The Satan Pit

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the ideas of the Devil that I was taught growing up, and how many people I know who still very much like to focus on this form, this encapsulated being they refer to as "The Enemy" (or whatever name you may like to use).

I'm not exactly sure what my thesis will/would be yet, but I am beginning to think that it could very well be an incredibly psychologically/sociologically harmful idea to have such a large piece of wide-spanning theology based around the personification of evil. To have an anthropomorphic figure embody ultimate evil and be ultimately evil creates this mindset, I am beginning to believe, that allows for one to picture the Other as completely evil. When that happens, we open the door to no longer see each individual as an individual, complex as we all are, but rather as a set of characteristics, actions, and shallow impressions which force them into one of two mental boxes, good or evil. Usually, these boxes are based on how well that person not only serves our moral and cultural perspective, but when we look deeper, it's how they serve us and our personal, selfish goals.

Does this idea of some doctrinal need for "The Enemy" to exist, at least as a bit more than a literary archetype, mean that those higher up on the theological pedagogy food chain believe we need a common enemy in order to pursue common goals?

What does that say about so many religion's views on humanity and our abilities to do just about anything?

What do the words we use to characterize who this devil, this ultimate evil, say about us and who or what in our every day lives we may see as having shades of devil in them?

Certainly, there are times when such descriptors have been used to refer to styles of music, television shows, movies, books, races, sexual orientations. Is "of the devil" just the more on-the-nose way of saying "something my personal theology is too naively bigoted to accept as anywhere near potentially good simply because it's different from what I'm used to"?

By creating, or at least believing in, the power of "The Enemy", are we shoving off our own responsibility, not only for our harmful actions, but for our judgmental worldviews?

This could get into a whole is there Ultimate Good and Ultimate Evil at all and what form does it/can it take debate—can good exist without evil and vice versa? I'm not really interested in that angels on the head of a pin nonsense, so much as I am with something more personal and practical.

I was indoctrinated as a kid to believe in some kind of Boogeyman whose very existence made it easier for me to label my fellow human beings as completely good or completely bad based on, essentially, whether or not I liked the cut of their jib. That's what I see as the most dangerous part of this whole issue.

[obviously, this is skewed toward my own personal religious experiences growing up, so your mileage may vary. All I ask is that you look at this as an opportunity to reevaluate the boxes you've placed others in perhaps a bit prematurely, and I will try to do the same.]

Contentment is Complacency

For all those who want to be a good person and yet feel hindered in their goal by their race, their gender, their sexuality, or whatever it may be that makes you think "but I'm not like that" in your head. I get it, I do.

Damn if I haven't gotten so angry for feeling like someone who doesn't even know me is using the supposedly safe space of their blog to express their pain and frustration in the general direction of folks who are like me in some generalized category.

Damn if I haven't wanted to give them a piece of my mind about how I may be privileged, sure, but I'm not like those other folks who've done all those bad things.

Damn if I haven't felt so worthless, like I was born a villain in some people's eyes and they'll always see me as bad all the while ignoring how other folks with the same characteristics being judged were doing and saying such horrible things that I myself kinda got used to it.

Damn if I haven't allowed it to happen and said nothing, done nothing.

Damn if I'm not confused more than half the time about what's okay to say or what topics it's helpful for me to comment on or if I should just listen or leave the space entirely or speak up or stand together or apart.

Damn if I know what an ally really is.

Damn if I'm even sure who I am or what the point is of all these boxes I create in my own head to judge other folks besides the ones society perpetuates with or without me.

Damn if I've done enough to really challenge my own thinking before I jump to argue with someone else.

Damn if I haven't poured salt on the wounds of so many hurting souls while nursing my own wounds and crying victim at the same time.

Damn if we're all not broken, bewildered hypocrites.

Damn if I'm not the worst.

I don't want to lash out at that which makes me uncomfortable anymore. Comfort hasn't taught me anything but how to be complacent, unthinking, and selfish. I want to learn from the new, the unusual, the different. If something is different from my experience, I want to be able to recognize that it's maybe completely normal for someone else. I want to learn from those who can teach me instead of just gobbling up the same old bullshit that led me to be so damn stubborn in my prejudice.

Damn if I don't want to be more of a loving, open-minded, hopeful, just human being.

This means that I want to say sorry. No disclaimers or qualifiers here about what I have or haven't done or how not all of us are like that or whatever. I'm simply sorry. I want to be different, but a sick person doesn't become well simply by pretending like they don't really need medicine. In the case of my prejudice and my bigotry, it's probably more a case of rebreaking and setting old injuries. I've healed wrong. I've been hurt and sought revenge on the wrong target. This has nothing to do with vengeance. This is about justice, and damn if that doesn't start in my own heart and mind. I'm so sorry.

Damn if I haven't been racist, sexist, homophobic, ableist, classist, and countless other forms of prejudicial bitterness that has so much more to do with me and my issues than with any other one of us seven billion plus beautifully complex people.

Damn if I ever give up on you.

Damn if I ever give up. Thank you for your patience and love through which I have grown. Thank you for your hate and frustration through which I have also grown.

Damn if it's not hard to live with myself most days.

Damn if I ever want to live the same tomorrow as I was yesterday.
 
Damn if I'm not trying to do this, but I know we all are in our own ways.

I'm sorry. Thank you. I forgive you. I love you.

But let's not stop here, okay?

Let's tear down some fucking walls, because...

well

Damn.

Lovin' On Enemies

Your argument sucks. My argument sucks. Both sides have good intentions and faulty semantics. Everyone makes generalizations.

When you get hurt and lash out, the other side is going to feel threatened and won't immediately understand you're acting from a place of pain. Therefore, when we feel attacked, how 'bout we take the time to think about how the other person may be in pain.

If you're in a position of power/influence or align yourself with a group holding such power, recognize you have more responsibility for the pain you/that group has caused another than the victim of that oppression does to acquiesce to your comfort level.

However, if you are trying to introduce to a group the idea that you've been persecuted by them, it tends to be helpful to give them the benefit of the doubt that their ignorance supersedes purposefully malicious intent.

No one is saying you have to do anything for those who hurt you, but if you do choose to give them far more grace and patience than they deserve, you may just help them learn. The world will be a better place for it.

I certainly know that if folks had just assumed I was just another stereotypical part of an oppressive group instead of a human being, I never would've had the chance to learn from them and grow. I have learned so much and continue to grow.

It is not your responsibility to take the hard road and love your enemies, but hatred and vilification has only ever led to more hatred and vilification. Perhaps patience, forgiveness, and mutual understanding can lead to a new and brighter day.

We must stand together and at least try to be human beings together. Yes, this will mean that some mountains must finally fall; they must fall swiftly and heavily and with a mighty crash. However, this also means that the depths will be raised up into the light, into the central square, out of the filth and into focus. Let us see things as they are and stand in the common dust of our place in the meta-narrative of human history.

In saying all this, I recognize that I have come from and still bear the stench of my ancestors. I recognize that what I have had handed to me others have had stolen from them. I recognize that my pain and your pain do not look the same but that it is universal that we can both be in pain.
I hope I can help you in any way you may need me. I ask only for what I do not deserve: your continued patience.

And I still believe that the world can change.

After all, either hope is worth the risk of shifting paradigms or nothing is worth living for anymore.

Heroes and Villains

Yknow you guys. I understand calling folks out on their bullshit. However, is there really a need to jump on the bandwagon of bullying folks with good intentions especially hard when they slip up and say something regrettable?

We get off on knowing we're part of a group of like-minded folks bashing some celebrity or newsperson or activist or even just your average OP for saying or doing that one thing that one time we find so immensely deplorable while completely forgetting how we were in-fucking-love with them like half a second beforehand. Do we not get how people work, that we're fallible?

To completely ignore all the good that someone has done simply because we were clever enough to catch how they slipped up or misspoke one time is NOT the same thing as recognizing that we're not all perfect. We should hold our heroes to a high standard, sure, but I would question the wisdom of making heroes out of humans without recognizing that they still are human.

