Friday, August 3, 2018

Digging Out the Wagon Wheel (A Song of Slush and Humidity)

Dear Internauts,

I don't drink coffee. It's not any kind of moral stand or anything. Just never got the taste for it. Sometimes I like the smell. I also kinda like the smell of wood smoke from a bonfire, though I also find it unlikely I'd drink anything that flavor.

Thus, my usual cafe drink is some form of iced tea, often mixed with lemonade. More calories than coffee and less caffeine (apparently, tea has more caffeine before brewing but loses much of it by the time it reaches maximum drinkability). In the winter, I will sometimes get a chai tea latte, but it's usually too thick to feel refreshing. Thanks, probably, to my dad, I'll have iced drinks throughout the year, no matter the weather. One of the strange minor adjustments the few times I've been to europe is that restaurants tended to use less ice in their drinks, many thinking Americans quite odd for our abundance of cubes. Most of the time, ice is used to make sure you get less actual drink with your cup, but such habits are tough to crack.

All this to say, I don't really go to cafes for the liquid refreshment so much as for the destination. Sure, being around a bunch of strangers in a sometimes noisy, sometimes crowded, sometimes hectic environment (though never as bad as, say, the mall or supermarket) can play the fiddle with my nerves, the point is really to be out at all. Leaving my bedroom helps me wake up, but leaving the house entirely is sometimes necessary for forcing my creativity into gear. This too may be a matter of habit formed from practice. Sometimes, thankfully, it can be as simple as taking a walk around the block or a short drive for some thoughts to rearrange inside my mind. Other times, I could travel to the moon and back and still be stuck on a single line.

Sometimes I wonder if my mental illness is truly a symptom of sickness or simply another habit. The further time flies from the inciting trauma, the more it seems like my inability to function at my preferred level is no longer a direct reaction to said trauma but rather a learned pattern of behavior based around the shape in which my brain settled via an evolving set of maladaptive coping mechanisms.

It's like a wagon with one slightly off-balance wheel. Sometimes bumped it the wrong way, busting it too much to run as well but not enough to break it down entirely. Every day the wagon goes up and down the same dirt road, digging in a gradual trench along the wheels' usual tracks. Before too long, the trench begins to direct the path of the wagon more than the wagon shapes the trench. The trench pulls the slightly off-balance wheel deeper into its learned pattern, a little more off each day. Eventually, the trench forces the wheel too far away from the rest. Maybe the wagon gets stuck or maybe the wheel breaks off entirely. Either way, the current damage, while set in motion by an original bump, has been so exacerbated by this trench of repetition, that it could be said the dirt road did far more damage than the bump.

Then again, maybe it wasn't the most solidly built wagon to begin with.

I decided to spend August diving back into songwriting at a more steady pace than I have been so far this summer. It's frustrating how easily I've fallen out of practice with some simple things, needing to rebuild the callouses on my fingers and the old wordsmithing patterns in my head.

On the topic of inspiration, I find myself agreeing with some words I've heard from comedians. The overwhelming glut of socio-political mayhem of the day, which itself was so utterly unexpected in its extent, was to some extent expected to be an outpouring source of material. Instead of being a drinking fountain, though, its like being caught in the garbage disposal. Circling the drain as furious tides pull all sense of straightforward thinking toward an uproarious demise.

Since many of my songs' subject matter is gleaned from social consciousness, from my reactions as an observer of the world and its shifting tides, the large majority of lyrical material I've crafter (or simply expelled) has the delicacy of a scene from South Park, but without any of the wit, humor, or creative experience. The songs with which most folks seem to connect—and often those with which I still feel most connected and eager to continue performing—are those which emphasize more my position as a human in this world versus my position as some distant watcher picking topics off a list.

In his songwriting class, Rick Elias told us many times that the best songs were far more personal, that trying to write a song encompassing the entirety of some archetypal Ur-concept like "man's inhumanity to man" in three and a half minutes was a futile gesture in mediocrity. He didn't say it exactly like that. The idea is essentially that a song isn't meant to be a wikipedia entry. Granted, I took this for me as not writing a song titled "Racism" and trying to capture every side and aspect and historical context with two versus, a chorus, and a bridge, but for many it could also mean that writing a love song about how it feels to be in love has simply been DONE. TO. DEATH. Whether it be Shakespeare or Swift, it's pretty easy to make a worse imitation of something popular than it is to make something unique.

