Concerning the Recent Islamic Protests:

Some might see the eruption of Islamic protests as the start of a new war. I think it might actually be the last stand in a very old war now waged by a disillusioned, directionless enemy. Fundamentalist Islam's main tactic has been to tout itself as the only alternative to western powers and the perceived evils of our secular society, but itself has proven ineffective at making peaceful and free governments of it's own. Arab Spring started with a bang and ended with a whimper - so will this "Arab Fall."

Maybe from the ashes of years and years of failed foreign policy of interventionism, America will learn to let nations and their governments rise and fall of their own volition. Maybe if we can stop being the enemy for long enough, people will see clearly what the real enemy is: Ignorance and hate. America cannot give freedom to the world. We can only try our best to set an example, which we haven't been doing a great job of lately.

We've dropped the ball a lot in the last few years and continue to let fear, ignorance and hate dictate the way we treat our neighbors, both here in the States and abroad. But it's never too late for a second chance. But that's what it is; a chance. We must take the chance that love and liberty is worth living dangerously for, because a life without these is one not worth living. If I were to die today because I chose to love my neighbor as myself, and to see him or her as a sister or a brother, rather than a potential enemy, I would die content that I did my part as a Christian, and as a free-thinking American. Stay the course, harness your tongue from sewing hatred, and love thy neighbor as thyself.


Concerning The Unlawful Detainment of Brandon Raub

I served with Brandon Raub stateside. I first met him in 2007, recently returned with one of our platoons which had deployed to Iraq in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. My oldest brother, Jed had also been a member of that platoon, and he introduced me to Brandon on one of our 2-week annual training exercises. My first impression of "Big Raub" was that he was a gentle person, who despite his mi
litary training and experiences in a combat zone, was at heart a very peaceful person, and my conversations with him following that only confirmed this.

Brandon deployed again in 2010, this time to Afghanistan. Brandon, and indeed among many of the Marines who returned from this deployment in 2011 there was a marked change. Some of these Marines I knew well, but most I knew by mostly by reputation, having had limited contact with them before their deployment. All I can say is this was a very different platoon from the one that had left. I'd like to take a few lines to explain how and why.

Combat Veterans of the Armed Forces are very different form of patriot than most Americans recognize or understand. Most of my generation of service members have seen and been an integral part our government's foreign policy over the course of 2 different, yet eerily similar administrations. Our experiences have awakened us to certain truths, and caused us to question much which other Americans accept as fact. We are not only eye-witnesses to the direct ramifications of our policies, but also increasingly aware of our own part in the destructive endeavors that our government undertakes. A once prevailing sense of pride in our military heritage and the honor of our calling has been replaced by a stark realization that we are not much more than glorified mercenaries, securing and protecting the interests of corporations and bankers. We swore an oath to protect the Constitution against all enemies foreign and domestic, yet the people we were sent to fight and oppress presented no such threat to our nation or our Constitution. This starts as a feeling that starts to tickle in the back of your mind when you're pointing your gun at sheep-herders, then gradually begins to manifest itself in other forms.

First we begin to wonder why we're here. We begin wonder how what you are doing here could possibly be protecting people back home. Then we see the news reports back home, and realize that we are in the wrong war-zone. With a sick feeling in your stomach, you come to the realization that the real enemies of the Constitution, which we swore to protect, are back in the states wearing $2,000 suits and smiling on TV, and that what you are doing in that foreign field is only helping them with their evil agenda. This happened to me in Iraq during my deployment 2009, and this happened to quite a few of my comrades during their time in Afghanistan.

Today, the only peace protestors you will ever see taking to the streets are Veterans. That should say it all.

Brandon is a member of a ever-growing number of men and women who have served their country honorably, and have returned home to find that the land which they love dearly and would give their life gladly to protect has been sold out from under their feet. They have seen first-hand what it's like to live in oppression and apathy and ignorance, and they refuse to allow that to happen here in America. Today, veterans are the most active, vocal, and dedicated grassroots political movement in the U.S. and that keeps a lot of politicians awake at night because they know that they can't pull the wool over our eyes.

So they've decided that their best bet is to start putting black-bags over them instead.

An official 2009 DHS assessment entitled "Rightwing Extremism: Current Economic and Political Climate Fueling Resurgence in Radicalization and Recruitment", speculates that returning Combat Veterans are among the most likely groups to be targeted for recruitment by "domestic terrorists". I can tell you that this is not true. Despite what you see on the television about PTSD and violent radicalism among veterans, we are among the most non-violent groups of people. We are most of us truly sick of violence, in every form.

The definition of terrorism is "the use of violence and threats to intimidate or coerce, especially for political purposes."

It's sad, because we were told we were fighting against terrorists when joined the military. Then we were sent to far-off lands to be terrorists ourselves. We used violence and intimidation to change the political climate of sovereign nations, and wearing uniforms while we did it didn't make us any less of terrorists. So, we have already been a part of terrorist conspiracy before, and won't let ourselves be hoodwinked into it again.

If anything, acts like Brandon's abduction are closer to terrorism than anything you will see one of us participate in. He was violently removed from his home, and threatened in order to intimidate him, then coerced to remain in captivity without charges. This is a clear signal from our government to Veterans. Shut up or we'll snatch you out of your homes, say you're crazy, and detain you indefinitely. That seems a lot like terrorism to me.

There is nothing in Brandon's posts that could possibly be interpreted as a direct threat. He was exercising his 1st Amendment rights. Rights he swore to protect, and rights he has demonstrated a willingness to die defending. The only people who have anything to fear from people like Brandon are tyrants and and terrorists.

Telling the truth is a revolutionary act in a nation whose reality is based on lies. On August 14th, he posted videos and images relating to the attacks on 9/11 and then wrote: "The revolution will come for me. Men will be at my door soon to pick me up to lead it." The Revolution has already begun. On August 17th, men with badges and guns came and picked him up to lead it.

Sic Semper Tyrannis!


The Lie of Left Vs. Right

I love coming across self-proclaimed "enlightened and independent" journalists who seem to think that the battle between the Left-wing Liberal Democrats and Right-wing Conservative Republicans is still being waged in earnest. It's the equivalent of being a grown adult who still thinks that the WWE is real fighting.

Our politicians, like the wrestlers, roar and flex and pretend to fight each other onstage, then in the dressing room they give each other winks and slaps on the ass and help each other with their lines and moves for the next show.

The real battle that is going on is as simple as this: Either you believe in having a small central government; working towards restoring a voluntary society; getting rid of national debt; and stopping our foreign policy of interventionism and nation-building - or you don't. Liberal Vs. Conservative, Republican Vs. Democrat, and Left Vs. Right is pre-9/11 politics and nothing more than rhetoric and theatrics today. Yet I see so many people who think that it's a relevant and important issue. The same type of people who might go to a magic show and think they are seeing "real magic."