It is the good that we do in spite of all the crap that we do, it's that we're still growing and changing and our views may differ by the hour, it's that life is more a dialogue than an inaugural address--these are measures of how we should talk about people. Turning an actual real-life person into our scapegoat. for whatever personal social justice crusade we're on is a pointless exercise in shaming.

If we wanna make a real difference for whatever cause we think they offended, we should do more to promote the good being done, growing those roots deeper and those branches higher. Jumping on the hate train may make us feel better in the moment, but it probably does less to help than we realize.

What do you think?

First Impressions

Hey there Internauts, been a while.

I remember being told--probably as early as kindergarten--of the incomparable weight of first impressions over all other interaction I may have with another person.

"First impressions are very important," they would say, often with the implication that a bad first impression could ruin everything. Everything.

Upon further reflection, it becomes quite obvious why we instruct our children with this bit of social advice. They need to know as early as possible how little anyone else will care about them. Oh sure, mommy and daddy love you (maybe, if you're lucky enough to have both a mommy and a daddy and even if they love you they might not love each other, so...), and certainly their teacher loves them (or at least has to put up with them for more of the day than anyone else, but yknow there are so many students in the class and which one are you again...).

We must learn early that other people won't give you the benefit of the doubt. They won't take the time to get to know your story, much less let you merge into their lane on the highway. They certainly won't imagine all the complex reasons why you didn't greet them with eagerly pleasant servitude and jump right to meeting all their needs when they were truly just too busy caught up in something much more important than your whatever-it-is. They don't care. They won't take the time to care.

Be important, right away, because first impressions matter. This is what we teach our kids. And whether consequentially or coincidentally, it ends up seeming quite true. You will become a utility of society's needs for you, we tell them, because we recognize the weight of our usefulness or lack thereof. We can feel it on our back when we clock in at work, pay our taxes, pull up to the gas pump, check out at the grocery store, or answer the phones with that same rehearsed line for the billionth time ("Hello, thank you for calling Cogs in a Machine Incorporated, how may I assist you in a task you could perform easily online but still felt the need to call and hear a human voice trained to sound like a computer?"). That is, of course, if you can get a job.

We're all doing what we need to just to get by. Life or death is hoping that the check won't bounce, that our card won't be declined, or that the coupons we put in a drawer somewhere haven't expired yet. Then one day, you realize your entire life is spent living within a system where you're just shoving numbers back and forth.

You're sitting at work, essentially a warm body in a chair, and your memories float back through all those first impressions--every step, every handshake, every missed and made opportunity that led you into this place of routine, of mediocrity, of fitting into a society that doesn't really care about getting to know you beyond a first impression. Applications and interviews and a dusty diploma somewhere are just stand-ins for report cards and a red letter at the top of a pop quiz.

First impressions are very important...

...because when I pressed the button to unlock that door and let him into the lobby, I was doing my job. My first impression was that he was just another guest who didn't have their key card or one of the two reservations left to check in that night or maybe someone looking to see if we had any vacancy.

First impressions are very important...

...but then he pulled out this big, silver revolver that looked like something out of the movies, and at first I thought it was fake; but of course it wasn't fake, and so when he asked me for the money, I did as I was told. And when he told me to kneel down on the ground. And when he told me to give him my wallet (empty as it was). And when he told me to lay down on the floor. He looked so very angry, but I don't really remember his face or much besides the gun, because...

First impressions are very important...

...but I have no idea why he did what he did. I don't know the series of events that led up to that night. They're pretty sure this wasn't his first robbery, which was pretty obvious if you'd been there. I have no idea who he is or what he cares about or why he felt like this was the best option for how to spend his Friday night.

We teach kids that first impressions are very important because we know they'll be faced with a lot of people who don't ever go beyond a first impression. We know that they'll be used and cheated and objectified and passed over in this society, and so we hope to give them a fighting chance. However, I would propose that the best way to do that is to exemplify how to be someone who does care about more than the first impression.

1) Of course, it was his choice to use violent means that night when there were most likely many other options.

2) However, I recognize that as a white working class man who grew up raised by two white middle class parents, the amount of options open to me are significantly higher than the amount of options open to a young black man in this country no matter how he was raised. I am benefiting--even now after everything that's happened--from an oppressively racist system that deprives people of color from having the same amount of options. For more on what white privilege is for those of you don't know or need a refresher, check here.

3) I do not know his story and wish I did, but I do know that I cannot simply blame someone else for the harm they have inflicted upon me without asking the question of why. What can I do to examine ways in which I'm participating in systems of class and/or racial oppression? How am I benefiting from or in any way a player in cultural constructs that lead folks to think they don't have any other options but to commit violent acts against another?

As far as I know, I never personally attacked this young man, but I do know that in my life, it's very likely I've been given more opportunities to move past first impressions and him less.

I don't know the events in his life that led to us meeting the way we did that night, but I'll be damned if somewhere along the line, someone taking the time to get beyond a first impression of who this young man is couldn't have changed things for the better. 

Anyway, here's some live music: WATCH HERE.

To the Top

Just met a cab driver named Solomon.


Tall, crooked teeth, one missing in the front.


Moved to the states from Somalia fifteen years ago.


We talked about Nashville and the tourist season.


He told me about how folks like to immigrate to places that “give handouts".


He said he can’t stand that and people shouldn’t just sit around, having kids, not looking for work.


He asked if I agree, and I said, sure folks maybe shouldn’t be having kids if they can’t afford to, but it is pretty hard to find work sometimes.


"What you mean?" he asked, critically scanning my uniform.


I told him about when I first moved down here, living in my car, trying to find a job, stuff like that.


He said, “but now you’ve made it to the top" and laughed.


Guess so, I replied with a shrug.


He asked me my name and we shook hands, revealing a second degree burn, undressed, on his right arm. He’d gotten it making tea, from the steam. Even as he told me how it hurt, gazing down at the pink splotches, the jagged smile from when he first mentioned his house a few blocks from here full of family and love, it did not fade.


Soon, a large group of white North Dakotans, part of a church or a school group or something, bustled in, loud and anxiously grumpy.


Their leader smiled at me as she checked out, grabbing a brochure for a souvenir and letting me know how many times their flights had been canceled or delayed.


I wished her safe travels, and they all piled into Solomon’s yellow van.


My mind swims back to earlier this evening when the drunk man in the pink polo called me an asshole ‘cause I didn’t have a lighter. I’m pretty sure he thought he was whispering.






_______________________________________________________________






Hey Internauts!



For those of you in the PA/DE/NJ/MD area, I'm playing a show with Whitney McCombs and New Shields on July 16th to Benefit the Bridge! Check HERE for more info!

Polytix: A Poem

politically, I guess I’m independent.
and not just because of how much I so resent that
whenever someone subscribed to a party tries convincing
me of their rightness, I can’t help but start wincing.
see, it’s not necessarily your strongly held ideals
or the way that talking ‘bout them gives you all those feels
but that if your ideals were all there were, then that would be fantastic
‘cept instead we get reality and the actuality is drastically
unacceptable in an ignorant, us-vs-them, and kinda racist sorta way
at least its mad classist so don’t ask me to be okay
with how you can say the state is far too big or far too small
or how it’s doing too much or not nearly enough at all.
because for all your talk of liberty and all your talk of community
the talk builds up to naught but talk and binds with such disunity
that i don’t give a single thought to what you say it’s all supposed to be
‘cause what is is what is and that’s all that matters much to me
to love the most those who are loved the least
justice and hope spread through the whole like yeast
and give rise to a revolution of the heart and the mind
and throw aside the privilege that makes those in power so blind
and turn guns into shovels, so we can finally bury the hatchet
and turn bombs into classrooms, and cigarettes back to matches
and take all that paper we used to use to write our bills
and make a planet-sized canvas, until all the color spills
and then wipe down our souls, and pay reparations with a smile
till justice flows like lemonade and there’s a place for every child
around the dinner table of ingenuity, and the human creative spirit
says to mother earth and father sky and anyone else around to hear it
i’m sorry.
i love you.
let’s eat.

