The very moment I touch him he begins to rumble like a warm, clean motor engine. He is soft and tinged with tones of summer, winding his body with the whirling paisley on my blanket. The morning light slithers across the room and startles a still, rust-colored bikini string hanging on a closet door knob. Its iridescence coyly distracts him from me. The collection of light continues with a gleam in his eager eyes, in his eager teeth.

“I must have it,” he seems to say.

Suddenly my love does not matter. His round, stable gentleness is made violently buoyant as he springs into the air onto the wooden floor where his feet pitter and patter.

I laugh at his determination. Such a thing would normally make me a bad friend, but at the moment I’ve become so swiftly irrelevant. How easy things can change.


From One Place to Another

When I was nineteen I wrote a song called “Life’s too short, I need you now”. How delusional in not realizing that I didn’t really need anything then, and that someday I would be where I am right now and the title and content of the song would be that much more pressing. I need to stop waiting for things to happen to me. “Maybe someday” doesn’t work anymore when you’re already twenty-eight.

“And you can tell me I can do what I want all you want, but all I want is you..”


I wrote a new song for you to listen to!


Making Musical Sense

When I have encountered my last option for understanding, and have still come up short of an answer, the losing battle reminds me of a good song that makes sense to me in a world with many deterrents towards sense making. I am comforted.

Breathing for Breath

I’ve been seriously treading the mud of my mind lately trying to understand the nature of moving on. What needs to happen cognitively in order to truly do this? What patterns of thinking need to be broken? How do you stop wanting things that are not good for you? How do you stop being affected by things that are inherently unsatisfying? Why do we even keep indulging in things that are both not good for you and unsatisfying? Why is moving on like the hardest damn thing on the planet? I remember my Aunt once telling me something so simple when I was having a conversation with her about family and life and stuff,

“You just need to take a breath and let it go.”

This didn’t mean immediately drop it and pretend like it doesn’t exist, because obviously if you’re in a situation where you feel trapped despite the deprivation of your desires, or you are plagued by some pestilent person or emotion, you have to walk the often long-road of healing to quell the leverage it has over you. What I think she meant, is being sentient and taking a moment to stop where you are and be like, why the fuck am I allowing this to happen to me? Then in that same moment, telling yourself you’re okay, you’re human and we are allowed to be sad and confused more often than social pressures allow us to be. After this, you take that big, fat, deep breath and shed off what is suffocating you, whether it be emotionally, spiritually, intellectually. I always imagine that the breath carries my demons, and the air outside of me somehow evaporates them. I feel lifted. Even if it only gets me through a single hour of a single day, sometimes we just aren’t ready to move on, which is okay too, and this stupid, metaphorical breath is better than nothing.

Fun From the Depths of Hell

I had the kind of Saturday night that really makes you realize the limitations of being human. I had fun, but will keep wild weekends to one per year.


Forgive Me, I Know Not What I Do

Sometimes when I read other writers I wonder why I bother. Same goes for music, or really any method of which I know how to create. There’s so much talent in the world and though it doesn’t exactly pose itself as competition, I often feel as though I’ve been beat out anyway in knowing I will never be as good as some things, even if I dedicate myself solely to the cause of my art(s).

While I’d like to think “Oh I’m just different”, “I just do that differently”, I am not so delusional. I think we obviously have relatively clear standards of what is great and what is not, I think even extending so far as to believe there is greatness in things we don’t even necessarily like on a subjective level ie Moby Dick.

I think as appreciators of art we employ our own curve of forgiveness, understanding that the really good local band we went to see one night will never be as good as Led Zeppelin, or that our children’s finger paintings are not Monet (sorry deluded parents) though the experiences might render similar excitement. While I don’t want to bank on this forgiveness in hoping someone likes something I do or make, it’s nice to know it’s there and that maybe as I engage in these little exercises to become better, I am pardoned for my weaknesses and enjoyed anyway. I continue to remind myself that inspiring another person is one of the hardest emotional transactions to complete. If I start the fire for just one person, just once in life, I would consider myself lucky.