Listening to this podcast alone on my porch on an off day, my heart so full with no one to spill over onto, and Instagram exists, and you all are now the recipients of my joy and gratitude, and anyone who is in the music business or wants to be or is not and doesn’t want to be, listen to this and be inspired. Somehow, someway, after overcoming my biggest fear in the world (“moving on”), these two incredible men became my mentors and friends. Here they are being transparent and brilliant as always. But on the internet this time. Enjoy.
[a journal entry, from what seems to be a different life, on writing, and writing when you have nothing to say] . 3/5/18 . “I wrote the date before I had a single word in mind so that I couldn’t go one more day without writing something, so that I would be forced to put pen to paper for at least one sentence, so that I would squeeze one drop of water from my drought-plagued mind, regardless of its profundity or lack thereof. The truth is, I haven’t wanted to write. Or rather, I’ve wanted to write very much, but (with risk of sounding esoteric) ‘the muse’ hasn’t been particularly interested in giving me anything to write about. Songs, journals, poems, all seem to have enjoyed the fall and winter of my mind and haven’t much wanted to walk with me into spring. ‘You go ahead,’ they told me, ‘we’ll catch up to you.’ They said it with the air of someone who probably won’t catch up to you. They have pulled up cushy armchairs next to the fireplaces of the past few months, refuge from the blustering cold outside, and, not surprisingly so, made themselves at home amidst my heartbreak, which effortlessly breeds inspiration; as cliché as the brooding-artist-with-a-long-stemmed-cigarette-in-his-mouth-and-a-naked-woman-on-his-couch trope, and also as true. Here I am, months removed from this heartbreak, seemingly having used all the pieces to make various mosaics and chimes and stained-glass windows, left to wonder how I am supposed to create after running out of broken pieces. I never knew I was a romantic. Apparently I never knew myself well. Without love and the bastardization of it, the ink dries and the record skips. This will not do. So I wrote the date. And then I wrote a sentence. And here we are a page and a half later. Funny how like life it all is. Perhaps I’m uninspired, jaded, detached, confused. Perhaps I have nothing to offer anyone. Perhaps I have no idea what could possibly come next. I’ll write the date. Something usually happens when I do.”
“One never truly knows their friends until they find out what they don’t laugh at at a comedy show.” - Confucius Happy birthday @dustinonline. May your next birthday that is celebrated 17 days late be equally as epic. 🎂🍼
I woke up to the news about Mike Owens, one of my favorite people I’ve known, and without question the best person with whom to sit at lunch listening to music business stories for hours when you get cancelled on. Humble: unless you ask, you’d never hear how integral his role in this business has been, at least not from him. Kind: content to encourage when possible, and just listen when not. Stable, loyal: a friend who remains a friend even after you’re no longer working together, listens to every song sent, and calls. A true music person and song person, unswayed by hype, an ear that doesn’t need to follow the crowd. A special, one of a kind member of this community. We need more of him, not less of him. Even day one, I’m feeling acutely the space left behind. I’ve wondered why I’ve kept these flowers in a vase, long withered, on my desk all this time. There is something shocking about death - the way it can bend a rose’s head, once so proud, and wrinkle its face, once so smooth. And even when death has played its tricks and ravaged its victims, there they stand, beautiful as ever, though a different brand of beauty. They, still on my nightstand. You, always in my heart. Love you Mike.
Having a cold isn’t cute, but its remedies are. 🖤 . “It may be conceded to the mathematicians that four is twice two. But two is not twice one; two is two thousand times one.” - Chesterton, in that book on the table, challenging the safety in solitude. Hold a hand, call a friend, take a walk in step with the shoes next to you. Loneliness is a fickle lover; we should all break up with it.
We traveled to another planet called Iceland and back again. It went something like this. ☝️
Joy (swipe for good luck)
FUN W/ FRIENDS IN ICELAND featuring @mr.bootstraps’ photography and me and @kathigginsmusic acting natural. @jessicawillisfisher @colmkirwan @scottmulvahill @steviereesmusic to come. 😍😭🙌🏔
“You are indeed teaching me about kinds of love I did not know. It is like looking into a deep pit. I am not sure whether I like your kind better than hatred.” . In the middle of my quest to wrangle the ever-elusive definition of Love, which so easily can become an abstraction, I stumbled upon the one CS Lewis book no one seems to talk about, at least not to me, at a used book store. Highly recommend reading this, possibly while holding a glass of bubbly water close to your ear (a sound I suspect is nearer to the music of gods than men.) . “They say the loving and the devouring are all one, don’t they?” . “A love like that can grow to be nine-tenths hatred and still call itself love.”