2019. I stared death in the eye. I lost my rhythm hand to a slippery dance with gravity and fate, though it’s slowly finding its way back home to me. Sweaty Epiphanies. Wild Transformations. Painful Rebirths. Magnificent Mixtapes. Strong Coffee. A even Stronger Circle of Love. And I gotta be honest, fam - I’m the luckiest motherf*cker I know.
There are some things I want to tell you if you have a minute to spare:
Life isn’t easy all the time and longing is part of the price of the ticket for being human. It's harsh and it's perfect.
You might confuse wanting something badly with needing things to be easier, but don’t worry, everyone else does, too.
Writing every day will quite possibly save your life.
Don't outsource your validation. Determining your worth through the approval of others or using anyone else to make yourself feel better is a road to self-destruction.You deserve to love yourself better than that.
Boundaries are a Superpower.
Don’t be afraid to be happy, loud or authentically weird.
Breathe.
…
So..
Here's to leaning into your pain, conversing with your ghosts, and planting seeds/singing songs where the cracks used to be. And guess what? Through all that heaviness you endure, still, it will one day dawn on you: It was already perfectly messy and beautiful to begin with.
Try to take care of each other. Election Years can be an emotional landmine and they can wreak serious havoc on our families and communities. Whatever you're fighting for, please try to make sure you emerge from this mess with your empathy firmly intact.
And Stay in the Love, y'all.
Friday, February 21, 2020
Thursday, February 6, 2020
Absolutely Shredful..
Ripping up a speech? Wow. What a woke clapback, Madame Speaker; especially after approving President Trump's bloated military budget (which will also fund the militarization of space, etc.). Way to do the bare minimum by resorting to a symbolic gesture in the face of the rising tide of encroaching authoritarianism in the twilight hours of our waning republic. Pardon me if I'm all out of fist bumps, heart emojis and congratulations.
I'm sure I sound like a real curmudgeon. I'm just not a fan of Authoritarian Nativist Nonsense or Utopian Collectivist Claptrap - and you're about to put me through another abysmal election season.
I don't even WANT a President. Why are you doing this to me, America?
I'm sure I sound like a real curmudgeon. I'm just not a fan of Authoritarian Nativist Nonsense or Utopian Collectivist Claptrap - and you're about to put me through another abysmal election season.
I don't even WANT a President. Why are you doing this to me, America?
Tuesday, October 22, 2019
"Never Had It So Good.."
So I limp into the coffee shop the other day and ask the barista how he's doing and he says "Never had it so good."
He said it in that distinctly New York way which you don't hear very often in Southern California and it made me feel tremendous joy. My coffee-slingin' Bodhisattva brother sounded ruggedly sincere but with a sprinkle of ever-present irony. Ralph Kramden-esque. Perfect.
I guess this was my version of meeting Buddha on the road.
"Never had it so good."
Blues Wisdom, y'all. And ya' don't stop.
He said it in that distinctly New York way which you don't hear very often in Southern California and it made me feel tremendous joy. My coffee-slingin' Bodhisattva brother sounded ruggedly sincere but with a sprinkle of ever-present irony. Ralph Kramden-esque. Perfect.
I guess this was my version of meeting Buddha on the road.
"Never had it so good."
Blues Wisdom, y'all. And ya' don't stop.
Wednesday, October 9, 2019
Baseball And The Human Heart..
Baseball is designed to break your heart. The game begins in Spring, with fresh hopes renewed, the rains beginning to subside, that first gorgeous glimpse of the blue skies of summer yet to come, flowers budding to life all around, and the World Series hopes and dreams of 30 teams and their fanbases, extending far beyond the limits of their respective cities.
The season always extends into a long summer, which inevitably brings with it triumph and despair; one heroic moment followed by a flights of clumsy error - leaving us on the edge of our seats in anticipation, waiting for the next epiphanic burst of joy to explode off the bat of one of those talented men we admire so much.
You can keep your museums and cathedrals and great architecture, for me, the most wondrous thing in the world to behold is a perfectly turned six-four-three double play to kill a rally by the visiting team. In those moments, as the warm summer nights extend later, I'm a kid again. And I'm lucky enough now to see it through my 9 year old boy's eyes as he learns and plays the game I've always loved.
