This week coming up would have marked seven months since I last picked up a guitar... The afternoon of April 18th, I had just finished recording some acoustic songs - likely the best music I've ever written in almost thirty years of playing guitar - and the recorded results were really, really good... because I just let it happen, I didn't pressure myself, I didn't sit and nitpick myself to death until I was so frustrated I just chucked it... but as good as it was, it took every ounce of passion I've ever had inside me to do it... and I felt that was it, it was all over. I let my guitars sit and gather dust (one is still sitting in virtually the same place I left it out at the riverhouse by the "shabby chic" china cabinet, waiting to have the strings changed and be played like it was intended to be one late night, seven months ago - I was five minutes late that night, and my world somehow went to Hell). I still heard music, dreamed music, felt music all around me, but I had no desire to explore it. After agreeing to work on a project for a student film that involves my "other side" of music (the experimental, non-rock, sometimes just plain goofy side), I actually had the chance to stand and look at myself in the mirror, something I do not do... ever... and a couple weeks ago, a choice was made (thanks Bret/Will/Brian/Corey (for helping relight a fire) and especially "the invisible one" for really helping me realize (by... "not helping"(?) ...leaving me to figure it out on my own) what was wrong with me).








(the songs seem a bit conflicting... but that's life)