What Do You Expect Me To Say

You come up to me, with your multiple nights in an expensive hotel room

What do you expect me to say

Tell me there's some folks driving round asking for some help

What do you expect me to say

I try and do my job and listen respectfully and tell you something proper

What do you expect me to say

Tell me their request for spare change made you uncomfortable

What do you expect me to say

Said she had a "real nice story" like the world's out to get you and it might be too

What do you expect me to say

Tell me they were "panhandling" like it's a secret curse word 

What do you expect me to say

You just wanted me to know, since the customer's always right

What do you expect me to say

So I turn to you and shake my head with an understanding smile

What do you expect me to say

"Well, ma'am, yknow everybody's in need sometimes and just trying to get by the best they can.

What do you expect me to say?"

Why I Write Angry Songs About Hope

And that's why we speak of hope like a spark.

It ignites.

It begins.

It can, at times, be so visibly different from its environment that the contrast--which may one day be quite illuminating--is in the moment glaringly offensive.

Hope isn't the butter on your popcorn when you sit down to watch a movie about the good ol' days.

Hope isn't the cool glass of lemonade you sip, sweet and crisp, at the end of a long, hard day.

Nah, hope...

if it comes in any liquid form besides an infinitely corrosive and foul-smelling acid...

if it's any sort of refreshingly cold water...

it's the kind they chuck at runners as they pass.

if it's water at all...

maybe it's the violent rushing stream from the hose...

pushing you down

and back

and letting you know that you got someone up there angry enough to slip up

because hope is the spark

and Eden is burning.

Art is Honesty?

  

I write “socially conscious” lyrics not because I’m necessarily of the opinion that music can change the world (although it has been known to help), but because I feel as an artist, it’s easiest for me to write about that which I’m passionate.

Every topic is affected by my own personal perspective, though, and topics such as race, ethnicity, culture, sexuality, and class are especially capable of forcing me to realize how inappropriate it would be for me to try and write for someone else.

Write what you knowcan be a bit disheartening when it comes to trying to create something new, but I’ll always remind myself and others that each person has a very unique perspective and set of experiences. It would be vastly idiotic for me to try and expound upon being rich and famous living in a New York penthouse or growing up struggling on the streets of Detroit.

Does this mean that everything I have to say about materialism or classism is null and void, no, but it does mean I need to recognize where I’m coming from and write from there.

Once again, this is because honesty makes the best art. Sure, I can envision a character for myself to play that grew up in a very different circumstance, but that’s more the realm of my fictional prose writing than my songwriting.
The songs that seem to really hit the hardest often come from a place of personal experience connecting with relatable expression.

Here’s to Hope - living in a suburban area where the racism, gang violence, bigotry, and class issues are starting to reflect stereotypically urban problems among an increasingly belligerant cultural mashup of young families moving out of the cities, old farmers trying to protect their old ways, and immigrant families all trying to make a life together - that’s the person experience (living in the midst of that tension) but it only works as a song because I didn’t try to appropriate the feelings of any of those groups, only to express my own feelings and then funnel it into a catchy chorus about changing ourselves to make a larger change in society

Mend - being in a relationship where I put the other person on a pedestal of what I wanted them to be more than trying to get to know them, listen, and care for them as they really were, whether or not they returned my emotions or desires, and then attempting to bridge the gap, apologize, and forgive so that a new, more healthy relationship could begin not based on any expectations but rather on mutual communication - okay, so this one is probably a bit more preachy, but I promise it’s still based on (sadly) many negative personal experiences where I now realize honesty could’ve solved a whole lot. my attempt was to write a love song that was actually about love, not about possessing the other person or longing for some made-up thing that was more than and therefore less than a real person. the only way i could do so was to combine personal experience with personal growth, otherwise the message would just be a preachy and probably quite misogynistic mess.

Oh well, that’s two examples for ya if you care to be interested. I’ll keep working to be a better, more conscious writer, and I hope you’ll keep reading/listening.

Art is honesty and sometimes that means showing your scars and crying on the page.

At Least

Dear Internauts,

As I sit behind this desk at work, once again waiting for the local authorities, having moved my car in probable futility against those breaks-in's which the previous shift informed me occurred in surprising multitude earlier this evening, I wonder why I'm here.

As my coworker's shift around and the environment of my employment, once so warm and welcoming, has become an eery reflection of the desperate, rude, entitled, and often intoxicated presentation of those guests for whom I earn an hourly wage, I wonder why I'm here.

As I read through the message from the last oasis of encouragement--a manager whose confidence in my ability to lead is weighed heavily against my struggling desire to care very much about a job where respect is a dream more distant than the rain-drenched flowers on the other side of this ever-thickening window, I wonder why I'm here.

As all sense would tell me that writing something about my job in this manner while at work and then proceeding to share said thoughts over the internet simply to prove some abstract yet oversimplified existential concept of self-worth is too big a risk, I wonder why I'm here.

As I reflect back on how last night's concert--a guerilla, DIY, all acoustic musical experience on my back porch for a little over ten audience members featuring very un-Nashville-like Nashvillian artists--contrasts so greatly with the plastic, expensive, and overhyped nature of the contemporaneous CMAFest while still serving as a springboard for my dearest hopes and personal aspirations, I wonder why I'm here.

As I write all these wicked long sentences, the soundtrack of traveler's gossip and Springtime downpour in the background, I wonder why I'm here.

In a town of wanna-be's and has-been's, I wonder why I'm here.

"At least you've got a job," she said.

"Well, sure," I replied, "At first I was simply grateful to have something to eat, then to have a job, then to have a place to live, and now I'm complaining about being fulfilled."

Maybe Maslow was right and the big questions are a privilege for those who've got the rest in the bag. Or maybe Green had it right, that as humans, we are all complexities and questions, and no matter our situation we want something bigger.

Perhaps desperation breeds the necessity for those big questions as pain breeds art or any extreme situation can squeeze the deeper truths and higher beauties from our choking lungs.

Truth is, every day I see people on both sides of this desk who want things and are afraid to reach out for them. We become comfortable in our miserable mediocrity. We think ourselves safe inside our cars, using the anonymity of the metal box to pollute the air outside with toxins and the air inside with curses. We dream of absurdities and let fiction teach us morals and about what it means to believe in ourselves, because the alarm will always beep too early.

And we live our lives hovering over the snooze button.

But then, the other day the alarm sounded and for the first time in who knows how long, I was so incredibly excited to get up. That night I would get to live my dream, if only for a few minutes on a stage in my own backyard for only a few people.

"At least you have a job," she said.

It won't ever be good enough, I thought, because as blessed as I am to have "at least", I only wake up smiling for much more than that.

Eh, I don't know.

Uncomfortable

In continuing my thoughts on actual utopia (remember not the silly individualistic kind but the real better world), I’d like to say something about equality.

I think it shouldn’t surprise me as much as it often does when the words of those critiquing inequality in society make me uncomfortable. When a world exists where a significant shift has occurred toward racial, sexual, ethnic, and/or class equality, my upbringing and current existence within a culture of inequality will make living in such a new society very uncomfortable for me. No matter how good my intentions or how openminded, tolerant, and loving I can try to be, I must accept that this is all so new to me.

It’s okay to be uncomfortable, confused, even scared. Change feels like that. Even good change is hard to come by. The fires of revolution line a road of glass and coals not soft grass.

This not only means that I need to grow toward bravery in terms of speaking the hard truths I know need to be said but also in the humility of being able to listen to the hard truths that others have to say and I desperately need to hear.

It’s okay to be uncomfortable.

In fact, it’s necessary.

Signals and Time and What Really Matters

Hello Internauts!