But, for all that exuberant joy,the harshness of Autumn eventually sets in; bringing with it some cold realities. It tells you that the long, difficult winter is beckoning around the corner. That nights will grow shorter and colder, the grass will freeze over and be mushed to slush and mud, waiting for the sweetness of spring, for bees buzzing around, and the cleats of wide-eyed young boys and girls playing games on her. The blankets get heavy and the sunshine seems to recede into the land of dreams and memory.
Unfortunately, for 29 out of 30 teams 9 (and for their fans), that dream of childhood comes to a grinding halt. The clouds roll in and that last glimpse of that long sweet summer, the kind that we hope will last forever as a kid, is gone. Tears are shed. Families are depressed. Hopes are crushed. Cities are sunken in sorrow.
This is my 31st consecutive year of not seeing my beloved Los Angeles Dodgers win the World Series. It's also the 7th consecutive year for my favorite team winning the National League Western division, only to fall short in the playoffs. So, like others, I feel the tinge of sadness, I scrutinize roster moves and bullpen rotation decisions. But mostly, I'll just miss the summer time. Miss that feeling of joy at the ballpark. The smells and the sounds that take me back to being a kid again.
But I don't dwell for too long, because sooner than I think, Spring will arrive once again, bringing with it the hope and promise of a new day, a new year, and another chance to chase that childhood dream and make it live forever.
The season always extends into a long summer, which inevitably brings with it triumph and despair; one heroic moment followed by a flights of clumsy error - leaving us on the edge of our seats in anticipation, waiting for the next epiphanic burst of joy to explode off the bat of one of those talented men we admire so much.
You can keep your museums and cathedrals and great architecture, for me, the most wondrous thing in the world to behold is a perfectly turned six-four-three double play to kill a rally by the visiting team. In those moments, as the warm summer nights extend later, I'm a kid again. And I'm lucky enough now to see it through my 9 year old boy's eyes as he learns and plays the game I've always loved.
But, for all that exuberant joy,the harshness of Autumn eventually sets in; bringing with it some cold realities. It tells you that the long, difficult winter is beckoning around the corner. That nights will grow shorter and colder, the grass will freeze over and be mushed to slush and mud, waiting for the sweetness of spring, for bees buzzing around, and the cleats of wide-eyed young boys and girls playing games on her. The blankets get heavy and the sunshine seems to recede into the land of dreams and memory.
Unfortunately, for 29 out of 30 teams 9 (and for their fans), that dream of childhood comes to a grinding halt. The clouds roll in and that last glimpse of that long sweet summer, the kind that we hope will last forever as a kid, is gone. Tears are shed. Families are depressed. Hopes are crushed. Cities are sunken in sorrow.
This is my 31st consecutive year of not seeing my beloved Los Angeles Dodgers win the World Series. It's also the 7th consecutive year for my favorite team winning the National League Western division, only to fall short in the playoffs. So, like others, I feel the tinge of sadness, I scrutinize roster moves and bullpen rotation decisions. But mostly, I'll just miss the summer time. Miss that feeling of joy at the ballpark. The smells and the sounds that take me back to being a kid again.
But I don't dwell for too long, because sooner than I think, Spring will arrive once again, bringing with it the hope and promise of a new day, a new year, and another chance to chase that childhood dream and make it live forever.
Tuesday, October 8, 2019
The Church of the Wayword Wolf..
No one or thing is going to absolve you from loneliness or pain. Your healing is your responsibility. The alleyways of childhood do not release us willingly, so we have to develop the tools to release those ghosts and slay those dragons.
But here's the rub:
Many of us grew up modeling an outdated version of Masculinity; one that was rooted in everything from ancestral traumas and emotional repression, to fear or scarcity mindset and absence of personal accountability. As a result, many of us learned to navigate the depths of the wilderness alone, taking false pride in some individual notion of power or strength. It served some of us for a while. Despite not having a compass or a map, some of us found our way out of the woods and back to the pack. Some of us finally came to accept that The Age of the Lone Wolf is Dead.
Our lives are not are own. They do not just belong to us. We can be fathers and brothers and leaders and caretakers, or we can be Ghosts.
When we can deal with trauma and the daunting notion of our Jungian Shadow Self, we can begin to open up to new possibilities. We can begin to rebuild trust. We can begin to feel worthy of love and find the strength to give the love we never had.
