Dings & Dents/Vulnerability & Terror

This past Sunday night, the boys and I finished dinner and hurried through the dishes because we wanted to watch a couple episodes of Stranger Things before bed. Monday races towards us after dinner every Sunday evening and so prolonging the weekend as much as we can is always too tempting to pass up. Particularly on this weekend, as we’d been looking forward to Season 2 of the show for months.

Also, I have to tell you – the boys were not home when I learned about the church shooting in Texas earlier that morning. I found it, like all these other mass shootings – and probably a lot like you have, too – unspeakably difficult to absorb. I had a gig the night before the shooting and the boys had spent that night with friends. When I read the news online shortly after waking up Sunday, I had a now too-familiar “nesting” impulse – this seeming need to hurtle towards the kids, gather them, race home, and cave up from what more and more seems a rapidly-crumbling world. That tendency seems to spring to life in me more and more in the 21st century. With each new mass shooting, for instance, something in me braces for impact, and a very real, palpable, “felt” terror dings my armor.

Mine’s a fragile armor at best, I’ll admit. It’s constructed in large part of being a white male, growing up working-/middle-class, in the possession of an advanced education and a semi-stable income and health care, and the grand illusion that if I play by some rules and codes, and observe and attend to all the social contracts appropriately and all the while aspire towards my “best self,” then everything will work out “just fine.” (In other words, yes, it’s an armor made of fine sand, too, but it’s still solidly done its job for 40+ years now.)

And when the repercussions of terror – in the form of anxiety –  don’t just ding the armor, then they massively dent it. As proved true on Sunday.

But there we were Sunday evening, gathered and home in a new space we’d moved into a couple weeks earlier. We picked up the pace on the after-dinner routines in the hopes we could disappear from the present and watch this spectacularly fun Netflix show set shot-for-shot in the era of my own imagination-rich childhood.  If we maintained this pace, we would watch an extra one or two episodes – as if to pretend it was still Friday and that Monday wasn’t rapidly on the way.

I checked the fridge to brainstorm options for their lunches for Monday morning and saw the milk carton snug in the door’s shelf. I remembered then that I forgot to buy milk earlier that afternoon. I’d meant to do that when we were driving  home from our friends’ house. And I was counting on cereal in the morning, especially because I knew we would stay up a little later to watch the show and that I would want as low-impact a breakfast as possible Monday.

But I also didn’t want to drive all the way over to Safeway. I woke to snow Sunday morning and when I picked up the boys earlier, the roads were still super slippery. So I also had no interest in sliding around the slick roads on a Sunday night without snow tires on the car yet.

I decided on a compromise. I’d hop in the car, drive up the street to the gas station and buy a small single serving bottle of milk to split between two bowls of cereal in the morning. I’d done this once before. If you measure it right, you have just enough in one small milk from the gas station soda section for two boys’ cereal bowls. They were going to their mom’s the next day. This could hold us over till our next stretch together.

I closed the fridge and told the boys I was going to run up the street to grab milk at the gas station. I said I’d pop up there and back. I told them to finish washing and drying the dishes and putting them away and I’d be back in a flash and then we’d watch Stranger Things.

They agreed, and probably even relished the thought of a few minutes home alone and they began moving around the kitchen with a little extra bounce as they found the new cupboard spaces for our dishes.

I was putting my boots on when my nine year-old called out, as if suddenly remembering, “Love you!”

It came out quick, but it arrived full – his call possessed heft, a weight in the way it leapt forward and then, too, in the way it landed and settled inside me. If I didn’t know better, I might have thought he’d mistaken my announcement of an errand to the gas station up the street as an announcement that I was grabbing the next flight to Patagonia for a few months.

I chuckled. “I’m coming right back,” I told him, smiling, sliding into my other boot.

“I know,” he said, slipping plates into a cupboard.

And I couldn’t tell you exactly why I had to remind him of that either, except that later, thinking about it, I knew that the full import of his pronouncement of love exposed a nerve, a different kind of vulnerability in the armor than the vulnerability exposed by terror. Or was it? Different? Either way, in that moment, “I’m coming right back” was almost a way to deflect some of the force of that open, unabashed affection he offered me. And it was honestly almost too much to bear right then, free as it had arrived, and so unexpected and pure.