I come from a background of strong, "conservative" values. I argued for the "war" in Iraq and voted for Bush both times. I always felt a sense of being bamboozled, but I thought that was just a part of being a good patriotic Republican. You had to hate the other party and embrace and defend the idiots, blowhards, and corrupt members of your party for the sake of unity.

Then one day I woke up and realized that being a Republican or a Democrat politician is nothing more than being on the same team, but wearing different colors and playing a scrimmage - with the fate of the free world and your future as the ball. Neither party gives a damn about your individual, God-given rights and is stripping you of them at every opportunity. The Republicans lied about the war and the reasons for going. The Democrats opposed the war because the Republicans were for it. Now we have a warhawk Democrat President who wants to prolong our presence in Afghanistan until 2024, invade Iran, is bombing Pakistan, and they all fall suddenly silent? Not a peep?

If I was an anti-war Liberal Democrat during the Bush administration, I'd feel deeply ashamed for my fellow party members. Obama has continued right on the horrific path that Bush laid out, and not a murmur have we heard from the Democrats who once howled en masse, and with righteous indignation against the war. What happened to the millions marching on the Capitol waving sign and shouting for the Government to "End this Endless War!"?

How is it that in all reality the only core of anti-war protesters left is composed of Veterans, most who have traditionally voted primarily Republican, and "fringe" Independents? Seriously, if you still think "Left" and "Right" still are the sides in the "game" of politics, you might as well poke one of your eyes out.

You are already incapable of seeing in 3D as it is.


They Hate Us Because We're Free?

If the world hates us because we're free, wouldn't Finland, Denmark, and Sweden and the 11 other, much weaker countries which have more liberties be wiped off the map already? The U.S. is ranked 15th in civil liberties, folks. That's pretty pathetic for the self-purported champions and defenders of the free world.
The world doesn't hate us because we're free. That's pure propaganda.

The truth is, everyone hates us because America is run by imperialist warhawks who bomb innocent people and invade sovereign countries on false pretenses. It's really that simple, when you strip away the rhetoric and posturing.

I cannot understand how people continue to say that Ron Paul's foriegn policy is more dangerous than our current one, if not because of common sense and historical perspective, then simply because a large majority of the Americans who have seen it first-hand and don't have conflicting interests are all saying, "Wake up and smell the coffee!" (Hint: This group of people is described by an 8-letter word that starts with "V")

No one is destroying America more than your own government! No one is taking your liberty and endangering your life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness more than the corrupt Washington establishment, including many self-purported leaders, (but in fact, band-wagoners and infiltrators) of the once vibrant and Libertarian, now dead and neo-con "Tea Party". No one is more directly responsible for the recent deaths of countless U.S. citizens, soldiers, and veterans than our Federal Government.

While the suicide rate in the military was once lower than half the civilian rate, today, it is significantly higher, especially so among veterans of the conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan. The horrifying estimate is that EVERY 80 MINUTES a Veteran commits suicide! Every day another 18 uncounted casualties of unjust wars are thrown in the mass grave of a dishonorable death. You have the power to reverse this horrible betrayal and trend of falsehood and corruption. You only need to stand for truth, justice, and transparency.

Is it too much for those who have laid their very lives and futures on the line for you, to ask you to take a small risk and simply stand above the pettiness of the election year ruling party blame-game? To open your eyes to difficult truths that will illuminate and set afire the comfortable, dark cocoon of government-engineered ignorance?

Is it an unjust request for you to vote according to the dictates of your concience, common sense and our nation's founding principles, and not to have your views and beliefs dictated by your misplaced loyalty to a sullied and destructive notion of party politics, whose proponents are systematically stripping you of free speech, privacy, and every other foundation of personal liberty? I don't think it is too much to ask... Hard to say in one breath, but not too much to ask. Turn off the TV, and start digging.


A Plea For Brotherly Love

Spreading freedom and democracy in the world: Is that what we are doing? I was in Iraq in 2009, as a part of the last Marine combat unit to be deployed there. I saw no seed of freedom and democracy there. I saw only commercialism and consumerism bastardizing an ancient culture. I saw no freedom being exercised, only a quiet burning resentment of our presence and a populace waiting for us to leave so they can resume their centuries old feud. Thousands of our very best and brightest have died for a fight that, we see now, cannot be won through military might.

Now we want to go to Iran? I consider it my right as an American, and my responsibility as first-hand observer of our "war on terror" and a member of the unspoken fraternity of combat veterans to warn you, the citizens of America and the next generation of warriors, of the folly of undertaking this fatal endeavor. America's soul cannot survive another unjust, illegitimate, and morally reprehensible conflict.

Will you subject your sons and daughters, your neighbors and friends and your brothers and sisters to the horror of fighting a hopeless and pointless war? Will you be able to endure caring for their shattered minds, bodies, and souls knowing that you were the ones who sent them into this reprehensible crucible of moral confliction? Will you be the executioner of America's most promising generation? Will you blindly beat the war drum with your already bloodied hands?

Or will you be ones, the great ones in history who seized upon the unprecedented opportunity to heal wounds and build bridges. Will you take a moment to look into your perceived enemy's eyes and see a human there?

To those still serving, you have eyes, and ears, and a voice. You are bound by oath and honor to serve our nation in whatever capacity it requires of you, but you still have a right to help choose our battles wisely. I beg of you to use that right in an appropriate manner. You are still Americans, you are still citizens.

We claim to be a nation of superior moral and civic responsibility and liberty, and yet if you take a step backwards and look around, you'll see that we fall far short of many other nations in that respect. We have fallen away from the guiding light of our founding principles and are flailing in the dark, falling prey to fear.

I ask you to require truth from your leaders and from your fellow Americans, and not reject someone's truth if at first it seems too harsh, too starkly contrasted from your own ideas. Democrats, Republicans, liberals, conservatives... can't we all agree that protecting liberty and fostering moral and civic responsibility should be the first aim of every American? You will be suprised how many walls you thought were insurmountable that will simply disappear if we look through the eyes of our neighbors for just a moment.

Or will you beat your war drum, your party drum, your race drum, your class drum, and forget that under all that drumming there is a single, quiet voice speaking simple words: "Love thy neighbor as thyself."

Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother's 
eye.- Matthew 5:7


Self Affirmation Is A Band-Aid On A Sucking Chest Wound

I started up the car to drive home from work this morning, and the engine started rattling and almost stalling, but it shrugged off the cold eventually, so I found myself having one of those "count your blessings" moments. So I was going down the list, and tallied up my health, my mind, and my soul which are, like my car engine, still relatively intact and functional. I have my family, a place to lay my head and plug into the world with my laptop, and the list just kept on growing, but I realized something. The list started with me, and went out concentrically, the way a hoarder sits on his porch and surveys his shabby domain. I was the center of the blessings I could count and this counting of my blessing was nothing more than the inventory of things I felt I should be happy about.

