

she  thought things would look more familiar. it looks like there has been some substantial remodeling. and besides, this isn’t the emergency room. she’s probably never been in this wing before.

she lowers the box to the floor and finds a heavy set woman behind the desk.

“hello, i want to donate some toys.”

“oh.” the woman in the white uniform tries to look happy about this, but this isn’t the normal flow of things. she starts to look around, helpless. it’s not clear whether she is a nurse, or a receptionist, or some poor volunteer.

“i’m sure there are children here who could use some good toys.” the words come out a little too fast, “these are all in good shape. they haven’t been played with in a long time.”

“uh, okay. let’s see what you have.”

the volunteer comes around to the front of the desk and finds that the box is taped securely shut.

the older woman shifts awkwardly. “didn’t want any to fall out on the way.”

“well, we’ll have to take a look…”

“no, no, that’s okay, you can have the lot.” she’s starting to panic, “i think they’re all rather lonely.”

“i’m sorry ma’am, but i can’t just…”

“thank you so much, i really appreciate it.” mrs. kelly turns and rushes out the door again.

“ma’am? ma’am?! you can’t just leave…”

but the woman is already getting in her car. the volunteer is frozen in place, unsure what to do next…

a couple minutes later, a custodian answers her page. he suggests he haul the box down to the garbage.

it takes her a full hour to find someone who will take the box off her hands. someone who can properly get the toys taken in as a donation.

when the box is opened it reveals an eight-year old’s friends and family. all in immaculate condition, as if they’ve been on display at a museum.

the donation guy smiles, “looks like they need some kids to knock some life into them.”

the volunteer looks out the door. wondering why the woman had been in such a hurry.

and as the box is being wheeled into the bowels of the hospital, the woman sits shaking in her car. she only made it a half block from the hospital entrance before she had to pull over.

she can’t stop crying, feeling deep down that she’s made a great mistake.

but whether it is giving the toys away or keeping them all these years, she can’t be sure.

“don’t move. i’ve almost got your left eye.”

kevin does as he’s told, watching rachel scribble and erase, scribble and erase.

“are you almost done?”

she focuses on the sheet of paper in front of her, “every time you move, you make it take longer.”

he’s been sitting there for over an hour. that’s a long time to do nothing. if he’d been thinking ahead, he would have taken out his cell phone at the start. now it’s too late.

so he’s been occupying his time sneaking peeks at her while she works.

as she sketches, he catalogs an array of expressions: focused, when she puts pencil to paper; inquisitive, when she looks at him, waiting for further inspiration; satisfied, as she starts at it again; frustrated, as she rubs away an errant line; confused, as she stares at the page, trying to figure out what part of his face is out of place.

to think that every expression contains the same building blocks, each with subtle shifts in stance: her eyes narrow and widen, her cheeks rise and fall, her chin tenses and relaxes, her hair wags from left to right or dangles quiet, her lips pursing, mouthing silent words, curling to smile, drooping to admonish. it’s like a dance troupe, impossibly synchronized: an intricate choreography that speaks directly to the audience, as surely as a spotlight illuminates the night sky.

a tiny part of him resents the surrender of control, suspects that what she needs in these moments is to find her balance, her safety, at his expense.

but the majority of him is desperate for a mental camera, a way to capture this scene, so he can relive it again and again. only the two of them share this world. whatever the confusing dynamics of their relationship, she is choosing to be with him, now, alone.

he never grows tired of looking at her.

he wouldn’t call her beautiful. that suggests conformity, like she would bow down to the powers that be and look for their acceptance. far from it. but in his private universe, her beauty is legendary. she’s magnetic, a face that a camera would never grow tired of.

he wants her. he knows it with certainty, but he knows he has to respect her boundaries. he would die to kiss her, and for her to kiss him. this is love. it has to be.

but it can’t be.

she hasn’t said it. but she doesn’t have to.

so he tells himself that this is good enough, as he watches her grow more and more satisfied with the portrait. he tells himself that what he really wants is just to hold her. like spoons. underneath the covers. that’s all he wants. that would be paradise.

he tells himself this, and part of him believes it.