But it doesn't have to be.

Creative folks often have this weird habit of forgetting that originality and a unique perspective are already things we possess. No one else can live your life for you. No one else has walked in your shoes or seen the world through your eyes. Even attempting to walk in someone else's shoes or see the world through their eyes will fail to capture their true human experience while succeeding in revealing something new about yours. Opening ourselves up to new experiences and to other points of view can broaden our compassion and connection with others, as well as our sense of complex selfhood.

This is what great art can do. If it comes from an honest place within the creator, then those who experience it will not only experience something of that place as visitors but a news lens through which to visit the depths of themselves. Thus why collaborative creation can be so astoundingly powerful. A performer can bring their own hopes, fears, doubts, and desires into a piece of music or theatre or poetry or dance which originally came from someone else's experiences of hope, fear, doubt, and desire.

Or, if you're a solo act like myself, each new performance is filtered through the shades and hues of every bit of life I've lived since first writing the song. And it's always great to see what producers or instrumentalists can make with their great talent out of original songs when it comes time to record. There is, of course, more of that on the way. ;)

Thank you for reading,

P.S. - some suggested great art I've gotten to experience in the past month or so:


The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August by Claire North

Leviathan Wakes by James S. A. Corey

Death (collection) by Neil Gaiman

The Hate You Give by Angie Thomas

Fullmetal Alchemist (series) by Hiromu Arakawa

Moon Girl and Devil Dinosaur (series) by Amy Reeder, Brandon Montclare, Natacha Bustos


Three Identical Strangers dir. Tim Wardle

Won't You Be My Neighbor dir. Morgan Neville

On Chesil Beach dir. Dominic Cooke

Don't Worry, He Won't Get Far on Foot dir. Gus Van Sant

Blindspotting dir. Carlos Lopez Estrada

Sorry to Bother You dir. Boots Riley

Mission Impossible: Fallout dir. Christopher McQuarrie

Eighth Grade dir. Bo Burnham

Tuesday, July 3, 2018

Project Pressure - 50 Simple Steps to Creative Genius

Dear Internauts,

Outside, the sky cracks open, my heart continues to pound out my chest. The rain makes my vision-impairing dry eyes feel all the more dispassionate. The absurd, worse-than-winter chill of AC on summer sweat only heightens the sense of dreadful anxiety playing skrillex with my nerves.

Folks, I'm not doing great.

A week of exhaustion following a week of sleeplessness tends to have that effect, true. Still, I find comfort in the lightning. It gets me.

I'm by no means bipolar. I think the manic-esque productivity spikes surrounded by a fluffy down of downward spiral fit more of a pattern indicating that my soul-crushing depression can be temporarily blockaded by the rupturous nature of "project pressure".

Now, what is project pressure you, doubtlessly, wonder?

Well, you glorious phalanx of haloed chickadees, here's what I mean...I guess, in list form.

