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After almost a year away, I’m dusting off this blog and giving myself a good writing.

I’ve found myself caught within a limbo of emotions. the good with a side of the bad. a repeat of the boyce avenue acoustic sessions. coast to coast desires. candlelit affections. 

the body is a generating energy force of power. but not the kind of power you can train. or control. or know when you need it and how you used it. leonard cohen said “there are cracks in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” we’re all broken. even if ever so slightly. but we are. where that light begins to shine is where that strength emerges and you become who you are. as contradictory as that sounds.. but your darkest, coldest moments are your truest. 

i’ve been tackled with feelings of worth and destiny and desire. this feeling is best described in an acoustic version of “stop this train” by john mayer. yes, acoustic. being pulled in several directions to try to find where you belong. what the right thing is. responsibility. and what that word truly means. are you being responsible if you’re living the average-joe life to pay your bills and put food on the table. are you being responsible if you drop your life and run away with your dreams stuffed inside a suitcase and a pocket of cash on your person. where is the justification for the middle ground.. is there a middle ground or are we all stuck in… well, limbo. 

i’ve seen a lot of broken pieces on the floor. pieces of myself. my family. my friends. walking through a sea of people’s lives and getting caught up in the moments that you are gasping for, urging to hold onto.

along the way even picking up replacements for what you had lost. 

but moments stay in their moments and you move onto the next one. 

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some birthday love from Sean and Amber. xoImage

Penny’s open mic for my birthday. With Cara. And Dan(‘s hat)

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my babies

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recording!

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something I read daily.

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birthday friends

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being bored.

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my life in a nutshell

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home.Image

purple TOMS

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music + friends

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dorktastic 4 lif3

welcome, spring.

i’m okay with the rain today.

Expect nothing. Appreciate Everything.

who are we? where are we going? what are we doing? when will we be satisfied?

confusion is an exaggeration of exhaustion. welcome, artists. your lives are made up of unanswered questions, riddles and rhymes. you’re not as smart as you think. or as deep. or as lost. turn off your smart phones and high definition televisions. stop playing your high level games and reading on your ‘nook’. there is a world beyond the screen in front of you. and that is where art is found, created, interpreted, discovered. work for something. put in the time. want things. the world will not hand you your dreams on a silver platter. stop telling your privileged selves that you deserve better. or maybe just stop letting the world walk all over you in high hopes of keeping the world at peace.

2 am. nice to see you again.

There are many things causing us to die, but very few things keeping us alive 

– The Dali Lama

“You should date an illiterate girl.

Date a girl who doesn’t read. Find her in the weary squalor of a Midwestern bar. Find her in the smoke, drunken sweat, and varicolored light of an upscale nightclub. Wherever you find her, find her smiling. Make sure that it lingers when the people that are talking to her look away. Engage her with unsentimental trivialities. Use pick-up lines and laugh inwardly. Take her outside when the night overstays its welcome. Ignore the palpable weight of fatigue. Kiss her in the rain under the weak glow of a streetlamp because you’ve seen it in a film. Remark at its lack of significance. Take her to your apartment. Dispatch with making love. Fuck her.

Let the anxious contract you’ve unwittingly written evolve slowly and uncomfortably into a relationship. Find shared interests and common ground like sushi and folk music. Build an impenetrable bastion upon that ground. Make it sacred. Retreat into it every time the air gets stale or the evenings too long. Talk about nothing of significance. Do little thinking. Let the months pass unnoticed. Ask her to move in. Let her decorate. Get into fights about inconsequential things like how the fucking shower curtain needs to be closed so that it doesn’t fucking collect mold. Let a year pass unnoticed. Begin to notice.

Figure that you should probably get married because you will have wasted a lot of time otherwise. Take her to dinner on the forty-fifth floor at a restaurant far beyond your means. Make sure there is a beautiful view of the city. Sheepishly ask a waiter to bring her a glass of champagne with a modest ring in it. When she notices, propose to her with all of the enthusiasm and sincerity you can muster. Do not be overly concerned if you feel your heart leap through a pane of sheet glass. For that matter, do not be overly concerned if you cannot feel it at all. If there is applause, let it stagnate. If she cries, smile as if you’ve never been happier. If she doesn’t, smile all the same.

Let the years pass unnoticed. Get a career, not a job. Buy a house. Have two striking children. Try to raise them well. Fail frequently. Lapse into a bored indifference. Lapse into an indifferent sadness. Have a mid-life crisis. Grow old. Wonder at your lack of achievement. Feel sometimes contented, but mostly vacant and ethereal. Feel, during walks, as if you might never return or as if you might blow away on the wind. Contract a terminal illness. Die, but only after you observe that the girl who didn’t read never made your heart oscillate with any significant passion, that no one will write the story of your lives, and that she will die, too, with only a mild and tempered regret that nothing ever came of her capacity to love.

Do those things, god damnit, because nothing sucks worse than a girl who reads. Do it, I say, because a life in purgatory is better than a life in hell. Do it, because a girl who reads possesses a vocabulary that can describe that amorphous discontent of a life unfulfilled—a vocabulary that parses the innate beauty of the world and makes it an accessible necessity instead of an alien wonder. A girl who reads lays claim to a vocabulary that distinguishes between the specious and soulless rhetoric of someone who cannot love her, and the inarticulate desperation of someone who loves her too much. A vocabulary, goddamnit, that makes my vacuous sophistry a cheap trick.

Do it, because a girl who reads understands syntax. Literature has taught her that moments of tenderness come in sporadic but knowable intervals. A girl who reads knows that life is not planar; she knows, and rightly demands, that the ebb comes along with the flow of disappointment. A girl who has read up on her syntax senses the irregular pauses—the hesitation of breath—endemic to a lie. A girl who reads perceives the difference between a parenthetical moment of anger and the entrenched habits of someone whose bitter cynicism will run on, run on well past any point of reason, or purpose, run on far after she has packed a suitcase and said a reluctant goodbye and she has decided that I am an ellipsis and not a period and run on and run on. Syntax that knows the rhythm and cadence of a life well lived.

Date a girl who doesn’t read because the girl who reads knows the importance of plot. She can trace out the demarcations of a prologue and the sharp ridges of a climax. She feels them in her skin. The girl who reads will be patient with an intermission and expedite a denouement. But of all things, the girl who reads knows most the ineluctable significance of an end. She is comfortable with them. She has bid farewell to a thousand heroes with only a twinge of sadness.

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so goddamned difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life of which I spoke at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being told. So out with you, girl who reads. Take the next southbound train and take your Hemingway with you. Or, perhaps, stay and save my life.” –Charles Warnke

Paris, France. December 25, 2009. Notre-Dame Cathedral.

Peace comes from within. Do not seek it without.

— Buddha

Peace, love and happiness to you.

Merry Christmas.

| save $5,000 | hold a free standing handstand | write 20 new songs |

| finish an album | move to NYC | play 5 new venues in NYC |

| work a big-girl job. full time. paid. |

At any given moment, you have the power to say this is not how the story is going to end.

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