The most difficult part of the process is learning to admit where your trauma and your lone wolf survival instincts (including your tendency to isolate) have hurt others. Accepting responsibility is a heavy thing and facing it, head on, takes the kind of courage that is only sustainable when you have the support and love and accountability that comes with returning to the Pack.
Past victimhood, even of the most brutal variety, does not absolve you from the responsibility of your actions.. But we must first navigate of the darkness and back into the light of the pack; So that we may see.
May this be the season we leave the wilderness and rejoin the pack.
But here's the rub:
Many of us grew up modeling an outdated version of Masculinity; one that was rooted in everything from ancestral traumas and emotional repression, to fear or scarcity mindset and absence of personal accountability. As a result, many of us learned to navigate the depths of the wilderness alone, taking false pride in some individual notion of power or strength. It served some of us for a while. Despite not having a compass or a map, some of us found our way out of the woods and back to the pack. Some of us finally came to accept that The Age of the Lone Wolf is Dead.
Our lives are not are own. They do not just belong to us. We can be fathers and brothers and leaders and caretakers, or we can be Ghosts.
When we can deal with trauma and the daunting notion of our Jungian Shadow Self, we can begin to open up to new possibilities. We can begin to rebuild trust. We can begin to feel worthy of love and find the strength to give the love we never had.
The most difficult part of the process is learning to admit where your trauma and your lone wolf survival instincts (including your tendency to isolate) have hurt others. Accepting responsibility is a heavy thing and facing it, head on, takes the kind of courage that is only sustainable when you have the support and love and accountability that comes with returning to the Pack.
Past victimhood, even of the most brutal variety, does not absolve you from the responsibility of your actions.. But we must first navigate of the darkness and back into the light of the pack; So that we may see.
May this be the season we leave the wilderness and rejoin the pack.
Wednesday, October 2, 2019
A Soft Duet..
Some late nights or early mornings,
When you strum the perfect chord,
And the lyric is just right,
It feels like your heart will burst into dandelion dust.
A soft duet between you and the Creator.
You don't dare tell a soul.
When you strum the perfect chord,
And the lyric is just right,
It feels like your heart will burst into dandelion dust.
A soft duet between you and the Creator.
You don't dare tell a soul.
Thursday, September 12, 2019
Do You Really Want To Know Why?
Because it's finite.
Because it's the only way to make the voices truly stop screaming.
Because it's the only solution with no more "what-ifs."
Because these meds that you're required to take to "save your life" have side effects.
Because rehab doesn't always work.
Because the voices, even when they're not screaming, don't ever stop.
Because the pain doesn't stop.
Because it happened when you were young and it will never go away.
Because it didn't happen to YOU.
Because you don't recognize yourself.
Because you tried for so fucking long.
For so many years.
In so many incarnations.
In so many decades.
In so many fake smiles.
In so many jobs.
In so many situations.
In so many bands.
Singing so many songs.
That no one will ever hear. Because the art is medicine, but only for so long.
Because their love was not enough to fix you.
Because money or approval or fame cannot stop the darkness.
Because the drugs don't work when you aren't sick.
Because the world is just sick in a different way.
Because you don't understand.
Because you don't understand.
Because You DON'T F*cking Understand.
*Wrote this the morning of Anthony Bourdain's suicide*
Because it's the only way to make the voices truly stop screaming.
Because it's the only solution with no more "what-ifs."
Because these meds that you're required to take to "save your life" have side effects.
Because rehab doesn't always work.
Because the voices, even when they're not screaming, don't ever stop.
Because the pain doesn't stop.
Because it happened when you were young and it will never go away.
Because it didn't happen to YOU.
Because you don't recognize yourself.
Because you tried for so fucking long.
For so many years.
In so many incarnations.
In so many decades.
In so many fake smiles.
In so many jobs.
In so many situations.
In so many bands.
Singing so many songs.
That no one will ever hear. Because the art is medicine, but only for so long.
Because their love was not enough to fix you.
Because money or approval or fame cannot stop the darkness.
Because the drugs don't work when you aren't sick.
Because the world is just sick in a different way.
Because you don't understand.
Because you don't understand.
Because You DON'T F*cking Understand.
*Wrote this the morning of Anthony Bourdain's suicide*
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