  1. Behold: A NEW IDEA. 
  2. So I take that poor hatchling of an idea and I throw it against the wall with increasing severity until I'm no long able to catch a hold of its return momentum. 
  3. At which point it slams into my person so hard that one of us starts bleeding. 
  4. And likely crying. 
  5. The blood and tears, as they're apt to do, initiate SWEAT LEVEL MIDNIGHT. 
  6. All the planning I should do is instead taken up with procrastination and reworking of the most tangential aspects of the process until...
  7. I take a blindfolded, backwards, over-the-shoulder, half court shot at a mental calendar toward what I hope is a realistic schedule and deadline for completion. 
  8. I miss that shot, not entirely because I still have no real hold on what the project itself actually entails. 
  9. Enter: Random burst of responsible and well-thought out, albeit far too detailed laying out of everything I could possibly hope and dream for the perfect, best case scenario result of the tireless hard work I'm definitely going to put into this, for sure, oh yeah, of course...right...
  10. A week of being too scared of every possible worst case scenario to even start (this can sometimes last for several weeks/years). 
  11. Several false starts later...
  12. Drown in a deluge of creative energy and inspiration while I'm trying to focus on something else entirely (such as driving or reading or talking/listening to other people or cleaning...often cleaning)
  13. Enter a mad panic mode of slamming down as much of that spark as I can snatch from the aether before it disappears forever like that brilliant dream I just woke from or that pasta sauce I made five years ago and still haven't matched...
  14. Lose track of all of that while I follow the "meep-meeps" of some quirky, shiny, and temporarily fascinating random intrusive figment 
  15. Capture genius in a bottle 
  16. Drop the bottle
  17. Scoop up what little I can of the genius before it gets too diluted by my salty, salty tears
  18. Realize the previously set deadline came and went two weeks ago
  19. Fall into a creative energy pain coma funk for a few days/weeks/lifetimes
  20. JUST DO IT!
  21. Realize I can't JUST DO all of IT in one night
  22. Get done enough of it that I have something to work off of
  23. Keep going
  24. Keep....going
  26. Ah, I'm almost done
  27. New deadline set!
  28. All this progress has completely changed my perspective on the project's direction, so I'm gonna close my eyes, hang a sharp left, and just drive till the laws of motion become a bit less abstract
  29. I should probably eat something...or sleep...or shower....NAH!
  30. This new direction has brought up several issues with previous work
  31. Go back and change things
  32. But now I realize how discordant and uneven this mess has become
  33. Blood sugar reaches critical low
  34. Gotta keep micro-editing
  35. Too exhausted/hungry/bleary-eyed
  36. Finally eat/sleep/shower/take medication/move
  37. In the morning/whenever I next get around to it
  38. Everything that was once bright, shiny, and genius is now AWFUL!
  39. This is the worst thing I or anyone in the history of ever has ever made
  40. EVER
  41. But Maybe NOT!?!!?!!!???!!!
  42. Marathon Maker: ACTIVATE!
  43. Slide into home. 
  44. Face full of dirt. So much so I can't really tell what good art even is anymore.
  45. Give up on perfection. 
  46. FINISH!!!
  47. Share and enjoy for, at most, a few hours.
  48. Fall into the deepest, darkest, dankest, deadliest divot of all time. 
  49. I will never get another good idea again. 
  50. Behold: A NEW IDEA.
And that's how it's done. 

By the by, here's a lyric video for a song of mine. Hope ya like it (especially since you now know exactly how it was made).

Thanks for reading, 

Saturday, April 28, 2018

Where Ya Been, Friend? (Looks Who's Back Again)

Dear Internauts,

Missed me? 

As I'm sure you figured, over the last few months, I've written and rewritten this blog post in my head more times than my insomniac mind can calculate. Granted I can't count too high even on a decent night's sleep.

Still, on something of a whim, I figured it's time for an update.

Have I kept up with my 2018 goals/not-so-resolutions? Sorta kinda.

Don't expect much — never be disappointed.