This age of mostly (if not only) watching TV shows online has made me realize a few things. One of those is that there I certainly shows I probably would not love or even like as much as I do were it not for having watched most of their runs in a marathon whirlwind of from 2 to 10 episodes a night (okay let’s not kid ourselves, sometimes it was a couple seasons). Of course, I only noticed this after reaching the point where I’d caught up to the current season and now have to watch it one episode at a time once a week. And then the season goes and freakin ends!?!!

Would I have liked these shows or even followed them at all if my first impression hadn’t been one where I could dive into the larger story-archs and immediately satisfy my craving to catch the cliffhangers in a net before their bloody doomed descent?

(And another point, would I like shows that are now finished as much if I couldn’t have watched them altogether?)

I think it’s the same for me with comic books. I’ll generally prefer if I can read a bound collection of the whole story arch over going issue by issue once a month.

Sure, I recognize that both shows and comics are works of art, usually created by a big team all working very hard to give their best on every level in a relatively short period of time. I also recognize that this need for constant entertainment overload is a product of an age of accessibility.
However, for some works if you’re not really worth the wait of a week or a month (or a few years for certain fandoms), it really seems like you’re going to lose not only your audience but many times the very point of what you’re doing.

In this day and age of drowning inside a sea of mediocre yet constant media presentation, there really is no struggle to find constant exposure of some sort of creative work. However, just because it’s there doesn’t mean it’s good. I think maybe I’d prefer quality over quantity when it comes to most art, in the end, but there’s also something to be said for the good that can come from regular, steady work.

It’s an uphill climb, but there’s sunshine on the mountaintop.

And as always, art is in the questions.

I know it's been a few months since I've come out with any studio jams, and there are some decent reasons for that, but please know I am always creating. Whatever your outlet is, you gotta work on that every day. I try and write every day and play guitar and even draw a little, but really it's also about living in a head space that says no matter what happened yesterday I can do and be something real and honest today.

Without further rambling, please feel free to check out a new song for ya:

Video: What Really Matters

Download: What Really Matters

All proceeds from the track will be going to help widows, orphans, and adoptive families at http://www.bothhandsfoundation.org

The awesome Kelly Aus, who played violin on this track, introduced me to this foundation, and I'm really glad for any help we can send their way.

Have a fantastically new day, every day! (or something like that)

Radio Static

Perhaps it’s the combination of still being kinda sick and not having slept more than four hours a day all week, but I’m feeling a little off.
And y’know “off”, for me, is more than a little off.

Breakdown Lane

Earlier today I was stuck in traffic. What would otherwise have taken fifteen minutes took about an hour.

At one particularly straining stretch, I look to my right to see a giant tractor trailer only inches away from hitting me. Unsure of how I hadn’t noticed it creepin’ up in the shoulder before, I attempted to scoot a bit to the more leftish area of my lane.

Of course, there was really nowhere for me to go. I couldn’t speed up to leave room behind me or slow down to leave room in front. Whichever way I might budge, so would the metal monstrosity. Closer when I would move away, and even closer than that when I wouldn’t.

Finally, I was able to work out a space big enough in front of me by inconveniencing those behind. The driver would be able to squeeze that barrel of terrors inside this lava flow and we’d be all fine and dandy. I mean, the truck’s signal had been going for the past ten minutes. Surely, I was solving everything.

The hole didn’t take. At risk of being crushed from behind this time, I gave the truck a generous twenty seconds to make a move toward the gap in front of me, but no luck. Just as it seemed like it was making a move toward the lane proper, it pushed back in the opposite direction.

Remember, this whole time my little silver world was entirely and quite nearly crushable.

After an uncomfortable, confusing, and snail-like procession through the next quarter mile, the super truck began to scoot forward a little faster in its special lane and head straight for the corner of the rock wall beside us. Barely missing letting the wall do to its own side what I had been sure it was going to do to mine, the roaring decepticon screeched to a hault by some wild foliage.

Able to catch a quick glimpse, I saw for the first time that it was not its turn signal, but its hazard lights that the robot-in-disguise had been flashing. Furthermore, when the motor-grind finally let me pass by the scene, two haggard-looking gents had popped out and opened up the beast’s belly. Steam poured from its draconian mouth-piece, but as I peeled toward my exit, I caught a glimpse in my rearview mirror—one man patting another on the back, a resigned despair on both their faces.

Opinions

Okay, fine.

I agree that we should respect other people, and in no way does that exclude their right to an individual and sometimes quite differing set of opinions. From trivialities to moral necessities, you have a right to form and hold and change your mind about what you like and how you think.

However, that does not mean I have to allow you to hurt or otherwise disrespect others because of those opinions. It also doesn't mean that if I disagree with you, I have to hold my tongue and tolerate every bit of nonsense you may spew in defense of your viewpoints. I am in no way showing you any sort of respect by allowing you to demean yourself or others will ill-conceived, baseless prejudices just as you would be doing me a disservice by allowing me to hurt others with my own ridiculously intolerable notions.

That said, I have so much admiration for someone who can hold to something they believe in with all their heart.

The problem is that ideas are not as rigid as we like to pretend they are. We can't box something in as completely right or completely wrong, because we distance that idea from real world application. When we try to apply those kind of black and white perspectives to real world problems, we end up dismissing the actual people who will be affected.

This is why I'm completely fine with someone having different opinions and/or beliefs about major issues than I do, if they've put honest thought into it. I know not everyone is where I am in my thoughts on every issue.

When I was in middle school, I had completely different opinions on war, capitalism, institutionalized religion, hamburgers, superman, and most other things. Those opinions have shifted from a little bit more expansive all the way to complete opposite opinion as my experiences have broadened. My experiences, though, are not the same as everyone else's.

This can often frustrate me because people my own age can hold opinions I find vastly more immature, bigoted, or ignorant than my own. I think they should be at the same place I am because they've had the same amount of years to reach that place. What I tend to forget is that they're coming from a very different point of origin. I was raised by certain people in a certain culture in a certain area, and all the twists and turns of my life since then have helped shape my ways of thinking. Thus with those whose opinions frustrate me to no end, I must remember that their certainties have not been the same as mine.

[I didn't really grasp anything about classism in the U.S. till I was living out of my car and driving around looking for somewhere to park for the night. The same cops who made the streets safe for the middle-class white kid I was growing up made it very difficult to get a good night's sleep a few years later...and I was still white, so I got off fairly easy the couple times I got caught. The fact that I got off at all showed me how easily I could fit into the role of a middle-class white kid, pretending I was simply out late and had parked somewhere to rest my blue eyes before heading to my safe, warm bed somewhere close. "Of course, Officer. Thank you."]

I was very blessed to get to go overseas for the first time at age eight and two other times since then. I've had teachers, friends, and mentors in my life who have been patient enough with me to walk me through multiple sides of some tough issues. I had parents who filled my life with books and music and art and science and ideas. "Hey Dad (or hey Mom), why...?" was always followed by an honest, thoughtful answer. Best part, when he didn't know, he'd tell me he didn't know. All these factors and many more have grown in me a spirit of introspection, philosophical discovery, questioning pressupositions, and abstract mental exploration.

And still, I'm often quite wrong. Blatantly, disgustingly, where-in-the-world-is-he-coming-from wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!

Does that mean it's not worthwhile to share my opinions? Not at all. To work through a thought process by employing an open, respectful dialogue can be one of the best ways to develop as a thinking person.

We gotta be prepared to be wrong. We gotta be prepared to feel silly or even stupid sometimes. We gotta know we're all coming from different places.

Most of all, it helps if we give one another the benefit of the doubt.

But what do I know?

Bleed like a Human

Sometimes I recall instances in my my more impressionable youth when ideas I viewed in the light of righteousness and justice and goodness were so prevalent in my mind and experience, but now looking back I see how blatantly judgmental, shaming, hurtful, and close-minded they were.