“done!” she looks up, beaming. he returns her smile, lets his shoulders relax, circling his head to unlock his neck.

“can i see it?” he gets up and moves toward the sketch pad, curious.

“wait.”

“wait – what…?”

“the nose still isn’t right.”

he stops. stands still. considers his options.

she looks sheepish. “just a few more minutes.”

if she were anyone else on earth, he would say something biting. something clever that would make her laugh, and then slowly feel bad as she realized she’s been humiliated.

he knows exactly what he’d say.

but he swallows it and smiles, “a model’s work is never done.”

“not again.”

max sits on the couch, a news bulletin has interrupted his basketball game.

his roommate looks up from facebook.

“what is it?”

“another guy killing defenseless people.”

“bible belt?”

“southern california. near san diego. a friggin’ cinco de mayo parade.”

max stares at the newscast, one that has been well rehearsed. two months ago in florida. six months before that in south carolina. the places change, the names, the headcount, but the core message stays the same. the furthest extreme has become commonplace.

a photo of the assailant fills the screen. looks like a high school portrait. a serious young man, his gaze fixed up and away from the camera lens. “timothy michael wallace. now that’s a name for a mass murderer.”

his roommate looks up, “everybody’s got a mass murderer name. you know, like everybody’s got a porn name.”

“yeah?”

“your porn name is your first pet plus your mom’s maiden name. my porn name is bullet manley.”

max laughs. “wow. that’s good. you could sell that.” he thinks for a moment. then laughs even harder.

“tell me.”

“kissy lovejoy.”

his roommate erupts in laughter.

“kissy?!”

“it was a goldfish.”

“kissy lovejoy, the transvestite john holmes.”

“the movie writes itself.”

the laughter slowly gives way to silence. max’s roommate lowers his eyes back to facebook. there’s been a post about the massacre.

“so what’s your mass murderer name?”

“it’s the same as your serial killer name.”

“okay, and that is…”

the roommate looks up. “it’s just your entire name, like it’s read off your birth certificate.”

“maxwell charles meriweather.”

“they can’t call you max meriweather, you sound too human. like you had a life, a couple of friends. like the world softened you up a bit during your time on it. that doesn’t sell newspapers.”

“henry lee lucas.”

“you see that? does that sound like your neighbor? no. that’s an alienated outsider. a lone gunman. they might as well call you by your phone number.”

“richard allen davis.”

“in the perfect news story, the audience has to be terrified… and blameless. if they feel guilty, they might ignore the commercial break.”

“what about ted bundy?”

“what about him?”

“well, i’ve never heard him called theodore. and i don’t even know his middle name.”

“i’m sure he was theodore middle-name bundy for a couple months. but when you get famous, and develop some kind of mystique, then they let the bogeyman be your friend. i’ll bet a million bucks that kid hasn’t heard the name timothy since his mom yelled it when he was seven .”

“there’s something seriously wrong with this country.”

they watch more footage. mesmerized.

max shakes his head, “looks like little timmy wallace killed himself when he was done.”

“yeah, i have a theory about that, too.”

“why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“everyone wonders how people can bring themselves to kill a boatload of perfect strangers. i think that’s looking at things backwards. these aren’t killings. what they are is extroverted suicides. a guy lives in a box all his life. he wants to die, but he’s ashamed cause he’s never accomplished anything. never made a difference. this way, he can snuff himself, and leave an imprint on a world that abused him.”

he starts typing again.

“that’s really uplifting.”

“the question isn’t why this happens so much. the real question is why it doesn’t happen every day.”

a woman sobs on screen. an eighth-grader’s aunt.

the roommate turns his focus back to facebook.

max stares at the screen for a few minutes more.

he looks over his shoulder, “can you check the computer to see if the celtics are still ahead?”