So far, though, I have done some stuff, like...
  • Saw a few amazing and a few awful movies (you can guess which), including but not in the least bit limited to...
    • La Mujer Fantastica
    • Black Panther
    • Winchester
    • The Cloverfield Paradox
    • Annihilation 
    • Game Night
    • A Wrinkle in Time
    • Tomb Raider
    • A Quiet Place
    • Ready Player One
    • Pacific Rim: Uprising
    • Avengers: Infinity War
  • Read some good books (still chasing for the next great literary/genre fiction high)
  • Have been eating far more fruits and veggies and fewer deserts and junk food
  • Haven't gone on as many walks as I'd like, but winter seems to be ending so we'll see
  • Started meeting with a new therapist
  • Stopped seeing that therapist (not a good fit when they spend 80% of the session talking about themselves)
  • Started as the occasional driver for the Bridge, a local food pantry/clothing closet that helps a lot of families in the area (so far I only drove one person for a few months to and from some appointments, but it still counts)
  • Found an abandoned pig in the snow and coerced it into letting me give it a ride to a nearby horse sanctuary for the night (it helped that the car and barn were a lot warmer than outside, and yes I called plenty of other places but the horse folks were the only ones who picked up at 8pm)
  • Been trying to draw a whole lot instead of just zoning out as much. It's a way to practice and maybe get better at it but also take all the mess in my head and put some form to it if I can.
  • Similarly, I've been writing songs again. (That's right, an actual music-related bullet point.) The key was really to stop putting so much pressure on my self to write the best song I've ever written on the first pass each time I picked up the guitar. Don't know why that took so long to shake, but music and lyrics are this strange puzzle. Sometimes everything just clicks as if from the aether, and sometimes it's more elusive than a wholesome presidential quote. Really it just took a bit of honesty and self-reflection, trying to remember what in life makes me feel genuine and riffing off that.
  • With this new material, I had one less excuse not to return to the world of open mic nights. So far I've played at two in the past three weeks. I think we can do better, but self-confidence is a habit that's damn hard to unbreak.
  • Like story writing, for instance. In the past I've alluded to the notion of me writing a novel of the word and/or graphic variety. For the first time in, maybe ever (or at least recent history), I've completed a big step toward that goal. How it works is I start out telling myself it will just be a simple outline of the big story beats, but then I get caught up in what happens between those points and then between those points in infinite scope until bits of dialogue and a billion footnotes of possibilities mean I rewrite the same beginning 138ish times with little forward progress. However, this time I actually have a beginning, middle, and ending. It sucks and is a ridiculous, incomprehensible mess of melodrama and no pacing to speak of, but it's my ugly baby eldritch monster. I sense great potential hidden somewhere in the wreckage of this mind and language collision. Next, I'll do a bit of format cleaning up so I can maybe read through the thing, then I'll set it aside for a while to come at it later with fresh eyes for draft two. After that, if it still feels like a graphic novel v. the more traditional variety, I can start on page breakdowns for each chapter/issue. Then comes thumbnails and layout stuff. Hopefully, by then my art skills will be at least a tad better, and I can start bringing this story to the visual realm. 
  • But before I do all that, I've got another visual-type project to work on. Starting this week, I'll be deep-diving into an illustrated lyric video for my newest killer track. 
  • Oh yeah, that's right. Did I not mention? I just release a BRAND NEW SONG. It's one of the tracks I first recorded with Joe Casey back in 2016 (along with 2017's Painkiller). It's called TO SAY GOODNIGHT. And if the all caps hyperlinks weren't clue enough, you can listen to, buy, and download the whole frickin' song right here!!! If you do listen, drop me your thoughts on it.
  • Here's the cover art (like the video will be, it's somewhat inspired by a certain popular children's book). 

    So that's me at the moment. Hope you're doing well. I'd like to get back to doing this more, but I think I prefer it when I actually have something to really show you. If you'd dig it for me to get back to blogging more regularly let me know. 

    Thanks for reading,

Monday, March 19, 2018

Practical Contemporary Socioeconomics (Lyric Ideas)

What’s the use for you, you useless loser
Stop selling me excuses or a bruise or two’s soon in your future
If you’re not a producer then you’re a lazy leech consumer
Waitin’ ‘round for the day they say who? you? yeah, you’ll do, sure
But I can insure your poor ass, you’re a glass of pulp without the juice, you’re 
A couped up, stupid fluke of putrid puke who can’t even say “can do, sir”
‘cause your attitude is so acute, your latitude has pulled the chute, for
A hint, look under tasks soon to be replaced by a computer
What? you want something brighter or safer or cooler
Well you’ll take what you can get because beggars can’t be choosers

Get up, get in gear, break your brain, beat your bod
You better make something out of nothing out of uneven odds
Turning nobs or scrubbing floors or waiting ‘round to get robbed
What am I kiddin’ you’re just another good for nothing, sorry slob
Don’t you come back here again until I hear you’ve got a job, so
Get a job, get a job, get a job, get a, get a, get a...

No more pretentiousness, just list your references
Nobody cares about your wish list or preferences
You’re in the business biz, so find a business kid
‘Cause life’s expensive shit won’t come for lowest bids
And you’re a lowlife, it’s obvious enough you’ll quit
Just like you always did, so why even bother with
Lookin’ at higher hits, when it’s less hit than miss
And more intensive bliss, comes after mortgages
And your college’s degree might help a bit
But even masters sit and wait with patience, since
You entry level ants still needs experience
Forget all common sense. You better make amends 
If you make anything at all you’re barely makin’ cents
So get a job, get a job, get a job, get a, get a...