I wasn’t a uniquely cruel child, so far as I could tell.

My entire culture was full of people telling me how intelligent, how godly, how caring I was, ready and willing and groomed to be a leader in my generation. How many times was I told of my leadership skills?

How many times did I break down in shivering, anxious agony at the amount of pressure I felt to feel something and experience the great mysteries of the universe? Then in my hauntingly breathless and sweat-soaked misery, I was gloriously praised for how in touch I must be with the voice of the most high God?

How proud they all were of the kid who wanted so much the one I was told to want. How incredibly pleased they were with my questions back then, saying I was wise for my age, anointing me and prophesying of my future where I would be used as part of a plan.

The adults in my life who I looked up to were always those who could speak well in public and had almost inhuman confidence in the certainty of their rightness. That’s how it seemed anyway. They always knew what to say. They had all the answers. Well, they had one answer.

And I think they were scared (maybe?)...

And when I was at my most desperate and needing guidance, I was reminded that their ministry was not for me, for I was a leader. My job was to reach out and recruit from the evil sinful lost society into our club of holy people who knew the one answer.

They never really told me what it was, the answer. Their hints were attractive, but really it was the idea of being part of something.

Even if being a part of something meant being blatantly judgmental, shaming, hurtful, and close-minded.

Even if when I started asking my own questions, really using the mind they had so adored every time before, they didn’t want it anymore. They didn’t want me anymore. Years of hearing about forgiveness, and when I finally ask for what it means to forgive and be forgiven, it was unforgivable.
An entire childhood spent learning about love and hope and a freedom of spirit that could really change things for the better, and when I noticed a contradiction or two, when I reached out for someone in need, when I spoke up about the hate and the oppression that broke my heart in two…

“This place would be better off if you weren’t here anymore. In fact, we’d all be better off if you weren’t around.”

Dress up like an angel and they’ll call you their brother, but bleed like a human and they’ll murder you like a god. 

Then again:

What is is what is, but what could be is better.

Respect or Sexism?

Okay, so I feel like maybe I should call him out on this but don’t want to go in rage-a-blazin with only my self-righteous entitled impulse where he has a long thought out and heavily favored by his fanbase idea-stream.
The other night, I was at a house show and an artist for whom I have a mad amount of respect for (as an artist) and a decent amount of respect for (as a person, don’t really know him that well), prefaced one of his songs by saying the following:
“After years of making mistakes, I finally realized a tough lesson, that all girls—all girls—want to be treated like a princess.”

Those were his words, and as I heard them, I couldn’t help but think about all the many feminist blogs I’ve been reading these past couple months. I’m still new at this whole thinking-outside-my-male-dominated-inequal-culture mindset, but I knew something felt off. Looking around the room, I saw the mostly conservative Christian male members of the audience nodding vigorously in that “oh you know it brother, amen” kinda way you get used to if you grow up around that sorta thing. I also saw, though, a large amount of the females in the crowd looking down or away or really sad as he went on.

Now, I know enough about this singer to grasp at his best intentions, but if what he meant was to show these women respect than I’m pretty sure he missed it. “All girls” is troubling both as a generalization and how it’s usually not a good idea to use to the word with the more young connotation in an effort to sound wise and learned in how to respect said group.

The whole conversation sounded more like he was talking to the guys about having finally figured out the real secret to those mysterious females, as if once you know this one trick then it’s all easy street from here on out. But that’s not how real people work, is it?

And here’s why: people are never that simple. The idea that all females want to be treated like a some unspecific fairy tale ideal of an outdated patriarchal(remember he didn’t say queens but princesses), monarchical (you didn’t earn respect, you were born into it), and at very least vague (are we talking Princess Peach or Princess Mononoke or Princess Diana here) construct just was not in any way settling for me.

He proceeded to break into a very catchy, grooving, well-performed, obviously talent-laden rendition of a song about wanting to express affection for a female he liked (and referred to as baby, but maybe that’s just a pet-peeve of mine). However, he wasn’t sure if he should maybe just keep it to himself out of fear of “respecting her”. How it came across was more like out of fear of tainting her pure and delicate sensibilities. This honestly sounds more like the fundamentalist bearing that all males are sex-crazed maniacs and all females are pure and clean-minded prudes.

Does he actually think all the things that he conveyed with his speech and song? I doubt it, but perhaps that’s just another reason we need to think more about what we’re really saying about gender-identity, sexual identity, sex, love, relationships, and humanity in general with our songs, poems, and speeches.

After all, I don’t think all guys or all girls ALL necessarily want to be treated a certain way, but I’d bet that treating every single human being like a human being is a great place to start. That’s respect.

Wannabesandhasbeens

Hello Internauts,

Lately, I've been thinking a whole lot about what the point is in pursuing this dream of mine.

Any artist, if they really care about it, will probably tell you that what they want is to be able to make a living doing what they love- creating and sharing that creation with those that can appreciate it and get something honest from it.

We all want to spend our time doing something worthwhile. We want our lives to be significant, to mean something more than simply doing what we must to survive day to day. Or maybe that's just me (though in a rare case, I doubt that).

I've met so many people with such similar goals in my life, but especially since moving down to Nashville. Everyone wants to "make it big" to "break" into "the scene". Everyone wants something tangible to say that their life and their art is worthwhile, and unlike folks pursuing certain other goals, artists have a history of driving themselves mad and even to death in this pursuit.

Thus why I now live in a town of wanna-be's and has-beens. It's never good enough and it's never going to be good enough. It's the thrill of the chase, the desperate hunger for not the perfect step so much as always the next step.

We delude ourselves, though, with the very tangible idea of numbers. If we're making enough money or if we're playing enough shows or if we're selling enough records, then we're successful. Then we've made it. Then our art is finally as worthwhile as we always believed it could be.

Sure, there are formulas for this, how to write the perfectly catchy, marketable song that will be a hit just long enough to make bank before fading into obscurity. But that's how you get "Call Me Maybe" not "Like a Rolling Stone".

Honest art--that can last and grow and affect change and make people really think--comes not from a place of shallow satisfaction but from a place of deeply constant dissatisfaction.

For instance, throughout most of human history, singing a song wasn't a way to become rich or a celebrity, it was a way to express oneself.

As much as I really want to be able to leave my job and spend all my time working on creating and expressing honest art, even if that never happens, money doesn't make you more of an artist.

Comfort doesn't make you more of an artist.

Health doesn't make you more of an artist.

A label doesn't make you more of an artist.

Pretty lights, a fancy sound system, and a huge crew don't change who you are on the inside, and that's where the fire really burns. That's where the real truth happens.

Then again, you gotta hone your craft. Honesty can take a good song and make it great, but there are also a lot of really terrible yet honest songs. 

What about today?

His name is Chuck. He's a roofer.

I was standing in back of the venue after an amazing Kylie Campion show. He'd been hanging around, talking to some folks as they passed but not really bothering anyone. He was just there, part of the scenery I guess. You might move away if he got too close, I probably would've done the same on any other night.

After most of the folks hanging out had left, he came over and said hey. He asked if I could get him some food. I had a dollar in cash on me and didn't know the area too well, but looking over my shoulder there was a Mexican Restaurant.

"Yknow what I really don't get?" he began almost as soon as we had sat down. "I had to shut off all the TV and the news and all that crap because I just can't take it." His voice stumbled out more like a rolling grumble of syllables than words. The whole time I was straining to decipher meaning amongst the low gravel.

"What's that?" I asked, nervously staring down at the menu. I'd already eaten, so when the server came, I just got a coke.
"Order anything for me," He said, "I don't speak Espanol so you order for me."

"What would you like to drink?" She repeated, once again in non-accented American English.

He turned to me, looking me up and down. "Ask what kinda liquor they got."

"I'm not buying you alcohol," I said. "You want a soda?"

"Okay," he sighed, "Fine. Dr. Pepper."