Then I started to think about how there are people everywhere in the world who have literally none of the things that I was tallying up so smugly and self-righteously. What blessings do they have to count? The AIDS-ridden orphan who lies naked and starving on the ground - what possible blessings could that child count? How could that child feel the love of God without the material manifestations that I was right now using to convince myself that I should be happy. Is happiness a commodity that only we who are privileged to have life's basics can claim? Obviously not, for we reject it daily because we want more than we really need. By such human reasoning, the only man who can truly claim to have reason for happiness is the one who possesses the entire world.

Then I realized the solution to this unsolvable equation. Because even with all this counting of blessings, I realized that I had neglected to count the one blessing that really counts. This is the only blessing upon which our joy can be said to stand solidly, because everything else can vanish in an instant, like a bird in the night, fleeting with shadowy silent wings. This is a blessing that we all can claim...

But what things were gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ.
Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and do count them but dung, that I may win Christ,
And be found in him, not having mine own righteousness, which is of the law, but that which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness which is of God by faith:
That I may know him, and the power of his resurrection, and the fellowship of his sufferings, being made conformable unto his death;
If by any means I might attain unto the resurrection of the dead.

-Philippians 3:7-11

Maybe someday I'll be able to keep it always in mind that the world I share with 7 billion people orbits around the Sun, not me... and that like that world, our own personal worlds must orbit the Son of God or in the end spin off into the darkness of an endless void.


2011 - A Year of Music - Pt. 1

I sometimes like to think of my life as a story.

Not an epic one, mind you, but a story nonetheless.  One that is funny, sometimes ridiculous, and never, I say again, never predictable. If years were chapters, then I suppose this year would be titled, "Chapter 24 - In which Patrick becomes a live music junkie."

classy tea
<--- So let me drop this tea-bag into into my very classy styrofoam cup and I'll begin.

 Up to this year my live music endeavors have been a series of borderline comedic, completely dismal failures. I remember getting off work barely in time to watch the last two songs of Nickel Creek's Farewell For Now Tour in 2007, from a bridge where I could barely see just the back of Chris Thile's and Sara Watkins' heads, and then a year later on Halloween night standing in the upper nose-bleeds at the Verizon Center watching Coldplay's Chris Martin on a giant projection screen two days before leaving for my work-up for Iraq. That was the last straw. I swore that I would never buy tickets to another show where I couldn't at least the artist's face with my own two eyes.

me, being jaded.
Although somewhat better then most of the years before, 2010 was not a great year for live music. I went to see Natalie MacMaster, The Academy of St. Martin in The Fields at The Paramount, and a few local bands such as "The Likewhatevers" (now Herd Murmurs). But for the most part, I just didn't just have much to be excited about in music. Charlottesville was a fairly popular stop for a lot of top 40 artists, country and rock-and-roll, etc... and if I could have afforded $100-$400 for tickets, I could have seen some of them (probably again from the nosebleeds sections of a giant arena). I couldn't risk the money, the emotional letdown from live music experiences that simply weren't fulfilling. I know this sounds dramatic and jaded, but those two words pretty describe my mood throughout that year.

Perhaps because of this frustration, I was attracted more and more to Indie music - a big part of the genre being the accessibility of the artist. These were songwriters I could really identify and connect with. But still, none of them would come to my city. Perhaps because most of the venues were either too big or too small. But mostly because a lot of indie bands simply can't afford to tour extensively.

Standing shows in small packed venues bursting with excitement and knowing you're among a much smaller group of fans who love the music for it's own sake - this is something I knew existed in the realm of theoretical possibility, but I had never really experienced it. For the most part I knew what it felt like to be in a group of people who had were excited to see a really famous artist perform, or had a mild interest in live music, or merely a tepid tolerance of music for the sake of cultural enhancement. But the music scene I was about to witness was something different altogether on the night of...

Friday, February 11 - The Civil Wars w/Lucy Schwartz @ The Southern Cafe & Music Hall

I remember quite clearly the moment John Paul White and Joy Williams of The Civil Wars came rolling into my awareness, like a ghost train bearing the resurrected spirits of Johnny and June Carter Cash. I was working the night shift watching the Tonight Show with no particular interest save a vague desire to stay awake, and the camera rolled over to show a dark-haired couple, one of whom was a wild-haired fellow who looked distinctly like the fusion of Jack White and Johnny Depp, and the other a "long cool woman in a black dress" who swas rocking and when they sang that first "ooooh" in harmony, I remember leaning back in my chair with my eyes open wider and wider, then leaning forward with my foot tapping and head bobbing. No sooner was the song finished than I was tapping away on my laptop and watching their video for "Poison & Wine". I found that a horde of rabid Grey's Anatomy fans and people who thought John Paul looked like Johnny Depp (and just had to say so ) had gotten there first, but even that fact didn't keep me from falling completely in love with the duo.

Their music was a blend of both old and new sounds and souls, but anything but borrowed... or blue. It was more like a deep maroon or amber, like a bottle of red wine or bourbon whiskey. As soon I was able to gather my composure enough to take "Poison & Wine" off repeat, I did a quick scan of their tour dates and barely resisted shrieking like a little girl at a Justin Bieber concert when I saw they were coming to my town in a few weeks. So I promptly purchased a ticket - which was smart, as they were all sold out a couple of days later.

The day of the concert arrived and I headed over to the local record shop where they were doing a meet and greet. After waiting for about an hour with a group of fans that included a large bevy of teen-aged girls, an older countrified couples, and few others of various sorts, Joy and John Paul came through the door shaking off the cold, and immediately began to mingle with the fans. Joy plopped herself down in the middle of the group of girls and they started chatting away like old friends. JP talked with the store manager for a while as I talked about the music biz little while with Nate, Joy's husband and the duo's label manager. After a bit I got to talk to JP and Joy seperately, and then we took a photo.

W/ John Paul White and Joy Williams of The Civil Wars

Then they headed off to the venue, while I climbed back aboard my motorcycle with a small collection of autographed "merch" strapped on the back

The venue filled up quickly and Lucy Schwartz opened the show with set of great songs accompanied by her piano played very smartly and expressively. Her music reminded me of a blend of Regina Spektor and Ingrid Michaelson, with sweet melodies and vocals that were really quite impressive in their range and expression. "Gravity" was a particularly wowing piece to hear live. She was a brilliant choice for the opening act, as her music was very translatable with just one instrument for accompaniment, just as I would find The Civil Wars to be.