You can work and work and work and work all day
And if you even get paid it’s a minimum wage
No one living can say it’s enough to live anyway

So we pray in god we trust and bust our butts to decay

Sunday, December 31, 2017

52/52 - We Made It!!!

"How lucky I am to have someone that makes saying goodbye so hard." 
- A.A. Milne

Dear Internauts,

It's over!

2017 is officially complete.

I do appreciate that you have a metric bajillion tons of content to pour through on your daily scrolling, so please know that I am wicked grateful for everyone who's chanced a glance at this weird blog thing I've been doing. We've averaged about 180 views a post, and that means this weekly experiment thing has been the most highly consumed bit of creative output I've ever creatively put out.

Still, the goal was never about how many of you lovely folks I can trick into looking my way. The original idea was simply to make something on the regular. Consistency, after all, is key. And though quality and the exact time/day of the release for each post have wavered, this has been the most consistent I've been on anything in a long time. The key there is that it's completely self-motivated. Sure, it's nice when someone would mention how they'd read this thing, but in large part the only thing that kept me going week to next was the building blocks of having done it before. Despite every way in which I know this could have been more polished, precise, punctual, or popular, the achievement of even putting up a blog post every week for a whole year was somehow it's own cycle of motivation.

We've been through a lot together. Sure, it's pretty one sided, but I still want you to know it means a lot that anyone is out there letting me slide a few slices of my madness your way. This time last year, I had just moved in with my aunt, uncle, and cousins and was back in Massachusetts for the first time since college. The following months were there own special kind of struggle as I realized that just leaving PA was not enough to suddenly fix my life or mind. Even as I was able to find some temp work and pay my own rent at their house, living with family in that area turned out not to be the right fit for me finding a way to transition into full independence. Obviously, life in that neighborhood and that house wasn't what either me or my family there had expected. When they told me it was time to go, I didn't have any other option but to return to my folks' in PA, which, honestly felt like such a huge failure.

I know I'm blessed to have parents who support me to the extent and with such love as mine do. Their acceptance, encouragement, and accommodation has kept me not just alive but somewhat stable for these past several years as everything else has just utterly shattered. Despite my understanding of and personal experience with depression, it's still so easy to think of my lack of success in certain endeavors or inability to reach certain goals as a failure of self, indicative of a lack in character. When family or friends would hint or straight up tell me that I just think too much or just need to try harder or get over it, it was difficult not to use that as ammunition in order to sabotage myself. Sure, I know that they come from a place of caring and misunderstanding the truths of living with mental illness, but with everything else going on in my head, being able to organize what outside messages were useful and which could be discarded was often too much to handle.

Thus, for the large majority of 2017, my inner drive was simply to stay out of everyone's way. Struggling to work up the energy to leave my bed, much less leave the house, was hard enough, but the instant I began to consider what possible impact my existence might have on others, all motivation quickly vanished. This made its way into my songwriting and even onto this blog, where the topics of what I expressed funneled into a self-centered spiral. After all, who gives a damn about my opinion on politics, social issues, or even human interaction much beyond that which I could directly explain from personal experience? The question of it anyone even cared about that could only be ignored because I had a blog to write, so in that way, the pressure of a self-imposed schedule allowed for me at very least to feel bad for myself in writing once a week.

I don't think I believe that my songwriting was vastly better when it was almost entirely focused on social justice matters, but at least then I wrote songs about something. Musically, I've been almost entirely on a dry spell this past year, and I can trace that directly to my lack of confidence conspiring with my lack of attempts made to create something new. As this is technically supposed to be a music blog, I've gotta be real with you folks, I have not picked up the guitar in a while. While I'm starting to believe again that I have something unique to give both musically and lyrically, I've too long let fear of disappointment, lack of motivation, and worry over how it might be received keep me from creating any new music.

