Archive for the ‘Nocturnal Admissions’ Category

Nocturnal Admissions: Thoughts as simple as a kiss…

November 27, 2013


I’ve been sitting in that rather strange place tonight. Trapped between deep thought, a million stories to be written, and the simple lack of alertness to do justice to the prose.

Tonight, my mind has been coming back around, again and again, to the kiss.

The first kiss of any relationship.

The second, the third, and the 300th.

You can tell a lot from a kiss. The first one, usually desperate, awkward or accidental is merely a leap together. The risk that, in that moment, you both are willing to take.

But the ones that follow, as your lips learn each other, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle—those are the ones that matter.

I have kissed many a beautiful young woman in my lifetime, but very few have been the type you think of days later; months later—years later.

It’s more than love, more than intimacy. It’s passion.

It’s a whisper in the ear, over and over again, reminding you that you aren’t in this alone. The warmth of a big spoon, stirring, stirring.

When the lips fit, as if they were designed for one another, it is a rarity, and presents a far deeper connection than three simple, often misused words can.

When the lips fit, the souls tend to follow, even if the heart cannot.


I’ve got rhythm.

October 25, 2013


I never graduated college.

This is a fact that I’m both proud of, and mortified by.

I’m proud, simply because I managed to become a success regardless. It’s proof that if you figure out your goals, make a strategy and have a little patience, you really can do whatever the hell you want.

I’m mortified, because I consider myself an intelligent individual, but school somehow never worked out for me. With the exception of a few distinct years, I got good grades, by and large. When I dropped out, I literally had a 4.0 GPA.

But it was always a struggle.

It was always a pain.

I hated very second of it.

And I never really cared if I didn’t understand how it actually applied to me and the life by which I was surrounded.


In grade school, I was so underwhelmed by lessons and over stimulated by thought, my third grade teacher inadvertently invented “Independent Studies” for me. She figure out how to put my energy to use, by writing books, and plays, creating sets, binding, etc.

My mom tells me that if it had existed back then, I would have been diagnosed with ADHD. When I was a kid, they called it hyperactivity and gave us Ridlin. But mine was confined to my mind. And thank god. Rather than some prescription that made me calm and complacent, I had a teacher that figured out how to help me put my mind to a better use.

Not that I don’t believe in the usefulness of antidepressants and medication when truly necessary, but as a child, the mind is a great coping mechanism.


Sometimes, I think I have dyslexia. Words get jumbled when I read, and if I write too fast, I literally write words backwards. But if nobody tells you there’s an excuse, you don’t have one and push through it.

And if you’re lucky enough to have parents that instill a passion for the simple act of learning, discovering…if you indeed love to embrace the fact that there is still so much unknown, it’s really easy to push through.

To evolve. Every day.

Case in point. I always believed I had no rhythm. I couldn’t even snap in beat to songs I sang, and knew intimately.

One day, a band member called me out.  I don’t know theory; I don’t know shit, aside from what rests in my soul. I have no problem with criticism, especially when it’s as constructive as this was. I was snapping on the up beat, when I should be snapping on the down.

It wasn’t that I had no rhythm; I simply had the wrong rhythm.

Mind. Blown.

It’s like learning that 1+1=3. Like learning you’ve been tying your shoes wrong your entire life. Such a simple, mild adjustment. We have to be open to the fact that we don’t always know. Even when we assume we usually do. Because, even when we know so much, we have to be open to the idea that we’re wrong; that we don’t know shit from shine-ola.

This is a fatal flaw in the world—we all have egos.

But once you shed that—once you admit that the key to knowing everything is the simple fact that you know nothing at all, that’s when you can truly figure it out. When there are no rules, no egos, no pomp nor circumstance, but rather, an open mind. That’s when the magic really happens.


I’ve got rhythm…


Nocturnal Admissions: Kindling at the Ready

September 27, 2013


I have had a rather strange week. Strange only in contrast to the week prior, full of professional oddity and the type of strange that has somehow become my norm.

This was an inadvertent, self-imposed variation of a semi-solitary confinement of sorts. I didn’t try to cut myself off from the outside world, save for brief moments of self-supposed wit and charm via the social satellites of love…

I just did.

I’ve mentioned in recent posts that, save for poems and short chapters, I have been a bit at a loss for words.

It’s not that they aren’t there; there are simply far too many. Far too many unfinished chapters and half-started explorations stemming from a mind that moves faster than the hand, whether by ink or keyboard.