Her set ended and after heading out to the venue sitting area for fresh beer and mingling with rest of the audience and talking with Lucy for a couple minutes at the merch table, we all pressed back into the hall and standing close we waited breathlessly for the main act. They finally came on stage and the sound of cheering and clapping was a noise I didn't know to be possible for 300 people to make. I had found a spot sitting on the wings of the stage, a few feet from the center of the smallish stage, and when Joy and JP started singing their first song I didn't know if the amplifiers produce enough volume to carry above the audience who were singingly loud and confidently along with the lyrics. I have yet to be a part of an audience that knew a band's lyrics that well, not to mention on that had only just recently been formed. I could see that Joy and JP were a little shocked themselves. After a couple of songs, during which JP played guitar and sang with Joy, who swayed back and forth with graceful movements, teasing JP's hair, adjusting his tie, and various other playfully flirtatious antics that made the audience titter and smile gleefully, JP asked for anyone who had seen them live before to raise their hands. Only 3 or 4 hands went up. He paused for a second, a little taken aback. "Wow," he said. "Ya'll know all the lyrics." He and Joy looked at each other, smiling with a combination of shock and excitement. It was a special moment. It felt like the beginning of something fresh and new in music. Here was gathered a group of people who had found a place to rally and believe in good music again. We were all there together, without ever planning to be.

The set continued and the joy of the audience was tangibly increasing with each song. JP's guitar playing and vocals were impeccable and combined with Joy's voice and constant graceful swaying and intermittent dancing (which I affectionately call "Joy solos") they more than made up for the absence of the assorted instruments that accompanied the songs on the album. Then came the last song, and Joy walked over to the piano. It was a moment we had all waited for.

You can't really love The Civil Wars without also loving the song "Poison & Wine." If Barton Hollow is excitement of love and "20 Years" is the ache, then "Poison & Wine" is the mystery. The thumping guitar riff and the piano's first quiet reflective chords started and there were a serious of excited shrieks, then absolute silence in the audience. But not for long, because when JP started to sing "You only know what I want you to..." the audience nearly drowned out his voice. He broke out in a wide grin, and faltered a bit and then when Joy began to sing her part, there was a pure female chorus that rang out in unison with her. It sounded like a church with the congregation singing an old beloved hymn that they each knew well. It was the sound of 300 jaded music lovers closing the wound that had been laid open by an onslaught of Top 40 pop artists and the birth and death of countless independent artists. There in that room, that night, it felt right - and a whole lot less lonely to love really good music again.

And that was how 2011 - A Year of Music, began.

Friday, April 22 - The Fire Tapes @The Pigeon Hole
There is a quite natural relationship between less-well-known music and hole-in-the-wall bars. The Pigeon Hole was one such place.  I discovered it with some of buddies in the spring - a short time after it opened - and found it to be a cozy little nook with an eclectic assortment of microbrews, PBR served in mason jars, real silverware, and a quite large collection of pairs of salt and pepper shakers, each completely unique from the others. It was adorned with signs and notices that said various quirky and spunky things, written by the owner, Lex, who was coincidentally also a very quirky and spunky person. 

I happened to be frequenting this place on a Friday night, and a band I'd never heard of before was playing. The Fire Tapes were playing while wedged tightly along with half a dozen amps into the back dining room to a crowd of five people - two of whom were me and my brother, Andrew. At first it seemed that they had a sort of rural shoe-gazer vibe going on, and during the first song I was leaning against the wall, relaxed and enjoying a lush landscape of mellow funky sound. Betsy Wright Milton, the lead singer's voice was pleasant and unique, with undefinably european accents and tones.

Then she and her husband Todd broke out with this dual-guitar barrage that blew my ears back and for the rest of the night I couldn't stop smiling. It was unlike anything I'd heard before. It was as if a european indie band had spent the last few years drawing music from the roots of the trees and crumbling foundations of ghost towns in the rural heartland of America. Or something along those lines.

This was the first time they had played together as a quartet. Mark McLewee had played the drums with the band since their inception some months earlier, and bassist Rob Dobson was performing with them for the first time. Although the show had a few technical difficulties (with mic volume and such," they rolled along and played some great music. The lyrics were difficult to distinguish, but that actually helped to lend a cloudy atmospheric feel to the songs. It was very attractive music, even while in it's budding stages. I left feeling pretty excited to see how they would progress.

The Fire Tapes (from left to right: Rob Dobson, Betsy Wright Milton, Todd Milton, Mark McLewee)

Wednesday, May 11 - The Fire Tapes, Quilty, Phillip St. Ours (Pantherburn) @Magnolia
The opportunity to satisfy my curiosity came a couple of weeks later at a place that made The Pigeon Hole seem like a city landmark. "Magnolia" was a white-washed, early 20th century house right off the road, but quite well hidden behind a thick screen of low hanging boughs from a couple of ancient boxwood trees. It took me all of half an hour and half a dozen passes right by the place before I found it. For future reference, the only uninhabited looking spot on the street is Magnolia. Just look for a dark void in the streetscape and aim for it. The Fire Tapes were scheduled to play a set along with sets from a couple of other bands; "Quilty," a band from Brooklyn, NY, and a local band called "Pantherburn."

The show started two hours late, and first on was Pantherburn and I was pleasantly surprised by what I heard. Phillip St. Ours, younger brother of Robert St. Ours of The Hackensaw Boys, played guitar and sang in a haunting, powerful tenor. Absent a few members of the band, his guitar playing filled the gap with an interesting blending of rhythm and lead, and together with just his drummer occupied the small performance space with full, rich sound, mined like rocks from the misty Appalachian mountains. Blues and bluegrass, folk and folklore, rocky-tops and rock-and-roll combined to make the songs examples of truly enigmatic Americana music.

During the performance a crowd of about 35 people were packed in, standing and sitting in the small room amidst the amplifiers and stacks of band equipment and spilling out into the adjacent room, sipping cheap beer from cans, bobbing their heads and tapping their feet. I looked around realized that this was a classic example of a hipster underground show. It was interesting to observe. I would have probably been more at home if I hadn't had slap on my security guard uniform in less than two hours. I didn't know at that point that Jack Kerouac, one of the fathers of the 50's Beat culture and unwitting and mostly un-acknowledged inspiration for the modern underground "renaissance" had spent some time wearing the uniform of night-watchmen as well. It didn't help either that I had just come back from a weekend duty with Marines, and hadn't really yet had a chance to "take off" that uniform either.

Quilty came on next and quickly drove more than a few of the people from the confined spaces and onto the porch. They. Were. Loud. That's truthfully all I can say about them.

But this gave me the opportunity to talk with Rob Dobson as well as Phillip St. Ours for a bit. I remembered  that I knew Rob and found out he knew me too from my occasional trips into the Music and Arts Center where he worked at the time. We talked a little music, and then he went inside to brave the wrath of Quilty. Phillip and I then struck up a conversation and we talked for while about his Appalachian roots. Then "Cinderella Pumpkin Time" came and I had to leave for work before getting to see The Fire Tapes perform

So I guess you could say I left with a glass half-full/half-empty, not getting to hear the band I came to hear perform, but finding a new local artist who had piqued my interest.