It unsettled me. It exposed other cracks. For how much I felt it. The love. And needed it, or desired it. But also for the way I didn’t know how to fully accept or embrace it, save for my eyes welling with tears at my front door. He had done this on Halloween, too. I was leaving the boys at their mom’s, and I was proceeding out the door when he announced from the other side of the room, “Let me give you a hug,” and bolted across her living room and threw himself at me. Then, too, I exited that moment both light and heavy-hearted and swimming between the two concurrent emotions.

Sam snapped this last weekend w/o my knowing. I found it in the phone later that night & could almost see the traffic jam grinding through that guy’s head…

Soon enough, another thing crashed into the moment, too, as I put my jacket on and grabbed my wallet. I was quietly absorbing the waves of my son’s affection and then remembered what had occurred in Texas earlier that morning.

Maybe it’s that this time the shooting occurred in a church. Perhaps it’s that it happened in a church and this incident happened so quickly after a shooting at a concert a few weeks ago. Maybe it’s just that it happened – again – period. That these shootings keep happening. Maybe it was that the growing, widening realization that this can happen anytime and anywhere now – that something feels very different here now – that we’ve turned a distressing and undeniable corner (as a country, a species) in our era, and that there’s no arguing (or convincing me) otherwise.

I didn’t have – and still don’t have – words to clearly define or explain what came over me then. Maybe that’s how terror works. Or starts to win. To gain ground. But I thought of an otherwise ordinary Sunday, dressing to go to church. Arriving. Polite greetings. Shaking hands with friends, acquaintances. Taking your seat with family or a friend.

A few weeks ago, protesters picketed outside the church I periodically attend with my boys. They’ve also entered and occupied the front row of the church in silent protest before, too. I’m not suggesting the individuals protesting this church would ever unload on us with machine guns. But they’ve conducted themselves in such a way that I’ve sat in church feeling anxious and concerned about what’s transpiring, imagining what could transpire, about what’s possible in the midst of a specific kind of tension brought on by their actions.

By that measure, I can’t for the life of me conceive, then, of what living through what those churchgoers encountered this past Sunday would be like. Who can?

And I know, on one hand, I’m being a real simpleton here: It’s not as if before all these mass shootings defining our era we’ve never been at risk of sliding into harm’s way. Of course I’m not suggesting that at all. In fact, statistically, I was and am wildly more at risk of dying in a fatal car accident while driving the few blocks up the road on a milk run on a Sunday night than I am of being killed by a mass shooter. I know this.

But that didn’t make the fact of Sunday’s shooting – only the most recent in a lengthening series of horrific incidents – go down any easier. Not at all.

I paused at the front door and breathed in the full import of Matt’s freely-, gently-offered love. I don’t know how else to refer to that moment. But I had to consciously open to it that evening. I’m not suggesting I intentionally wall or guard myself from my kids or their affections. I’m saying only that I was aware on Sunday evening that I had to pause, breathe, and open to it. That I was feeling vulnerable and fragile and on guard before Matt impulsively expressed himself, and that I first chuckled it off because the risks love opens us to and asks of us are perhaps the greatest vulnerabilities imaginable. After all, vulnerability means we’re capable of great loss and deep wounding –  though also of significant transformation, too – in unimaginable ways. And maybe that truth proves also too overwhelming to absorb and to live with every day so that we can’t help but armor ourselves in a little bit. Or a lot. For safety and sanity’s sake. Well, rather, for the illusion of possible safety and control.

“I love you, too,” I told him – and his brother – and I went to the store, and I bought a single bottle of milk for Monday morning, and I returned home in one piece – I survived – and we watched Stranger Things together, and for another night we were safe, we were home.

Matt at 6 on one of his Saturday morning visits to my room. The more the violence outside escalates, the more those ordinary, uneventful hours and days seem the best, more memorable and valuable ones…

A Story Re: “Brave” in 38 Tweets (or, My 1st Tweet Storm)

A Little Context:

What follows is my first-ever attempt at a “tweet-storm.” I teach English Comp and Creative Writing classes as an adjunct instructor at the college level, & in the past year this has become considered a legitimate form of writing & communication. Well, “tweeting” has – and the tweet-storm is an extension of that. Twitter is discussed in our university’s ENG 111 textbook, and many of my Creative Writing Students are very active on social media.