I am, by trade and reputation, an emotional, passionate man. I am learning from experience that I am best admired from afar, lest you see the unavoidable truths of the temperament found within me; found within a complex man in search of simple things.

I am, by trade and reputation, a tornado.

But this week, without planning such, my emotion has been vacant, my passion focused and quiet. There have been brief moments of contentment, longing, angst and melancholy, but they only creep out like a soft light emanating from underneath a bedroom door.

Without trying, I’ve spent the week in a cosmic ambivalence, by and large, shrugging the universe off in trade of simple images that say more than my words ever could.

More than they ever should.

Loud images, in a quiet place, my mind focused on nothing but.


It is an artist’s burden to feel so damned much all the time. It allows us to display these emotions, explain them, or at least show the world they exist, so they can feel them too.

Or perhaps, know they aren’t alone.

Without, of course, the privileges and benefits of slowly going crazy as a result.


Emotional ambiguity. To exist in this state for too long is a tragedy for any man or woman. But for me, right now, it’s kind of necessary. Even were it not, I am here nonetheless.

I’ve thought too hard. Longed too hard. Spoke too hard. Loved too hard. Lost too hard.

Sometimes I drink too hard, and perhaps I simply live too hard.

It can make a man tired.


Sometimes, when I feel everything, I need a little time to feel nothing.


It’s a farce. Deep down, I know better.

Hard as I may try, to stop feeling altogether would be to stop living.

And regardless of how one lives, for this brief moment in time, we are alive.

Perhaps this emotional dissidence is merely a temporary calm before a rather large storm.

The biggest blazes all start with a spark, and I am but kindling at the ready.


Nocturnal Admissions: Cotton swabs and mortality…

September 16, 2013



We all die eventually.

That’s the big joke about life.

There is but one guarantee.

The wise man is aware of this, and uses it as a sound argument for taking full advantage of this temporary disposition.

Those of us less sound spend our time wondering how…

Not if, that’s a given. Not when, that would ruin the surprise.



I spend (far too much) time thinking about this.

I’d like to think my obituary will speak of a final heroic act revolving around the rescue of puppies and orphans from a fiery death, but…

I know better.

It’s going to be something stupid.

Like a Q-Tip.

How many people ignore warnings and do as they choose, only to meet an untimely fate that will one day be fodder for urban legend?

People have literally died as a result of a cotton swab.

Something random and odd like this, in all likelihood, will beat every bad habit I have.


Today, I decided. I’m not going out like that.

I used my finger instead.

My fingernail cut the inside of my ear.


It just goes to show, you have little control over the chaos of the world around us.

It proves that it doesn’t matter how I go out. Nor how I came in.

It only matters what I’m doing while I’m here.


Nocturnal Admissions

April 3, 2013


I haven’t been sleeping much lately. This is a fairly common thing with me.

When I was younger I could never call it a day because something hadn’t happened yet. I never knew what that something was, just that it hadn’t happened.

These days, it’s quite the opposite. Everything is happening.

Sometimes I’m listening to music, typing away for work or play. Writing checklists, or scratching things off.

I used to lay awake thinking about the things I wanted to do; now I sit and think about what needs to be done. It’s an evolution of thought brought about by an evolution of life, so I’m comfortable with this train ride.



It’s never that simple.

When I’m working, I’m not only thinking about what needs to be done, I’m doing it. It takes a certain amount of focus even for someone like me, who is in a constant state of charming dishevelment throughout my waking hours.

It’s probably because I need more sleep.



It’s those other times, when I sit in silence writing the great American narrative in my head, words that never escape the steel trappings of a distracted man, that keep me up at night.

It’s those quiet moments, when my woman is asleep, keeping the bed warm…as the dogs curl up around me, that Pandora’s box is opened, just a crack.


It follows me like so many living ghosts. My life. Those moments.

All of them.

The ones you want to relive again and again and those moments you wish you could take back. A twisted nostalgia that leaves one pining for the innocence of youth, but with the jaded knowledge picked up since.

This train of thought is not bred out of discontentment, nor tainted by too much regret. It’s what we never have time to think about when there’s so much else to be done—what we wish would fade quietly away like a dream you know you had, but can’t quite remember.

It’s hard to fully let go of the past sometimes, for fear it will vanish altogether.

It takes time to vanquish demons and cast out ghosts—making peace with oneself, and the things we hold onto…the things that haunt us, when left alone with our thoughts.


At least it gives me something to think about, when I can’t fall asleep.