A minute of silence led back to, "...yeah, what bothers me just...what pisses me off so much is this--You hear all this stuff from like two thousand years ago, from like 2000 B.C., but it's 2013, yknow what I'm saying? Do you know what I'm saying to you, man? It's all this preaching about two thousand years back and tell me what...what does any of that stuff have to do with right here and now."

I leaned and nodded, not knowing what to say, but thankfully he quickly filled up the silence.

"I just wonder, after everything I've seen. All the things that are going on in the world, I wonder where he is...where God is yknow. Moses parting waters (though I'm not too sure about that) and with Jonah, you hear about all that...and Jesus died and came back after three days but then what's the point 'cause...and you seem like a true believer but yknow I'm not sure but yknow I am a real true believer but I gotta say where'd he go? What about today? Where did God fuck off to when they bomb us and we bomb them?"

I noticed something wet making a small trail down his cheek. There was a glimmer to the red on the edges of his eyes and he was silent for a few moments just looking at me, pleading with me.

Not sure why I said it, but I asked him, "What would you say to him if you could talk to him?"

"Say to who?"

"To God. What would you ask him?"

"Hmm, well, you know what? I'd ask that sonofabitch where the fuck he's been for this whole time? Y'hear all this two thousand year ol' preaching and y'hear all these miracles and stuff from back but this is today. Now, I've been a roofer, and a crackhead, and a drunk, and a, uh...and everything and so I know what I mean yknow...Where's he been? He sleepin' or...or..."

I watched the tide overcome the walls and he unwrapped his napkin from around the silverware. When he set it down, it was marked by two dark circles.

"Grew up in an orphanage way back when, yknow," he said after the Waitress had brought him two big plates of food. I'd told him I got something with lots of choices, so if he didn't like something he could have something else. He'd thanked me and dove right in. "'Ts'really good."

"Grew up in an orphanage with my brother and I and..." The food made it even harder to pick through his mumbling, but he kept on. I sipped my coke and tried not to stare at the tears as they fell while still looking respectfully in his tired eyes.

Just keep nodding and smiling, I thought, as I struggled to listen. What was I supposed to say? Why am I even here? Okay, Luke, pay attention.

"...and he was younger. He liked guys, yknow, but I like girls, and he got AIDS and died. Maybe 20, 25 years or longer, ago...I don't...when we were growing up there'd be 40 guys and 40 girls in the orphanage and I had to stick up for him when the older guys would all go after him. You mess with my brother, you mess with me. Yknow what I mean? You fuck with him, you fuck with me? 'Cause I'm his older brother. I was his older brother."

He raised his napkin to his eyes again. He gave me his phone number and told me about being a roofer. "One roof, let me do it, and you'll see how great I am. Just, Luke, you gotta supply the ladder, okay?"

Walking back to my car, I passed a church's night service getting out, folks talking, laughing, arguing.

Went back to the house and ready for work, but I stopped by my friend's birthday party before my shift. One or two of them had seen me leave the parking lot with Chuck, had stopped by to say they were going to the party, to check on me.

"That was really cool, man."

Nah, it wasn't, I thought, All I could think the whole time was how I'm gonna blog about it later.
 

The Utopia Problem

A society that needs an enemy to bring it together can never be a society of peace.

…but then, ask yourself, do you even really want peace. As a society do you want the chaos and honesty that must come for peace to be achieved?

In this age of vast amounts of dystopian fiction, I’ve been thinking a bit about why that’s so apparent to envision (not easy to flesh out in a decent literary way, to be sure, but certainly fitting very nicely with current sensibilities toward the future). I’ve also been wondering about what it would be like to build a Utopia, one where the plot didn’t include finding out how it was secretly so corrupt but one where the struggle was based in how it’s actually hard to keep a good, honest, healthy society working. We’ve seen writers speculate about “Utopia” wherein all is serene and problem-free. It’s all feasts and fun and dare I say divine. It’s a half-cocked day-dream with old ideas of what’s good, I think. I also think it’s a false Utopia because it denies the humanity of the citizens. 

I want a damn good Human Utopia. I want discussion and problem-solving through intellectual struggle and debate. I want growth and change and mystery and confusion. I don’t want easy answers.

A Utopia shouldn’t be the death of the big questions, but the garden in which those seeds we call big questions grow into mighty mountains of trees with roots and branch all intertwined and reaching out in every burdensome and inconvenient direction. 

I want a Utopia not built upon the pax romana of intimidation or the drunken complacency of cake and circus. I want a Utopia where peace means the utter and constant tension of recognizing the complexity of the other. 

I want a human Utopia. 

But then perhaps Utopia would be the wrong word. 

Perhaps there’s not a right word for it. 

I want a place where there doesn’t need to be a right word for everything. 

I want a place where there actually can be. 

Dirty Lenses

Sometimes, whilst cleaning my glasses, I think about how when I put them on I’ll be a white guy, aged 22 years, with glasses. It’s like they’ll never know I dropped out of college. It’s like they’ll never know that although I do love to read long works of historical and/or classical fiction, I also enjoy comic books and children’s cartoons. It’s like they’ll never know that I’ve been rhyming since middle school and have in fact gotten half-decent at spitting a verse or two. It’s like they’ll never know I spent two months sleeping in my car last fall. It’s like they’ll never know I’m more than some white guy, aged 22 years, with glasses, but I could go on.

I could go on assuming that other people make as shallow assumptions about me as I do about them even though I know my backstory in and out and yet with others I’m only window shopping. Maybe I’m the one who’s too cheap to even try their shoes on, much less walk a mile behind a stranger’s dirty lenses.

The Shadow of a Shadow

This part of the week, I work the night shift, so I really didn't know about any of this till I was hurrying to work late with NPR low in the background.

It hurts when it happens anywhere but it's weird how it resounds when it happens somewhere you know.

I grew up in Quincy, MA. Spent my childhood there. Went to college there. With friends or often by my self, I'd take a short T ride north and wander round the brick buildings and cemeteries and shops and people watch on the streets of that big old city. My first big city.

I've been to THE big city once or twice, the one in which all the movies and comic books are set. But this, on the bay, with the seagulls and a wicked strong disregard for R's, was my big city.

I always liked how old it felt.

We're such a young nation, still making so many young mistakes. Still learning when there's much time to learn, but those streets always felt grounded.

And cold is different there. And parades are different there. And the flag is different there. I can't explain it, because as hard as it is for me to call anywhere home, I guess there were times I felt kinda home there. Heck, I've never felt more patriotic than when hanging out, singing songs by the occupy tents near the bank buildings. Never felt more American than when watching breakdancers busk to the gaze of a sea of multi-colored faces.

I don't really know what I'm saying, but as I rushed to work, tired and disoriented from trying and failing to wake up on time for the night shift, I heard the news on the radio.

But right before that, they were replaying an interview with Tom Waits from 2009.

"The shadow of a shadow is light," he said.

Yeah, something like that.

Bread and Dreams

Fighting back isn’t the same as equality, and you don’t make a better world by playing by the same rules of the broken world.

If life’s a game, it’s fixed and we’re all gonna lose, so why not play the game you want to play and laugh at the world with its silly rules.

For your immigrant great-grandparents who worked so hard to make a better life for you just so you could ruin it by dropping out of college and pursuing art, raise the middle finger of love. Ghosts can go fuck themselves, and the past can die, for there has been no one in the history of humanity who has not at some point been unsatisfied with simply surviving.

Maybe when you’re running from a tiger or ducking in a bunker or slaving in the fields or watching the clock behind a desk you forget to let yourself get angrily existential, but there will be lonely nights.

There will be nights when the weight of all your years have added up to will come rushing up and form a lump in your throat. There will be nights when you want so bad to quit your job but the rumbling in your stomach, the leak in your roof, or the crying infant down the hall just won’t let you.

You will be told that it is a brave sacrifice to be a cog in the machine.

You will be told that this is life and we must make the best of it.

You will be sold to, lied to, advertised to.