I’ll disclose that I took all the social media sites – save for Instagram – off my phone after the 2016 U.S. Presidential election. I only returned them to my phone a little over a month ago, in order to hit all the social-media- & campaign-bases during my Kickstarter’s run, as I’ve tried to secure funds that will afford me to record my next album.

Oddly enough, shortly after launching my Kickstarter, twitter (& the news/media outlets, of course) exploded with information re: the White House scandal concerning the suspected collusion of Trump White House officials with Russia. The firing of FBI Director James Comey only loaned more fuel to the already-torrential/-gushing stream of information concerning these matters on twitter, & so much so that I’ve assumed attempting to leave any impression re: my meager fundraising- & album-production-effort is a fairly guaranteed lost cause.

Nevertheless, after the past week – and becoming tangled or sucked into one or another tweet-storm – I tried. And that’s what’s below. In my own search for information the past couple weeks, I’ve occasionally found myself deep into a variety of tweet-storms – some by knowledgable, intelligent, astute critical thinkers, journalists, and more (and some gut-busting comedians, too). Then some, it goes without saying, fall under the banner of delusional, really-far-out-there/-gone conspiracy theorists.

So, what follows is/was my slip into that form for a few minutes today, in an effort to weave/tell a little bit about the story of the album I’m trying to fund at Kickstarter, the working title of which is “Brave.” 

Aside from an experiment/draft in the form, I would only add that – if I’ve come away from twitter with anything – or if, after my Kickstarter wraps & I again delete the social media apps from my phone – I think it’s important to add, to say that if there’s one lone takeaway here (in addition to hoping to fund my next record) I think we should all be reading Sarah Kendzior’s work, along with a number of others (mentioned below) right now.  pax, JJB

00.) My 1st *Tweet Storm* : A Story re: Brave album/Kickstarter. w/ props 2 @sarahkendzior &etc. Read on below – http://kck.st/2phvIgA

1.) I’m house-/cat-sitting this wkend for friends. Realized the last time I did this for them was right after the ’16 Presidential election.

2.) A couple months before that, I was house-/cat-sitting for another friend. My gf & I had just split up, & moved out of the apt we shared.

3.) 1 day, while packing up that apt, I was boxing some files from an old filing cabinet & unearthed a lyric sheet for a song I wrote in ’96.

4.) The song was called “Brave.” At 1st I felt sheepish – it was a young song – was glad it never amounted 2 anything. 2nd song I ever wrote.

5.) But then I also really loved a few lines in the song. I appreciated the intent – the thing that kid-wannabe-songwriter was trying to do.

6.) I took the melody & lines that still seemed pliable & went to work on a new revised version of the song. A cat-/house-sitting project.

7.) Tooled away on it during the summer of house-/cat-sitting. Then #BillCunningham died & then a dead whale washed up on the shore in Anc.

8.) These events led 2 stories for local papers. I shelved the song. A few mos passed. Somehow @realDonaldTrump becomes Prez. Me=Shellshock.

9.) So, fast-fwd: Late Nov 2016, I’m house sitting then for same friends who r away this wkend now. I remembered that this evening.

10.) Am still reeling from election. Still can’t swallow it. Very little makes sense. & L. Cohen is dead. I wrote about him 4 paper in Oct.

11.) While out 1 evening that house-/cat-sitting wkend – where I am now – a friend tells me 2 read @sarahkendzior’s “We’re Heading into Dark Times. This is How to Be Your Own Light in the Age of Trump”

12.) When I get home, I search for it. I read it. He’s right. It’s just the thing. I’m particularly blown to pieces by those last sentences:

13.) Those = Good Sentences. The real deal. Like, we’re alive b/c sentences like those exist. Our job here’s to live into words like these.

14.) I ripped out a piece of paper from my notebook & wrote those sentences down. & then read them aloud to no1. & then wrote them again.

15.) (When I returned to my apt at the end of the weekend, I posted them onto my fridge. Where they’ve remained since that weekend.)

16.) For all @sarahkendzior’s talk about being “brave” it reminded me of the song I’d been working on the last time I cat-/house-sat 4mos ago.

17.) I had my guitar at the house where I was cat-/house-sitting & so I pulled out the lyrics for “Brave” & began playing thru the song.

18.) (It’s wild to walk around a big, empty house w/ big wide-open rooms playing guitar & singing w/o worrying about disturbing anyone.)

