I exit the bright gym and stand on the dark sidewalk. Dinah Washington sings of this bitter Earth in my headphones. The wind is bladed. Autumn is sharpening the edge that winter will use to slice to the bone.

Across the street at the Urgent Care clinic, an ambulance revs. Its red and blue lights flash.

I watch it leave the parking lot and speed toward the hospital just over the hill.

I look up at the waxing moon's dead face just as it slips beneath a tattered shroud of clouds.

Sorrow is everywhere. Sometimes survival is feeling it in the cold wind across your damp skin, seeing it in the flashing ambulance lights, hearing it in a dark serenade over weeping strings, and going home to a warm kitchen and bright lights and loving eyes and living — just living — anyway.

Music matters.

The Icelandic composer Jóhann Jóhannsson died at his residence in Germany in February 2018. He was just 50 years old, and like too many brilliant people whose work I love, Jóhannsson died from drugs. German authorities said it was likely an accidental mix of cocaine and flu medication.


Back to basics.

A funny thing happened when I began writing for a living. I realized I don’t always like writing. I will never do like some professional writers who tweet about what a soul-rending chore this is (this is not a passive-aggressive slam on any one person; a lot of writers do…

Where have I been?

No, I didn’t transition. I’ve just been out being an adult and living a pretty unexamined life, Tumblr. I stopped writing there when it felt like the kids took over; I didn’t want to be that one weird middle-aged Dad amongst a sea of Gen Z kids tumbling Naruto memes.

A writer decides

Okay, I made a decision today. After 10 years of waffling, experiments, frustrations, Medium sold me.

This is, from here on out, my only blog outside paid professional work. Other sites I’ve made will remain live, but I plan to chip away at them, culling the best and re-editing it…

My mother and I see something in the sky

One time when I was six I was standing in our front yard on a moonlit night, looking at the sky.

I tried to count stars, and I could see each one clearly, crisp bright white rhinestones studding a faded indigo cloak.

That was the last time I can remember…

And it’s basically, you know, no longer pretending this is not a blogging site. Still exploring it though because Medium has always been a tool I wanted to use but it literally felt like it had a certain vibe that didn’t quite fit my blogging jones — which sometimes is going longer than a tweet, but not that much longer.

But if I like the innovations they’ve said they’re implementing, I might stay with Medium after all.

This waking dream is getting to me.

When I was in 7th grade — I think it was spring that year — I had a terrible nightmare. In it, I knew that my oldest sister, Sherry, was dead, but I could not find her body. I saw a hat I recognized as one of her favorites by…


Nashville boy in New England, Deputy Digital Editor for Maxim.com. Easily distracted, easily obsessed.

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