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Strange to have spent my life not knowing, never knowing, where it would lead, yet leading it where I am now with every move I’ve made.

When I was 8 years old I wrote my first piece of orchestral music after participating in five minutes of moog synthesis that came a day after coloring Bach with finger paint. School was better then.

So were dreams.

I never finished it.

I went from the flute I played then, and the violin I played before, to trumpet, tuba, clarinet, and, finally, guitar.

When I say “finally” what I mean is that by the time I was 35 I owned a complete sound studio in my basement. A fine set of 1958 Ludwig drums, a Jazzmaster bass, several guitars, and both an upright grand and two electric pianos. And I played them all.

And I sucked.

I played anyway. I still do.

During that time I also wrote with words. I wrote poetry and short stories and philosophy and sci-fi and just about anything else that came into my mind.

And I sucked.

I wrote anyway. I still do.

I tried my hand at art from the day I was born and half the days since then. Pencil. Ink. Charcoal. Oil. Enamel. Piss and eggs and napkins lit with diesel. You name it, I tried it.

And I sucked.

I, well, you get the point.

I’ve sucked at pretty much everything I’ve ever tried and yet I have failed at none of them.

Not one failure in 58 years. Not one.

But it sure as hell felt like it.

And that’s why I stopped all of it.

And restarted and switched and stopped and faltered and began again.

So. You wonder where I’ve been? There it is. I’ve been where I’ve always been, between.

No big secret to share. No earth shattering insights to reveal. Just me admitting I sometimes give up.

We all do.

If there’s one thing I have learned over the years, trying my hand at painting stories with music or words or paint, is that it’s a cycle. Just like life itself.

We find ourselves. Lose ourselves. And if we’re very very lucky, we recreate ourselves over and over again.

So here I am. Recycling.

It’s good to be back. For now.

Image by Jan

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