19.) 1/2way thru the song – “Brave” – I broke down. Total overwhelm out of nowhere. 40something yo w/ guitar crying in big empty house.

20.) Something about the dark the overwhelm the light in @sarahkendzior’s piece & the times & a song about somehow trying to b that: ‘brave’

21.) Idk if I thought I had an album then but I knew I had to follow the song & the work further & go the/a distance w/ it. Wherever it went

22.) It’s a few mos later. This KS is *underperforming*. Yikes. But I’m keeping a level head about it. “It’s only art after all,” BrianEno.

22a.) Footnote:

23.) The album will be made. The songs r in mid-production. Brave hearts & minds like @sarahkendzior are doing incredible work right now.

24.) Work that feels like the necessary and right toil and struggle now: truth-seeking justice and speaking truth to power & corruption.

25.) Art & Music can pale in comparison to these tasks. Tho they can def bear witness. & can soothe & ease us during & after the struggle.

26.) I don’t care – no, I CARE &/but I don’t, too – if you donate to my KS or buy my music or support indie music. I do care, however, that

27.) All find a way to honor & dignify this bewildering period & historical moment in the ways that we’re best gifted & suited 2 do the way

28.) The way that @sarahkendzior & @eji_org & @ACLU & @ShaunKing & @brainpicker (&etc) are doing in their own unique & remarkable ways.

29.) Music&Songwriting are 2 small ways I try to problem-solve, seek out beauty & nod to wonder & mystery in the midst of horror&struggle.

30.) There r 3 days left on my @kickstarter. My album won’t change the world. We’ll do that together. In tandem. By being & staying engaged,

31.) By keeping awake, alert, aware, alive. By paying attention. & “standing up for others” (@sarahkendzior) “We’re Heading Into Dark Times…” 

32.) & not accepting “brutality and cruelty even if it is sanctioned.” @sarahkendzior & – oh hell, all of this (again):

33.) (“Be wide-eyed/slow moving/Be a friend to the lonely in all of your restless wandering –

34.)(…Are you waking up alive?/Baby be waking up alive/In this new morning…” -Song for BillCunningham, track 2, “Brave” (working title))

35.) In the meantime, my next 3 days will be spent working to fund this record, to do everything I can to find a way for it to come to life.

36.) &, oh yeah, feeding a couple cats & chasing the/a muse w/ my guitar in this big empty house. I’m glad for those sudden tears in Nov.’16

37.) They were a way in, somehow. In2 what exactly idk. can’t say. But it all led, in part, down this path/this way: http://kck.st/2phvIgA

38.) Thx 4 reading/listening. Onward. Be awake alert aware alive. Pay attention. Be brave. pax, JJB

(& 3 days left: http://kck.st/2phvIgA)

Re: A Labor of Love


“I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life, and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing that I wanted to do.”
– Georgia O’Keefe

“When you do something beautiful and nobody noticed, do not be sad. For the sun every morning is a beautiful spectacle yet most of the audience still sleeps.” – John Lennon


It’s May.

How are you? Where are you?

I’m in a hotel lobby in Golden, Colorado. A few feet down the corridor from where I’m seated, a high school prom is winding down, and in the other direction – in the hotel bar – erupt rowdy cheers and bursts of applause at random. While I typically prefer (and always have) hiding in the wings and away from the noise, I’m happy that – telling only by the sound of things – there’s celebration in the air this evening.

I’m in Colorado this week for work-related reasons. No, not the work of songwriting or music or art. I’m here, rather, for full-time, 9-5-job-related reasons. Some of you are familiar by now with this dance between two worlds – and some of you are engaged in this dance, too: You know all about juggling the work you do to (maybe) pay the bills and afford your art, and the art you do to…survive, to respond to a call (or a rhythm) you’ve heard from the time you were young, to embrace & respond to the deeply wounded world, and/or to feel alive and full of love and purpose during this swiftly-passing lifetime.

Tonight, I had dinner with a friend I hadn’t seen in close to fifteen years. When we made plans to meet up last week, we were clawing at our memories trying to recall when we last saw each other. Until a few hours ago, we’d convinced ourselves it was nearly 20 years ago, both remembering one specific turbulent winter when we crossed paths in Illinois in the late-90s. Out of the blue at dinner this evening, however, my friend remembered suddenly, “NO!”- no, it hadn’t been 20 years ago since we’d seen each other! We’d seen each other – remember? remember? – why, we’d seen each other in this century, after all! She then reminded me that we had seen The Innocence Mission during the brief time that we were both trying to be elegant bohemians in NYC (and I was failing that endeavor brilliantly), when our paths last overlapped – before life brought her here, and took me to Alaska. It then all came crashing in on me, too.