You will be a number on a spreadsheet, a statistic of the times, and if anyone notices you at all, it will usually be for some way you inconvenienced them.

I urge you, however, when the tide of this human waste pile comes rolling over you, do not charge at it in anger. Turn to your left or to your right, look up, look down, and just go some other way.

For the wave of history will always wash over you, crashing and filling up your nostrils with its suffocating, salty weight. Whether it be going along for now or leaving altogether or simply taking each moment as it comes, whether in quiet rebellion of secret wild thoughts or in open defiance of all that civilization has built, I urge you not to underestimate “the way things are”.

Instead, I would dare you to let things be as they may be and know you are not slave to them even so. For when you die, and you will die as all things do, you can laugh at those who will matter the suit you wear at your own funeral.

--------------------------------------------
more music coming soon. i know it's been over a month and the whole once a month thing isn't gonna be what it's gonna be, but should art really ever come on a schedule? i am getting together with my engineer soon as our lives coincide, okay? okay.

ima be way too honest for a second

dear internauts,

one of the major things holding my development as a functional human being back for years has been my inability to forgive myself for perceived pain i’ve caused others.

whether real or imagined, i could never let myself reach that place where i no longer carried the weight of the past.

i told myself that if i were to cross that just-a-bit-too-thick line of forgiveness, i would be somehow dishonoring, disrespecting, or in some other way not appreciating the extent of the pain i had caused them, that i deserved to be in constant torment for something i had done or at very least something for which i’d been blamed.

i’m not absolutely certain how to let go of all those feelings right now; their roots are still burried too deep, clinging onto the bones of my personality.

however, i have been here long enough to know that no one is helped by my feelings of self-loathing, and that neither redemption, reconciliation, or reformation are found in torturous punishment.

taking responsibility for my actions and learning to let go of responsibility for those things outside of my control are the only ways that i can begin my part in making good out of the bad.

when it comes to people, it’s always more complicated than good and evil, because when it comes to good and evil, it’s never going to be enough.

yours,
odist

RPM Challenge

SO I attempted the RPM CHALLENGE!!!

Notice, I used the words attempted.

Unlike NaNoWriMo, this was not a success. In fact it was almost the opposite.

I did however, write and record a 7 song EP, entitled Dear Friend Pt. II

It's all very experimental electronic semi-biographical nonsense.

And for those keeping score at home, yes this is a sort of sequel to my first electronic ep, Dear Friend

That was maybe 2005 though, and I don't even have a copy of that one anymore.

So I'm thinking I'll have it up for a week for free on noisetrade, and if you read this and decide to download that...have fun.

Sometimes you must experiment to grow. Or something.


Dear Friend Pt. II

Unsatisfied

Shot from a cannon, I've known chaos before but always trusted that I was aimed in a direction.

Tests, Projects, Semesters, Graduations, Shows, etc...

There was a goal, once, I think. To reach that goal things got really crazy for a while, but it was always within the bounds and borders of at least having a destination. The cannon was pointing toward something, and generally, despite severe wind resistance, I flew how I had to fly and at least there was an impact of some kind. It was usually expected, though maybe not living up to full expectations. It was something tangible, calculable, definitive at least in that I would be hitting something before I moved on toward aiming for something else.

That's what we do; we check off the boxes of maturity.

Then suddenly we're free-falling. What's next? Up to you. What should you do? Up to you.

The only outside restrictions are the law and survival, and it's very easy to separate yourself from those that care about the latter.

(Doesn't it get complicated too when you realize that good people sometimes break laws and bad people often don't need to break them?)

So here we are, out in the midst of the wild sandbox of adulthood where we choose our own responsibilities and generally keep ourselves accountable.

A friend recently told me they miss having purpose in their life. Another person said recently that everything will work out for good (okay, a lot of folks say that.)

We're all trying so hard to find the secret meaning behind all this normalcy, to find our place and our purpose. I think maybe many of us were raised to believe that there's this space we're supposed to fill up and we'll be unsatisfied until we can fit perfectly inside it. Once we do, we can just ride it all the way to the grave, I guess.

I used to think like that, but lately I'm of the camp that says we find ourselves at the result of our choices and must continue to make choices.

Meaning is given more than found. You can read a book that someone else wrote but the themes and the imagery that lasts will be that which most resonates with the choices you continue to make on the daily.

Who you are, who I am, isn't necessarily just a puzzle pieces fiddling around for the correct fit. Nor are we any long just flying from one checkpoint to the next.

We are who we choose to be--someone who holds on to old fears, grudges, and expectations, or someone who takes account of their current situation, takes responsibility for what is theirs and doesn't stress about what's not, and lives their life. That's meaning, that's purpose. We make it with our choices.

Not to say that there isn't meaning to be found in and through and behind everything, but often it's not meaning dressed as answers but meaning revealed to be bigger questions, challenging us to keep pushing forward.

Why?

Well...

Perhaps because we're unsatisfied with simply hitting things we've been told to hit.

New Music-- Mend (or The Problem with Love Songs)

Hello dear Internauts,

I suppose I should start this off with an announcement!

BRAND NEW MUSIC!!! Yay! (check it out right HERE)

The new song is called MEND

It's a bit of a mix between some R&B grooving, bluesy alt/art-rock, and spoken word poetics.

But who cares about any of that right?

Really it's just an excuse to show off some of the amazingly talented folks I've met down in Nashville! This particular experiment features the talents of Tyler Sutphen on lead guitar, Ashley Wright on keys, Jacob Utting on Bass, and Whitney McCombs with some tremendous vocals. As per how we do, Jacob worked that engineering magic, Alex Crain mastered something fierce, and I may have done some acoustic guitar and percussiony stuff and maybe rapped and sung a bit or something (who can really know).

But now down to the stuff I only share with my lovely blog-readers (the maybe 2 or 3 of you special folks in all the multiverse).

Why Mend? (Why in the world did I write and record this strange concoction of musical styles and thematic imaginings?)

Well, let's start with the MUSIC ---

The acoustic guitar part was the first thing I wrote, and about an hour before coming in to the studio for the first time, I (nearly) completely rewrote it. See, I had been mulling it over for a while, and it was too simple, too obvious, so I sat down on the edge of a small park and added just a pinch of groove to it.

This groove was built upon when Jacob and I were figuring out some percussion for the beat. The kickdrum-like sound was achieved by my foot kicking a door, and the snaredrum-like sound was achieved by the quick shutting of two hardcover books. To find just the right hi-hat/tiny tambourine sound for the subdivision, we employed a pen and a glass pill bottle. Add some claps and a bit of delay and a beat is born. The bridge between the melody and the rhythm provided by Jacob's high class bass playing; if you listen to the verse, he really found something special with that riff.

The next step of course was bringing in the talent. I have met some truly insightful instrumentalists since coming down here, but these folks I met back when I was at the Contemporary Music Center in Brentwood, TN. Between Ashley's classical meets pop keys and Tyler's precise and emotive blues guitar, the space was filled in and the energy really builds up. I learned so much watching each of their unique approaches to coming up with a part that melded their personal styles with that which most grew the song.

I knew though that this song was in many ways inspired by listening to my friend Whitney McComb's own EP and that her voice would suit it perfectly, even as I was writing it. There is a deep soulfulness and longing there behind her phrasing. I believe she took the melody I'd written and gave it a whole new life and distinction.

Taking all that together and mixing it just right requires a disciplined ear, hours of painstaking work with tiny subtleties which often go unappreciated, and of course patience with a crazy artist who never quite knows what they want. Jacob Utting can take a blast zone of ideas and organize it into a playground of a singular vision. Seriously, he spends so much time helping bring my psychotic dreams to fruition with a patient dedication every artist should envy for their engineers.

Honing that all in to a point, bringing out what works and smoothing out the rest is what the mysterious world of mastering is all about, and I was very glad that Alex Crain agreed once again to help us all make that possible.