I've met far too many songwriters who are way more talented than I am yet fail to produce new content due to getting caught up in the day to day mundanity and stresses of adult worker/consumer existence. I'm not saying that providing for yourself and your family is a bad excuse, but it's still an excuse. And if my excuse is my thoughts and feelings based in mental illness, well, I've seen over the past several years how that will only continue to be my excuse indefinitely.

For a long time, I knew exactly what I wanted to be. Whenever a big part of that would break down, I always had something else deeper inside to hold up as the core of something new. I'm a writer, a creator, an artist of some kind. Even without faith and a religious culture, I am still someone who passionately holds tight to and expresses what I believe to be right and wrong. Even when I feel alone and lost and like a failure when it comes to relationships, I'm still someone who loves and empathizes. Even when I can't stand/am terrified of other people in general, I still recognize something of our shared humanity. All this adds up to something, and most of the time being okay with who I am means being okay with the unknown. Most of the time being okay with the unknown means not being okay in the least.

Not being okay is okay.

I'm not anywhere near sure about where I go from here. Well, I can hope for certain things like independence, confidence, friendship, and security, I've also seen how fragile those things can be.

  • Independence: I've learned how important cooperation and accepting help from others is.
  • Confidence: I've learned that acting in the midst of self-doubt is all too often the only way any action gets done. 
  • Friendship: I've learned that since friendships come and go, it's alright to feel sad, confused, and heartbroken, but the way other people treat us is ultimately far more an indicator of who they are than who we are. Thus, learning to love and be confident in myself is necessary, because the past isn't gonna change, but my reaction to it can.
  • Security: I've learned over and over again that any level of safety is never enough to feel ready to take a risk and is always just as fragile as the next trauma. I'll face reality and make a choice under the weight of stress and pain, on good days and bad, because moving forward, the only certainty in life is change.  

Y'know I'd love to read down in the comments or on twitter or facebook or wherever, what your goals are for this coming year. I know new years resolutions tend to be more a source of eventually guilt/grief than continued inspiration, but if nothing else, please be encouraged by the fact that I wrote 52 blog posts since last January. I said I was gonna do something and I did it. Wanna know my secret? I just did it. Even when I felt like I wasn't "up to it", I did it anyway.

Most of the time the desire necessary in order to accomplish a task and the desire we think we need are nowhere close. I can honestly say that most days this past year, I didn't want to even open my eyes. I feel like I've simultaneously somehow slept through the past 52 weeks and not slept for the past 52 weeks. I didn't even want to get up and hang out with my parents today, but I did because I'd promised them I'd make buffalo cauliflower bites and play card games. When I was so tired I kept hitting snooze and falling back into the weird nightmare I was having about growing up on a dust farm, I was not incredibly enthusiastic about figuring out the breading and sauce and how to use the toaster oven like a real oven.

But I didn't need to be incredibly enthusiastic. I just needed to do it. I only needed the absolute minimum of wanting to. Like when I got a root canal a few months back. I didn't have to really, really want to go to the dentist. I just had to want to enough to get up, get dressed, and go. How many times in my life have I gotten up, gotten dressed, and gone somewhere? The process is practically habitual once started, and yet before getting started why do I feel like it's either gotta be I'm 100% ecstatic about it or it's impossible? That's not necessary.

For many of you I imagine this is the process for going to your job. Hopefully, you all enjoy your job. I've never had a job I particularly liked, and I don't really understand people who do like their jobs. It's kinda like all the worst things about school plus the stress of being treated as less than a person by everyone around you, not just the bullies at recess. However, when I have had a regular job or even a temp job, the going and the doing was never the worst part (it was the people mostly). The trick was always just before that, like working out. Once I'm in my workout clothes and on the machine or headed somewhere it's not too bad, but just tricking my feet into socks and sneakers semi-regularly is worse than any amount of reps. It's all a mind game.

All that to say, I'm not gonna just make a list of promises to you or myself about what I want to do this year in vague terms I'll soon fail to fulfill.

Instead, here are some things I don't promise, big and small, but am just gonna do because I'm just gonna do 'em.