(Where do these memories hide anyway? Once she mentioned it, I was instantly there again.)

Of course: One evening, shortly into the new century, we went to see The Innocence Mission in a tiny basement lounge somewhere in NYC’s labyrinth. We then tumbled into extended detail of that show for her partner, who had never heard of the band. I remembered they performed the Velvet’s “I’ll Be Your Mirror” that evening – my friend remembered the way Karen Peris’s willowy voice proved transcendent in that tiny underground space, and how shy and reticent the trio appeared between songs that evening.

What is it about music that lodges “just so” in our memories? While I can recall for you a lengthy list of incredible books I’ve read in those 15 years, I’d be hard pressed to tell you what I remember or what stands out or proved transformative about them. While my friend and I forgot we were both in each other’s company at that show in this century, once we made the connection we recalled specific songs in the set, the curious room where we gathered, and the way Karen’s hair shielded her face as her voice lifted and carried us up and beyond the boundaries of NYC and to a place, a space that only music ever properly or passionately takes you…


Last night, a friend of 30 years texted me:

“I’ve known you since I was in 9th grade.
You’re the same.
You hand out music.
You give away books.
You write and encourage others to write.
NOTHING has changed…”

Of course, a few things have changed – there’s a lot of gray in my hair now, for example – but she’s also right in many ways. I’m still “guilty as charged” of all the above. And I also – telling by my scribbling during my time at a conference in Denver the past week for work –  still survive classes/seminars/lectures/conferences & office-work by scribbling away at lyrics & ideas for songs & stories. Ever since I was in grade school those scribbles proved the seeds for new songs, poems, or prose. Some people need “fidgets” to survive boredom or long periods seated at a desk or table listening to someone yammering. I’ve always needed a notebook & a pen. It’s never helped my grades, & the school’s progress reports often labeled me a daydreamer or a kid w/ his head in the clouds, but it was my North Star, the place where my heart and mind found home. And 30 years later there’s no sign this source, this habit, this impulse is ever gonna quit…So why even try to stop now? And why would I?

Shortly after puzzling with her over some challenges I’m facing with my Kickstarter campaign, I spotted an article with Cincinnati’s Over the Rhine that someone posted to Facebook. My love affair with Over the Rhine’s music extends even longer, just a few years further than my unending affection for The Innocence Mission’s.

Not long into the article, one half of the husband/wife duo – songwriter and musician Linford Detweiler – offered this gem: “Make your life’s work a labor of love. Make it about the work. Ask, ‘What must I do to make my life a work of art?'”

Without divulging many more details than I have, I’ll tell you that it sounded like he had been eavesdropping on the phone conversation between me and my friend in PA only moments earlier.

I can trust those sentences. I’ve thought about them all day. And I also feel like I can trust the person who has come to that kind of assessment re: how to live this life we’re given.


“He’s a boy – a dear boy/a daydreaming, a creekside walking boy/and he can barely hold it together./Given trees, given stones/given the clouds and the moon/and the sunlight filling his room…” – JJB, “Song for Bill Cunningham”

Some of you are aware that my “Brave” Kickstarter is unfolding, at least in funding, at a slower pace than the crowdsourcing effort for 2014’s *Hope, Alaska* effort. And that’s not to sound ungrateful or unnecessarily concerned. Still, on any given day, the worry that it might be “underperforming” has proven unsettling-to-mildly distressing. (You know artist types often distress easily, so take that with a grain of salt.) I know there aren’t guarantees in crowdsourcing. You’re informed of the risks from the beginning. I understand this.

And yet, my excitement about the new batch of songs, my love for the way the songs sound since we recorded the rhythm section sessions convinces me that I’ll try just about anything (within reason, says Dad JJB) to make sure this record gets made. If this Kickstarter doesn’t reach its goal, I’ll work in other ways to bring it to life. The songs as they stand now have reminded me all over again why I love songwriting. Watching songs come to life and mature into full-blown recorded material proves a wonder-filled process at every turn. That’s worth the risk of a Kickstarter campaign. Easily. It’s worth the failure, too.