Sunday, May 22 - Brandi Carlile w/ Ivan & Alyosha @The National, RVA
Brandi Carlile is an amazing singer-songwriter. With crackly, unrestrained vocals, hard-rocking guitar-based and often anthemic songs with hard-to-ignore, yet easily relatable lyrics, she has been a source of inspiration to me since I discovered her music in 2008. Needless to say, when I got the chance to see her live, I jumped at the chance. It wasn't the ideal situation, being a seated show and my seat quite a few rows back from the stage, and facing the likelihood of having to leave for work before the show was over, but I decided it was worth the investment. So I rolled on out to Richmond, almost an hour drive.

Once again, I found myself in an audience that I felt a little out of place being there. Brandi has strong following in the lesbian community. Need I say more? I checked into Facebook on my phone and within a few minutes I got a message from one of my buddies from the Corps saying, "Dude! I'm here too! Where are you???" I was a little surprised... I didn't know he was a lesbian. (I'm just kidding. I had known that he was into chicks for a while now.)

Anyways, we met up and caught up. He deployed with my oldest brother and was left the unit when I was still an E-3 and I hadn't seen him in a while. So it was good to catch up and also to not be the only male military personnel there.

The show started with Ivan & Alyosha, an indie band from Seattle with a pretty amazing sound and this great energy on stage. I thoroughly enjoyed their set and I'd definitely like to see them again.

Then Brandi came on. It felt so weird sitting down and clapping and cheering, which definitely furthered my distaste for seated shows. But she rocked the house and I soon all but forgot that I was fifty feet away from her and sitting down. It was a great show, but then I had to leave before the last song was over. I would have stayed through it, but I knew that the five minutes of staying meant I would have had to fight for ten more minutes to get out of the parking lot, and I would have definitely been late. So I left. In the middle of the last song. Which was not cool. Glass three quarters full.

Friday, June 3 - Peter Bradley Adams @The Southern Cafe & Music Hall

Peter is one of a very small handful of artists with whom I have never hit "skip" on any of his songs... and I have them all. He writes truly peaceful and warm music, with hints of sadness and mystery. I have been a huge fan of his collaboration with Kat Maslich, "eastmountainsouth" for years, and those songs have been a huge influence on me since my first years of writing music.

Unfortunately it was another seated show - but without assigned seats so I was able to get into the second row center-stage. I was pretty sad to see that not many people came out to see him. I couldn't understand it. Then he started performing.

He was the epitome of unassuming on the stage. It was all about the music, and as such the experience was peaceful and enjoyable, just as I thought it would be, but I found that while sitting down I was starting to nod off, just as I had countless times while lying in bed, listening to his music. It was like Pavlov's dog. Or hypnosis. The only time I really got excited was when he played "Los Angeles" which was and still is one of my all-time favorite songs.

Anyways, looking back I realize that his music really wasn't made for the stage, per se. It's transportive to deep peaceful places. Not easy to get hyped and excited about. It just is - and feels like it's always been... like a meadow hidden in dark forest.

This being said, I will definitely go to see him perform again if he comes back to the area, and I'd like to get the chance to talk to him a bit more. But I'm thinking maybe I'll bring a comfy blanket and some hot tea to complete the experience.

Saturday, June 4 - Daniel Zezeski (Beako) & Phillip St.Ours (Pantherburn) @The Pigeon Hole

Speaking of blankets, despire being by this time much too warm for one, I could have used it on this June evening at The Pigeon Hole. Daniel Zezeski fell right in line with PBA with the relaxing theme. Daniel's vocals hover somewhere between a hum and a whisper, reminiscent of a mix between Coldplay and Radiohead, sans the bombast. If there was ever a voice that should sing lullabies, it would be his.

Phillip St. Ours "took the stage" (porch) and played a set. I could hear his lyrics better this time and they definitely cemented the impression I had of his music. "Hush Little Baby" was a particularly striking song, combining an old mountain lullaby with a striking social commentary.

Saturday, June 25 - The Fire Tapes and DBB Plays Cups  @The Pigeon Hole

Another night at the Pigeon Hole, which is definitely becoming something of a pattern by this time. The Fire Tapes are back, performing outside this time to 20+ crowd of about 20-/+. DBB Plays Cups opened the night, and though we expected an assortment of tunes played on the edges of cups filled with varying levels of liquid, it turned out to be one guy on an acoustic guitar walking around playing songs and singing quite out of tune. He had good lyrics though. Further research shows that he normally plays an electric guitar with a full backing band, and the songs definitely sound better on YouTube, but it felt like a trial to be endured...

And one well worth enduring, as the The Fire Tapes came out and played a killer set. The outdoor setting suited their music, which was definitely fleshing out. I was definitely completely hooked on these guys and gal by time the set was over. The lyrics of "Transistor, Monitor" could be heard a lot better this time, and I was struck by the contrast between references to technology and the undefinably timeless imagery. Betsy's vocals on this song are particularly haunting and dreamlike. I was excited to discover  while talking to the band afterwards that they were working on an album to be released in few months.

7 Down, 12 more to come...


Ron Paul and "The War on Terror"

It's a fact: Many Americans disapprove of Ron Paul's stance on foriegn policy and homeland security.

When nearly 3,000 people died in the Twin Towers attack on 9-11-2001, America mourned and her politicians vowed revenge. But most of us never took the time to really consider why and how it happened, myself included. Hundreds of thousands of people like myself and my brothers saw our nation come under attack and responded by joining the fight - the "War on Terror." I don't think we realized that "terror" isn't a cancer that you can treat with bombs and tanks and guns, but a merely a symptom, primarily of previous "treatments."

Soviet Russians in Afghanistan
It's largely a result of nations like the ours, the British, the Russians, and various others which had and still have imperialist ambitions, interfering in places where we had no right and in ways that resulted in becoming "the bad guys."

A young Osama Bin Laden, a leader of the mujahideen in the war against the Soviet invasion of Afganistan with Zbigniew Brzezinski, who would later serve as President Jimmy Carter's Nation Security Advisor.
 Over the years America has made many shifting allegiances with many nations and groups and installed many new leaders of nations. The nature of these allegiances have almost always resulted in the manufacturing of oppressed nations ruled by tyrants. They have never been based on the merit of a leader or the desire to make people more free, but simply to foil the attempts of other nations to take what we viewed as our domain and future domains over resources, which in truth we really don't "need," but rather are coveted by those who are ruled by greed. This is no different in Iraq or Afghanistan. 

I have great respect and affection for my fellow warriors and their superior efforts and intentions during our recent campaigns. But time and perspective have made it abundantly clear to me that our finely trained and highly motivated (despite being relatively poorly paid) armed forces have been nothing more than shock troops in nations like Iraq where private security corporations now can operate fairly safely and with impunity. Ask most veterans, especially those most recently returned from Afghanistan what they think we are fighting for there. The last answer you will usually hear is "freedom." This is because the only sort of freedom you can aid is one that is desired.