Everyday, I will:
- Take my medication
- Play guitar
- Write a page
- Eat a vegetable
- Take a walk
- Draw for an hour

Every week, I will:
- Apply for a job (until I get one)
- Look for a therapist (until I get one)
- Work on the Painkiller music video (until it's finally done)
- Write a song
- Go to an open mic

Every month, I will
- Read a book
- Post an acoustic song up on Youtube
- Post an update on this blog*

*I'll post more often than this, but my goal is to create more content of many different kinds, not just blogposts, about which I'll keep you lovely folks updated via this site and other social media.

- No more buying sweets and/or deserts for myself
- No more self harm
- No more looking at pictures and/or following social media of former friends who no longer give a damn about me

Here it is, folks, after the wondrous monstrosity that was 2017 for myself and so so so so many others and situations around the world, I don't exactly expect 2018 to be the absolute opposite. 365 days is a whole lot of time. 52 weeks is way more than we can really take into account all at once.

The joy and pain of hoping is that it either has nothing to do with what I can control and therefore is like a ball of positivity floating just out of reach OR it is completely within my control and therefore is just something I gotta do or it won't get done.

For most of this year, I couldn't visualize who or what I wanted to be because I didn't believe that I could be anyone or anything at all. Believing isn't enough to get anything done, but it's usually a necessary first step. The rest might just be all about doing it anyway, no matter how you feel.

Sometimes I won't have the right energy or mood to do what I think I should. That is a reality of life that I've had to come to accept. Still, the kind of positive attitude I need to help me survive those times is strengthened by what I make out of the times when I do have just enough energy to do something. It needn't be perfect by my or anyone's standards, but as it's all I have to work with, then I can do something with it or not.

And therein again lies the hope, that someday I can live with a little more empathy, confidence, and passion, and a whole lot less fear, despair, and hate.

Here's to 2018.

Here's to you!!!

Thanks for being there this past year, every week, and as always...

Thanks for reading,

Monday, December 25, 2017

51/52 - Happy Hollandaise

"Coming back to where you started is not the same as never leaving."
- Terry Pratchett

Dear Internauts, 

Thanks for reading, 

Monday, December 18, 2017

50/52 - I Don't, Because... (What Holds Ya Back?)

“Know your literary tradition, savor it, steal from it, but when you sit down to write, forget about worshiping greatness and fetishizing masterpieces.” - Allegra Goodman

Dear Internauts, 

Hey! We've reached the 50th entry in this year of weekly blogs. It's hard to believe that we've come so far and are almost at the end of 2017. I want to thank you for sticking with me this far. Feel free to reward yourself. Go see a star wars. 


Negative self-characterization forces a disproportionate emphasis on inability, or, in less obnoxious terms, I suppooooooooooose I don’t do things because I think I can’t do those things. Rather, I don’t believe in my ability to be successful in the attempt. 

Success—that ever-nebulous fluidic frustrater—readily adapts to my insecurity. 

I don’t because it won’t be my best.

I don’t write a song, because it won’t be the best song I’ve ever written. 

I don’t write a novel, because it won’t be the best story I’ve ever told with the best words in the best order and structure. 

I don’t draw a comic because I can’t draw well enough to convey the images in my mind. 

Most inconveniently, this crushing doubt often waits to fall until I’ve walked partway into the booby-trapped house of trying and, like a bulbous amateur, stepped unknowingly through the trip-wire of comparison. 

I don’t because it won’t be the best.

I don’t write a song, because it won’t be a hit. 

I don’t write a novel, because it won’t be an instant classic/bestseller. 

I don’t draw a comic because it won’t be a staggering work of genius which both reflects the best of and elevates the medium, blending words and pictures with perfect clarity and style to a degree reminiscent of while also transcending all my favorite graphic novels from Fun Home to Maus to Sandman to Cable and Deadpool

This is certainly not helped by the nagging conflict arising from consuming some mediocre piece of media and simultaneously reflecting on how much better I could do and how I could not even come close to the very basics of how it got made. Sure, for movies, plays, comics, and even songs, there’s usually anywhere from a handful to a couple thousand people behind the project. That doesn’t stop me from fantasizing about popping into one aspect of the production and managing to destruct the whole circus from the inside out. With novels or my songwriting, though, there’s just me facing down the glare of greatness. No matter how many writing blogs, interviews, quotes, or lectures remind me that the first draft is always (and is supposed to be) awful, the fear of ultimate failure prevents me from even taking that little leap. 