And it’s worth every success and humiliation to “make of my life a work of art.”

So, I’ve come all this way this evening to say, first & foremost: Thanks to anyone who has supported this project. I believe that supporting an individual’s creative  undertakings proves the rare occasions that “thank you” can fall short of its desired impact. Faith in this recording project (and others) falls within the “Words Fail” category.

If you came along with me on the last crowdsourcing campaign, you know I have a tendency to write long. I’m supposed to hole up and write a novel one year (or 10) soon, but I keep following songs and melodies down shadowy paths…


In closing, I would request you consider only this for those of you who’ve already supported the effort:

We’re more than halfway through this Kickstarter. We have 12 days left. We’re 20%  funded. I’ve got my work cut out for me. I do have a barely-sketched-out notion to put off a new-used car for a couple years and to take out a loan to finish the record if this KS doesn’t meet its goal. However, I definitely want to honor the efforts of those who have already thrown full-hearted support behind this project, and to equally honor the work and efforts of the artists who’ve put faith in this campaign enough to aid in its undertaking to now by doing the best I can to see this KS succeed.

Maybe you’ve been able to hear the “John Prine” or “Eyes of Love” demos. If not, send word my way, and I’ll connect you with these.

We will also share a couple other “KS backer-exclusive” pieces until campaign’s end – 5/25 – too.

You’ve perhaps wearied of me blabbing about the project on FB, twitter, and/or Instagram. (You can escape, if necessary, from my “All Things JJB’s KS” on Snapchat – I’m not there.)

I wonder then, instead of my non-stop shameless self-promotion – and only if you’re inclined and can find a couple minutes within the next couple weeks – if you’d mind posting the link to this KS and saying something to your friends and/or social media networks about why you’ve supported it? And/Or, if social media’s not your thing – and I get that, trust me – maybe you can think of a couple friends who might be interested in supporting independent, “local” (by way of Anchorage, AK) music? This is the link you can share, however/whenever you choose: http://kck.st/2phvIgA

I was fortunate in recent years, with my first two albums, to be able to fund them from the near-excess of teaching opportunities afforded to me over and above my usual 9-5 job here. In the last couple years, a lot of my extra work has dried up (I won’t gab about the AK budget crisis here), and so I’ve dared myself to give this route a try and see where it leads.

However, in the event I have to resort to something just shy of miraculous and off the KS platform – or if at some point I do need to seek funds from other sources or must dig in for the long haul and commit to releasing this project a year or two from now, after the funds have been saved, then please note I’m more than happy to thank backers of this platform – goal or no goal – with a copy of the recording and merch items behind which you’ve thrown your support.

In the meantime, time to hit the pavement again. I know some of you are too busy to read lengthy blog posts, e-missives, etc. Maybe you even need to mark these writings Spam because you’re so busy right now and the messages are endless as it is. I understand. That’s ok. Believe me I get it.

Now we’ve all been here – in front of the screen here – too long. It’s spring outside. Things are in bloom everywhere I look. Get out there. Be in that. That’s where songs are born.

Take care,


KING SALMON, ALASKA – 2015: Cotton.

Like Brian Wilson Said (Two Stories/One Letter)

“I guess I just wasn’t made for these times.” – Brian Wilson

Hello. Good afternoon.

Two stories.


If you’re reading this, you already have some idea about how much music means to me. So, it’s a little hard to explain how much it further came to mean to me during the second half of 2016. For example, late last summer, one of our local papers liked my idea for an election-season music column, “Coping Skills,” and then again, immediately following the election – for the last few weeks of 2016 – a four-part column I called “Music for the Darkest Time of Year.” These pieces presented me with an opportunity to delight in something critically important to me in the midst of a rancorous and toxic election cycle. Each week, those articles somehow helped me feel steady (well, steady-ish) amidst choppy-to-raging waters. Shortly after writing a piece about Leonard Cohen in late-October  – after re-immersing myself in his catalogue for a few weeks – the songwriter passed away. I’m sure, of course, that some EKG reading of the soul would reveal that a number of us experienced a similar swell of feelings with that news – and if not with Cohen’s death, then with the news of other musicians who passed on last year. However, for me, news of Cohen’s death – and so soon after plunging again into his songs and writings – possessed a little extra punch; especially as it arrived so quickly on the heels of a presidential election campaign season that proved about as absolutely awful as one could be.