Afghanistan will never be truly modern, democratic nation. Heck, America is having a hard enough time of doing that now, even with our fertile fields, nearly limitless resources and ingenuity, and our favorable climate and terrain. The Afghan people have survived for thousands of years in pretty much the same fashion as they do now, and will continue to survive in that way. They have no use for McDonalds or Starbucks. They have no use for ultra-modern technology, except to sometimes use it against an occupying force. They have no use for the democratic process, simply because it is completely impractible in the terrain and culture they inhabit.

Iraq is very much the same way. Yet, they had a prosperous nation once. We eventually enforced sanctions which made them destitute and primed them to truly  become a culture of fear and desperation, which is still very much the way they live. They didn't always have to scavenge to survive in the desert. We made them that way. Our government's foriegn policy over the last 50+ years has been the direct cause of countless deaths and hardships for the people of the nations where we have once interfered and continue to do so. There has been a direct disregard for the phenomenon of long-term "cause and effect" in our foriegn policy.

Like goldfish we circle the glass bowl of two-party canidates and term-limits and our memories seem to last no longer than 4-8 years, just as long as we can blame the most recent Presidents for our nation's current problems. We have made reactionary choices for our leaders for far too long. We need to make a 180 degree change in the way we vote. We need to vote with hope and expectation for the best future, not fear of the worst.

As a nation we have been afraid that terror would take our lives, and yet we have let it take something from us vastly more important. Our God-given freedoms.

Our Armed Forces, who would and often do gladly sacrifice their lives, well-being and long periods of freedom for the freedom of others, and most of whom undeniably and overwhelmingly support Ron Paul, understand this one thing: Do not fear terror, or it has already won.


At Work

I sit behind a desk, staring at a bank of computer monitors.

My human interaction for tonight will be limited to watching the parade of zombified house-keeping staff and exchanging polite greetings with them as they shuffle by on their never-ending quest to eradicate scratches in floors and streaks on windows.

I have the (extremely) active ingredients of an energy drink raging through my bloodstream to keep myself awake through the night hours, but I can find nothing to devote this chemically induced manic energy to. I tweak a playlist, click refresh on Facebook, open and close my notepad as thoughts come to me and vanish as soon as my fingers begin to hover over the keyboard. I have watched dozens of episodes from a couple of shows in the past couple of nights, but I can't watch them anymore.

My foot taps endlessly... restlessly. I fight to resist tobacco time-killers that would keep my mind occupied for a few short minutes. I close several tabs that have been open in my browser for days, only to open several more that will stay open themselves, unread for days. I close my eyes to find a bit of solace from the barrage of the monitors and fluorescent lights in this modernized Spartan barracks. I cannot keep them closed - there are too many things I have to watch.

I feel as if I am aching for the weekend, but I don't really need a weekend. I need a vacation. I need a long vacation.

I need a warm beach with waves, or cool woods with rustling leaves above and below me. I need a broken-down house to rummage through, or a deer trail to follow. I need my guitar and something to write about. I need heartache. I need someone to make me sad or angry, before I go insane with the monotony. It's all so meaningless - or so it seems.

For now I'll keep my eyes focused on the horizon. I'll think and talk about the places I can go when my obligations here are fulfilled. But I can only do that so much. It is the easiest thing in the world to talk and think myself into inaction.

Life could be so interesting if I could just get off my butt and chase it. But every week, 40 of my waking hours are spent in artificial light tied to a worn-out office chair, glued to computers cluttered with cold meaningless data. Every morning I stagger through my door, exhausted by the tiresome task of doing nothing.

But someday I'll look back at these days and when I see this present valley, I'll know then just how high a mountain I've climbed. But for now that mountain stands unassailable as I sit waiting for my marching orders to come through.


Then, You May Rest

At first people seem like they really know,
They seem like they're the ones in control.
But lately I've had the nagging notion
That they're all crashing in slow motion.

Most days, Life it comes in an endless loop:
Days when flowers don't droop, days when they do.
It's true that if nothing rises, nothing can can fall;
But to be filled with nothings is to have nothing at all.

When the Sun rises over the same rooftops;
When the stars hide from your eyes cast aloft,
You've got to break your habits down.
You've got to leave your beggar's crown.

When there's no azimuth not yet traversed,
No hate, predjudice, or fear unreversed;
No sight unseen, height not reached,
Sensation untested, nor barrier unbreached...

Then, you may rest.



The last few years have been quite a journey, wavering between the limits of hope and despair, but over the last several weeks God has been especially showing me that every fear I have is simply a blinder that keeps me from seeing the beauty of life. In this time I have gone from staring into a dark tunnel wondering what singular fate lay at the end, to the point where I realize that I am standing on a plain, and that there is actually a horizon, limitless and full of life's wonder and potential. Even if I can now only see glances and hints of life's full potential, it has been my fears that have kept me from seeing that it can take me to amazing places - if I will only allow it.

I woke up this morning from a dream and a voice speaking to me. This is what it said:

"I did not give you such great capacity for wisdom and courage to see you eaten from the inside by paranoia: Fears of the of the unknown, of closeness or distance from people, wealth or poverty, silence or great noise, of darkness or daylight, of My creation, of the world's end or carrying on without you, of insufficiency for your task or of unfulfilled potential, of pain or a life without it, of deaths, incapacitation, limitations and a host of other things that can never come between us unless you let them. I see the signs of a chained soul in every motion you make, and it breaks my heart! 

If you only knew that there is nothing to fear in this world, save being afraid, then you would know freedom like never before. To be given over to your fears is to always dominated by the every emotional, spiritual, or physical bully who enters your life. You need to know now that there is nothing that can touch you, the real "you." Life is a battle, a tumultuous clash between your will, My will, and the will of the world. You are powerless to change the world for the better if you cannot allow change to first occur within you. You are powerless to change for the better if you do not let Me place you squarely in the path of your greatest fears and watch how I can overcome them for you."

"For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind." - 2 Timothy 1:7


Up Into the Mountains of Highland County

Took a little trip today with Ben to visit some Maple syrup farmers in beautiful and wild Highland County. Here are some photos taken from the car:

Photo's taken with an HTC Desire using the Vignette Demo program.



This an iZombie... there are many, many like her. There is no way to kill them. You can only cling to your own technology and pray.



Spring comes to the valley,
But snow lingers on this peak.
Where long ago you held me,
Then left me here to freeze.

And while outside I am frozen,
My heartbeat's slow and sure.
This is only hibernation.
I will return once more.

The valley shall hear my song;
And the rivers flowing deep,
As someday I'll flow swiftly down -
As melted snow beneath your feet.