I don’t because it won’t be the best right away.

Truth is, I have boxes of notebooks full to the point of illegibility with songs, poems, and story fragments I wrote as a kid. Like some kind of creative stomach bug, I couldn’t help but puke up ideas. And just like literal vomit, they stink, make my insides hurt, make my eyes water, and are full of half-digested chunks of stuff made by other people that used to look appealing. Still, they exist, and maybe that’s worth something. After all, instead of even trying to keep creating, am I now just paging through some five-star cookbook without even setting the pot to boil? 

From an enormous accumulation of junk, there might be a line worth saving here or there. From the unadulterated outpouring of thought run-off, maybe some semblance honest expression. From the mad dash for my phone or a pen and scrap paper, maybe enough obscure notations to begin a shaping. 

It’s optimistic, sure, and we both know that’s not my style. However, this shift from writing and drawing and playing and imagining in excess to this dry sense of listless wandering didn’t happen in a bubble. Adulthood isn’t some concrete robotic function of assimilation wherein we shed the youthful, foolish flesh of wonder and delusion. 

I don’t because it won’t be “perfect”.

For a heaping chunk of my life, I could measure success in letter form and/or percentages marked in red pen. For years, at regular intervals I would not only be told whether or not I was succeeding in my role as a person but to what extent. Not only that, but I was surrounded by a very distinct range of my peers, starting with the year we started breathing on our own. Breaking it down further into the location where our parents moved us then into (sometimes grades or interest based but most often) completely random class groups of fifteen to thirty-five, we were lined up in rows and tested on the consumption and regurgitation of information, all of it preached at us as if were the most important thing we would hear that day forever. Pretty soon, biases formed and vertical mobility became something of an illusion. Do well enough early on and the expectation of future perfection is implicit and harshly monitored. Do poorly enough early on and the expecation of even having a future is moderately considered at best. Also, sometimes they made us run laps. 

But now I’m supposed to be some kind of adult. Like, I’m supposed to have been some kind of adult for a little over nine years now. Sure, there’s college or whatever, but even nearing the end of my junior year in high school, I was already realizing the standards for excellence among my peer group had started to dematerialize. After decades of having to know what they wanted I had to suddenly know what I wanted. In my case, I didn’t wanted to try this higher education thing, but my settings were all still stuck in what my default authority figures wanted for me. I’d trusted them so far without an inordinate piling-up of life-threatening situations, but then it turns out that adulthood may literally be trying to kill me. 

I don’t because adulthood is literally trying to kill me.  

The life of a child and teen is designed to make you into something, while everything after that seems to be about being that something. Or maybe it’s about rejecting that something? Coming to terms with it? Deconstructing it? 

I don’t know. Do you know? Is anybody out there? HELLOOOO!?!!

Besides the fact that my peer group is more obscure, diverse, and several billion times larger, there is no longer an obvious score card for success. Okay, so we can draw a nice parallel between how grades “aren’t everything” with how now money “isn’t everything”. Of course, grades can determine a lot of your future and that future can determine a lot of your finances and finances can be the difference between both where you live and, well, if you live. 

Y’know, money isn’t the key to happiness, but since Donny’s parents could afford to send him to summer camp where he made a nice lanyard, whether or not he ever finds the key to happiness, at least he’ll have a place to put it. 

But hey, being happy isn’t everything either. Everything isn’t everything, so what does that matter? 

If the only mirror I have to look at is a photo of someone else, I’m gonna miss a few things.

I don’t because I don’t. 

If I look at a cup of flour or a single egg and can’t see a birthday cake, that’s rational. 

If I look at that flour or that egg and get upset it’s not a birthday cake, that’s stupid. 

If I look at the four or the egg and can both picture the birthday cake and recognize that they’re not the same thing, that’s perspective.

When I make pancakes instead and decide not to compare them to the birthday cake that could have been, that’s growth. 

And  “when the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.”

I do because I must. 

If nothing else, there’s always compulsion. If I leave a little blood at the scene, it may not be the perfect crime, but it will still be mine. 

Thanks for reading,