It took some time, some hits and misses, and a whole lot of experimentation, but there is an artfulness than can only happen through collaboration. I am incredibly grateful to have gotten to work with these amazing folks. After all, my real hope for this whole Odist Abettor Music thing is about bringing folks together to create something of both artistic and sociological value.

Which brings us to the LYRICS ---

Did I ever really love you

Did I ever take the time

Did I ever really want you

Or did I just want you to be mine

Did I hold you like a trophy

When I should have held you like a friend

This is my confession, I treated you like a possession

All along, but what I possessed was at best pretend

And now what I’ve broken I can’t mend

You know what they say, it’s great until it ain’t, and you can serve it up on a multi-million dollar plate/ But will it still look the same waking up the next day, when the fairy-tale has faded and fate must’ve made a mistake/ So we fake it till we break it enough to give it away, never puttin’ on the brakes to whom we give it away, anyway/ and then we dare to be dismayed when they don’t see it our way/ when what was charming gets alarming and our heart’s led astray/ we’ll play the game, adjust our aim, and leave the past to be blamed/ seeking completion, over-reaching, when our target’s the same/ we’re not two halves to a whole, but rather holes that feel halved/ in our attempts to fill the emptiness with what we can’t ever have/ and to possess whatever wrestles us from selfish introspection/ by clues we follow through in Hollywood’s grand deception/ so I’m suggesting we break the trend and end with an intervention/ here’s to love and all it can be when we set aside our pretension and mend it...

Did I ever really trust you

Did I ever really share

Any part of me that really mattered

Would you have even cared?

Did I hold you like a trophy

When I should have held you like a friend

This is my confession, I treated you like a possession

All along, but what I possessed was at best pretend

And now what I’ve broken I can’t mend

You know what they say, but would I say it again/ try to retract so we can act like it’s not playin’ again/ the fantasy of first dates like loose change in your pocket/ stored up bits of expectation from payments of a big lie you bought into/ and you can choose and i can choose if the abuse of our past/ and the paths we’ve stumbled down will echo through it and last/ if we’ll see the other through the lens of the hurt that we both carry/ all the bones in the closets of broken homes we never seem to bury/ and if the wounds that we keep nursing are a curse of our own making/ self-inflicted by our insistence we don’t deserve the time healing’s taking/ when really we don’t think we’re worth being loved at all/ or maybe we can defend love, mend up, and watch these old walls fall/ as i admit my imperfections will you back up in disgust/ or will we work to earn this trust—building up into something real/ one small step at a time to chase after more than what we feel/ that’s wider than emotion, taller than a glass ceiling, honestly imperfect but what starts here is healing

Did I ever really love you

Did I ever take the time

This is my confession, you were never my possession

I wasn’t yours, and you were never mine

I'm not gonna go on for too long about this. I prefer folks interpret meaning in a song however best works for them. Some of these words first came to me while I was in a philosophy class almost two years ago, and some I wrote on my way to the studio.There is definitely an attempt here to present my version of a love song, whatever that means. I was inspired by how often we see love presented in terms of ownership. "You complete me" is a ridiculously self-centered way of looking at love, as in I am mostly good except for this piece I need which you can provide for my benefit. Even saying that someone else is yours makes me feel uneasy, whether meant cherishingly or not. That love should be about giving more than receiving seems to be an idea often missing completelt from our loves songs, also that love is therefore painful and sad and confusing and forces you to deal with scars and baggage---BUT THAT'S OKAY! Love heals, but first it must recognize that we're all broken.

Then again, if you find yourself catching a different meaning out of it, I am more than okay with it. As John Green has pointed out about books, they belong to their readers. This music belongs to its listeners. Interpret as you will.

If you do decide to download a copy of the new song, any proceeds will be donated to This Star Won't Go Out Foundation--

       The purpose of This Star Won’t Go Out foundation is to financially assist families struggling through the journey of a child living with cancer. Caring for a seriously ill child creates tremendous stress for the family system, and having to worry about money is both burdensome and distracting. TSWGO’s goal is to carry a bit of that burden for hurting families through financial gifts.

Feel free to listen to and download the song HERE

(all music and lyrics copyright 2013 Luke Schutz)

Bread and Fish

So there was a fundraising event to help the displaced in my community, employing a volunteer workforce mainly composed of the displaced in my community with the promise of a free meal. I trust that those leading the whole endeavor had good intentions, and honestly, having something meaningful to do that day felt kinda fulfilling. Sure, it was hot and we had to get up early, but we set up the tents and the stage and the lights and carried heavy machinery in mostly good spirits. We got to meet folks in the music business, mostly the organizers and the members of the bands and crew that were performing.

Everyone was really nice and gracious, but something was bugging me.

Something usually is, but I swear I wasn't looking for it this time.

Beneath all the well-wishing and help and free lunch...well, yknow what they say about free lunch...

I couldn't help but feeling that there were those among the leaders who felt it necessary to teach us a lesson. Between the talk and the posturing, more than one person seemed to be insinuating that we needed this (or rather, I suppose, "they" needed this, for none of the folks there knew I was in my car at the time). They needed it to teach them that you have to work hard for your lunch, that to get what you need to survive, you gotta struggle and strive and push yourself.

"It's good for them to learn this," they propose. We all say so with such self-righteous condescension.

Except these weren't little kids. The volunteer workers that came in the shelter van were full grown men, some a little older than myself, some almost my grandfather's age. They had struggled and strived and pushed themselves to surive their whole lives, and it was somehow good for them to learn about that necessity? This was somehow all part of the program to help them?

I can understand and do support the idea of offering opportunities to help folks find purpose and do something meaningful. Teach a man to fish and all that jazz.

What I find reprehensible, however, is the idea of folks who are struggling daily just to get by being treated like they need to learn about the value of earning your bread by those who have had a baseline of support and guidance their whole lives (or at least in this moment had no reason to worry about where the next meal was going to come from).

It's those who grew up going to the finest schools where money was no issue when it came to the quality of education refusing to allow help to go to those who aren't able to even get the bare minimum of public education and then blaming them for their lack.

As I listen to the Republican congress defending the upper class with the guise it'll help the middle class and the Democratic congress defending the middle class with the guise it'll help everyone, I can't help but think that the majority of congress have spent most of their lives far from the bottom.

I don't care about the fiscal cliff, or any more of this indoctrination that banks must be bailed out while children go hungry. If you're so caught up with the idea that capitalist competition is the way to care for people, you've lost sight of what it is to be a caring human being.

That is, of course, if you were ever allowed the honor of being poor enough to know how to care.

New Single: Here's to Hope

After months of recording and re-recording and mixing and remixing and craziness...

I am wicked amped to announce the release of my new single:

Here's to Hope

Which is now available for download right...here. 

I'm starting this new project btw, where the proceeds from every single I release will go to a different charity. That way, even if you hate my music, you can help some folks out. 

All download proceeds of "Here's to Hope" go to support families in need in south eastern PA through The Bridge Compassionate Ministry Center

[from their website:] 
"The Bridge Compassionate Ministry Center: serves our neighbors in need by providing food, clothing, household goods, furniture, referrals, and encouragement. Open ever Tuesday evening, we serve 30-50 families a week and 500 different families from throughout the Avon Grove School District each year."


Thank you to anyone who has supported and encouraged me through these past six months. I'm gonna keep pressing on and pursuing this dream, and I encourage you to chase after your goals as well. You can make a difference. Happy 2013! 

"Here's to Hope" - Odist Abettor 
(Copyright 2013 Luke Schutz) 

Written by Luke Schutz 

Produced by Luke Schutz and Jacob Utting 

Engineered by Jacob Utting 

Mastered by Alex Crain 

Percussion- Luke Schutz and Jacob Utting 

Rhythm Guitar- Luke Schutz 

Lead Guitar- Christopher Murphy 

Bass- Jacob Utting 

Keys and Aux. Instrumentation- Jacob Utting