"“I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately, I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, To put to rout all that was not life and not when I had come to die, discover that I had not lived.” - Henry David Thoreau

All I want is to taste the sweetness of the honeysuckle;
to draw bitterness and regret from the howling north winds;
to find reflection in the stillness of fallen snow;
to find exultation in the freshness of each spring and quiet peace in the humming, buzzing, stifling summer;
to sing with voices rustling like the wind through a field of tall, uncut timothy grass in the autumn;
to make music full of mystery, somehow larger than the instruments or the instrumentalist, like those of the cricket or of the peeping frog;
to craft melodies like bird-songs of the mourning dove, the lonesome owls, whip-poor-wills and nightingale;
to feel the rhythms of the plodding oxen, the fleeting deer, the galloping horse, the clanging, rattling, of bones, earth and stones;
to roar like an whirlwind, tearing down walls which stubborn men have erected;
to sigh like an ocean, taking and giving life to and from the Earth;
to flow like the currents of the deep, through foreign yet strangely familiar ports, changing shape, ever true to my natural direction;
to groan like a deep-rooted oak weathering every storm, to spread roots broad reaching like the willow, to tap and taste of the Earth's inner warmth like an ancient pine;
to accept death and life resurrected, like the prairie after a fire;
to shake and heave up the immovable parts of my heart with earthquakes and lava flowing from my soul...

But all I know is silence on these streets; stillness and cold shrouded light - as if I were dwelling on the ocean floor, far beneath the Arctic floes. I hear engines and brakes, doors and windows opening and shutting, cursing and shouting, and the mutterings of perennial discontent and all is music many times removed from it's purest source. There is only insanity here in this prostrate Babel; only humanity lost, and I wandering among them - I am no different.



Once I had a train of thought,
I rode gleefully upon it's back.
Then I unhooked all the cars
and we swiftly leapt off track.
Now we're spinning wheels
in a field full of cow-crap.
Maybe I'm not really lost,
it's just traction that I lack.

Once I had a submarine of soul,
I used to explore such depths.
Then I saw the green-screen roll
and knew I was altogether bereft.
I used think myself so deep
before my bravado sprang a leak;
Now I just pile thoughts in a heap
and try not to speak.

I know. I used the words green-screen and bereft in the same sentence. This is exactly why not talking is so much easier. I am a Frankenstein of rhymes, pop-culture, technology, and Shakespeak.



The Drive

A couple of days ago, my brother in the throes of cleaning the house dug up a piece of my past that I thought was long gone: "The Drive."

Prior to my joining the Armed Forces, I was a prolific amateur photographer who had serious aspirations of becoming a professional photojournalist.

Early in life I had messed around sporadically with my mom's old SLR 35mm, but with the advent of digital cameras I found a whole world of possibility open up to me. I shot with our family's point-and-shoot compact 2 megapixel for a while, then worked a whole summer on a local farm to save up enough for an 8 megapixel prosumer ZRL (zoom reflex lens). Over the next two years I shot around 40,000 photos. My photos were all stored on a hard-drive when I went off to Boot Camp and when I came back I found that I had completely and inexplicably lost all interest in my creative outlets. Photography was no exception.

Photography was the most important thing in my life before joining the military, and as such, returning to that obsession became the path that I navigated as I sought to return to something of my former self.

I took what I thought to be the first step back when I met a girl who somehow helped me to see colors again, (ironically, she had just gone color-blind) and I felt a hope that among other things, I could be the obsessive photographer again - the trait I thought that defined the pre-military me. Then she left my life completely and I soon abandoned my reborn photographer in favor of going on a long streak of heavy drinking and writing heaps of ridiculously emotional music and poetry.

The final blow came one day when the hard-drive with all my work on it started clicking and suddenly died as well. At first, I felt sick to my stomach thinking that my greatest tie to my prior self was gone.

At first I thought about spending the heaps of money that it would take to recover the photos, but for reason, I felt a strange peace and acceptance that the photos were gone. No longer would they haunt my existence, bidding me return once again to my former obsession. I think now that I was right to feel that way, and my life has been better since I gave up that pipe-dream. 

However, although I gave up on being a photojournalist, I found in it's place a revolving door of other aspirations whose urges and capabilities came and still come to me in an almost clock-like cycle. 

It will happen (often suddenly) that when I am within grasp of finishing a project, such as the production of my music album, that I lose all creative drive in that direction and find myself writing heaps upon heaps of lyrics and poetry instead. In time I'll move onto some other interest, and then something else, and even spend weeks just subconsciously adsorbing stuff, and many days later when my drive for making music returns, I find that I want to take my album in a completely different direction and I'll start all over again from scratch. This cycle has repeated in some form ever since photography ceased to be a part of my life, and now it seems with ever increasing regularity.

I've only recently, and quite gradually become aware of the surety this phenomenon, and I find that I am actually happy with it. Granted, I'll never be really good or well known for any one thing in particular like I felt sure I would be as a photographer, but I see and experience so much more without my eye glued to a simply viewfinder, or a microphone, or a monitor, or my fingers tied to my computer's keyboard or a guitar's neck.

So, this hard-drive showed up, bringing with it some turmoil, memories, phantoms of ambitions and dreams. It reminds me of the two years I spent looking through a lens; of the perhaps one thing I could have been really exceptional in my pursuit of; but it also reminds me of the life-time I might have spent doing just one thing, trapped by ambition and obsession. 

So I suppose I'll keep this little doohickey safe, and one day years from now I might see if I can recover the photos. But in the meantime it serves to remind me of the path I once travelled to a destination I thought I knew; and the path I'm on now which could go just about anywhere.


Frozen Pond

My ventures left no visible marks 
                 where I walked
 yet the surface of the pond was marred
           where the deer 
              and the raccoon stalked
                    Upon midnights so brightly starred
                          Their wild spirits led them 
                                                              to reach
               Where my own feet would not go
                        for the ice popped and cracked beneath
          my firmly planted
                                      cautious feet
        I walked for a time 
                         the edge
                and on the bank 
           when the ice was weak
                    there I fought the briery hedge
to step again 
 where the ice did not creak
           The ice in the center was likely
                          more sure than that on the rim
                                where it was full of fractures 
                                                           and weeds
                           But I stayed 
                where I could easily reach the shore 
                     and would not risk drowning 
                                   simply to feel free.


A Christmas Poem

"To My Fellow Gentlemen"

Let us lift a glass of Christmas cheer
To welcome the coming of the New Year,
With pungent smoke where we, sitting,
Will reignite what is manly and fitting.

While the cold outside gathers strength,
We at sit at home and talk at length,
On finer aspects of our various lives,
In smoky rooms, away from the wives.

A decanter of port is slowly tipped,
And the fruit of the vine is fondly sipped.
A fine tradition passed on from our fathers -
From homelands far over blue waters.

Yet, there are many who don't understand
About finer things which wait for a man.
For if only moderation he would employ,
Simple pleasures are what he should enjoy.

So here is to all who seek simple pleasures,
May it come to you in tasteful measures.
In a season when our great gift is to be alive,
Please, I pray you, don't drink and drive.


Remember to thank a deployed Service Member, Fire Fighter, EMT, or Police Officer if you know one who is working hard over the holiday to make sure that your's is a safe one!

May God bless you all, and have a very merry Christmas!


As It Was

I am walking the rails that run between my house and the river, looking for solitude and a coal nugget or two in the white gravel where they often lay, both glittering and void-like in the moonlight. Melancholy hangs heavy in the air about me and fills the spaces within my chest, like the frost on my sleeves and the bitter cold in my knees and lungs.

The spirits and memories of the past hover and watch me in the deepening shadows, waiting seemingly in vain for the coming of the Sun. I am not far from where the place where I had not long ago lost a battle with my heart - an outcome I had long feared.

In the silence of the night, I hear footsteps echoing from ahead and look up to see a spectral scene approaching from afar:

With head hung low and hand buried deep a man is walking towards me. He kicks at the gravel as he walks and yet it does not seem to move. I stop and stand in the shadow of a tree to watch him pass. A ghostly light seems to follow and I see faint, quickly vanishing images of lights and buildings and people all around him. As he comes closer, I see his face, covered in ice crystals. He is just about to pass the place where I stand thus shrouded, when he stops and turns slowly to look in my direction.

I stand in place, frozen with apprehension and fear. Then my heart stops beating for just a moment as I realize that the face looking at me is very much like my own. I feel a chill run through my body and I turn to flee but cannot move at all. I see that the face holds no expression except an odd grimace which the ice had frozen onto it, the eyes sunken there are lifeless, filling me a nameless fear. My thoughts fail and I fall into a strange, sleep-like state.

The cloud cover the Moon's face and the wind dies. How long I stood thus transfixed I did not know, but sometime later I find myself still standing there and I look about to see no one around me, only the moonlit trees swaying silently in the wind. The vision is gone.

I look down at my feet which had melted the ice beneath me and become refrozen in place. Breaking free of my icy bonds, I run home as fast as my legs could carry me, shaking with the cold and shaken to my core, and vowing to myself to forsake no more the warm company of my fellow man for the bottle and the solitude of my dark studio.

He walks the tracks as they once were 
In the places where they still are;
Under gaslight's eternal glow 
He revisits these places
Looking for the faces
He used to know 
And knows no more.

A young man who died old.
He walks still in the world;
A prisoner, earthbound 
By a love he'd found,
And a love he betrayed
They have all moved on 
And he has stayed.


An Update:

Well it's been a while since I posted anything, and I'm not happy about that.

It's been an absolutely crazy  month. But I'm hoping to have a chance to relax and gather my thoughts in the next few days and maybe have something to say. In the meantime here's a recap of some of the things I've been up to lately:

Fishing: I never really thought of myself as someone who would get into fishing, but being out on the water with no distractions and just swish and buzz of casting a line, interrupted by the thrill of an occasional catch has proved itself be like a mini-vacation. It helps that my friend's home is just a stone's-throw from a fully-stocked pond and there's no packing and unpacking of the boat to deal with. Going out on the pond surrounded by good friends, still water, and nature's bounty is truly a worthwhile escape from the madness of the world.

Fall colors...

Jim, looking like an old dude.


The Sun dipping low in the sky...
 Theatre: I was recently apart of a local community musical theatre production in my town. This Sunday was the final performance and we played to a packed house. There were a couple of rough nights, D.O.A./small audiences, but the rest of the nights more than made up for them. The play was written, produced and directed by the extremely talented Langden Mason. It's all about a year in the town in 1954 and is written around a local radio station that ran at the time. I was a part of 7 different numbers, including a solo, a duet, a quintet, two sextets, and two ensemble pieces, with my characters ranging from a radio singer to a cowboy, irish immigrant, marching band member, to a vampire. It was a healthy bit of fresh air and exercise for my multiple personality disorder.

Langden out front directing a rehearsal.

Langden at the piano surrounded by the cast of On The Air

Little brother Sam (second from left) and some fellow cast-members during rehearsals.
 The second and last weekend of performances fell right on my duty weekend, so I drove over an hour both ways, from the base to my hometown three times in total that weekend, getting up at 5:30AM and going to bed and 1:00AM each day. I just now am starting to feel like I might actually eventually catch up on sleep!

But what has been really amazing about this whole experience is that I actually saw the play the first time it ran in 2001. I was 14 years old at the time, and it made a huge impression on me, one song especially: "Your Love Haunts My Dreams" which is a piece written by Langden Mason when he was 16 years old (what better age for writing entrancingly hyperbolic music?) and is based on Bram Stoker's Dracula. It was a haunting performance that has stayed with me since the first time I saw it, with Langden singing from the orchestra pit and Terri Long up on the stage, exuding vulnerability and emotion. When I auditioned for the play, I assumed that it would be the same deal as last time, but Langden decided to have me replace him in the number and I found myself onstage with Terri, who came back again to reprise her two roles in the production, and singing a song that I never thought I'd hear again, not to mention have a chance to perform. All in all, it was nothing short of thrilling, especially just to be a part of this group of talented, positive-minded, and truly wonderful people. But the whole experience has ultimately been quite exhausting and time consuming. In consequence and conjunction with everything else that has happened recently, mostly mundane and un-post-worthy, there have been no blog posts.

Terri Long as "Lucy" and myself as "The Count." (photo by Barry Long)
 Riding: I got my bike up and running, cleaned it up, and have been rolling out the miles pretty steadily on the odometer. The cold weather has necessitated my layering-up and I walk out the door most days looking something like the "Michelin Man." But the added hassle of dressing for the cold is vastly out-weighed by the liberation I feel when blasting through turns and cruising down the highway feeling the full force of the elements, fully aware of my surroundings, the smells, the temperature and humidity, the position of the Sun and clouds, the colors and all the sensations of acceleration and gravity, friction and momentum. There is no ignoring the natural world on a motorcycle.

The bike stripped down and ready to clean and polish.

Graduation: My younger brother, Andrew, graduated from Army Basic last week, and those of us that could drove down to Georgia for the day. Contrary to reasonable expectation, it did not get any warmer the farther south we went. It was, in fact, quite the opposite. And it was something of a blitz back and forth, but we were able to spend a few hours with Andrew and it was well worth it.

Slipping down the road, trees like water flow by.

Keeping the natives happy with my iPod Touch.

Almost there...

The Georgia "moonlight in the pines" can seem so sultry in the words of a song...

... and slightly less so in the middle of the city.

Fueling up at Denny's.

A Georgia morning...

...mist and Spanish moss.

The National Infantry Museum and Soldier Center at Ft. Benning

My brother, a newly graduated U.S. Soldier.

... and that is some of what's transpired since I've last posted.

A closing thought: 

Which definition of love do you find most accurate?

1. Deep affection and warm feeling for another.

2. The emotion of sex and romance: strong sexual desire for another person.

3. A beloved person.

4. A strong fondness or enthusiasm.

5. A zero score (in tennis.)

Leave it to sports terminology to sum it up correctly, right?