Then, a few weeks following Cohen’s passing, our small community here lost a dear friend to cancer – my Sam’s teacher since 2nd grade (since Kindergarten for a number of his classmates), Suzanne Drinen. There aren’t words to express and explain here now how that news arrived and impacted an already-challenging period in time.

There was, however, a moment I had in those weeks that you may relate with or be able to understand: I was preparing for an upcoming gig one evening a few nights after Suzanne passed away. It was an otherwise unremarkable scene – a common one in the days when I’m prepping for a show. In this case, I was popping a Neil Young album into my player as I surfed through my collection, looking for possible cover songs for the upcoming gig. It’s hard to convey the full import of how it went down now, but a few bars into one of those Neil Young songs, something snapped. I had that unmistakable experience any number of people have had with Neil’s work (or with another’s music) over the years: Something in that quiver in his vocal, along with the tone and the composition of the song I surfed into, washed into me and knocked me down for the count for a little while. It was as if years ago Neil had dialed into the culminating waves of grief and bewilderment I was right then juggling in my own life, and he knew I’d need a song in which to find shelter – one that both empathized with and related to the condition of my heart, and one that subsequently worked to heal and soothe it. Over the following days, I was in way deep, back into Neil’s work. Along with Leonard Cohen’s very early work, nothing else seemed to resonate or seemed so in tune with my inner-landscape right then in the thick of grief and the deep of dark winter in Alaska than the songs of those two artists.

A couple weeks later, during the winter holidays, I thought to gift a couple people (known Neil fans) with a couple different, favorite Neil Young albums.  

Regardless of where I was in my own life right then, I’m never going to forget the moment I handed one of Neil’s albums (on CD) to someone, who then waved it off and motioned to his laptop. He had recently subscribed to Apple Music, he said. He responded that, yeah, he could add another CD to his stacks of these crude, unlistened-to, antiquated relics. He could even import it onto his laptop. But why? At $10 a month he had access to not only all of Neil Young’s entire library, but virtually everybody else’s too.

I don’t mean to sound so clueless or out of touch. What I’m describing is not new. But I think it was compounded by the fact that this info was coming from a fellow musician. Regardless of what Neil’s music meant to me right then, the entire reality of the state of music in our age pounded through me that evening like a maxed-out sub-woofer in a way it had not yet done in all my years to now reading and hearing about Spotify, streaming, pirating, downloading, Pandora, etc.

So, in other words, at the low, low cost of $10 a month, apparently, I can have every single version of Bach’s Goldberg Variations, each of Neil Young’s songs, and all the different ways John Coltrane played “My Favorite Things.” Wow. I don’t even know how to begin to process that, let alone respond to it.

In that moment, I thought of one of the only pieces of Neil’s autobiography that I can still recall today. I remembered him making a case for album art, and describing at length the photography around one specific album of his. No one is more aware than him that the music-listening and -consuming landscape has been irrevocably altered in recent years, and I recall reveling in that small section how much the design, liner notes, and album art meant to him, and what a significant role that played in the listening experience of years ago. (I confess that I don’t remember much else about the book now.)

Still, that afternoon, I said nothing and only returned the waved-off Neil Young cd to my bag and still months later have not fully processed the implications of that moment or what it means for my own songwriting efforts, as well as my unabashed fandom for the entire experience of not just music, but albums. As in, photography, liner notes, album credits, etc.

As many of you know, I’m trying to finish my next record. Funds are trickling in at a snail’s pace, and I allow that the crowdsourcing effort could tank or “buy the farm.” This is the possibility built into every crowdsourcing effort, of course. So, for me and my sensibilities it’s made a lot more sense for me to think of this effort as putting together a literal, physical (albeit small) art exhibit – one that fits in your hands – than participating or trying to keep apace of current music industry trends and impulses.

Two nights ago, I received five CDs in the mail – albums by Simon and Garfunkel, Lou Reed, and the Velvet Underground. The total for these came to under $20. Amazon.com now refers to many classic albums as “Add-On Items” for your order.

If you want the equivalent of a digital or physical “Add-On Item” for your listening library and have a couple minutes, maybe you’d consider pitching anywhere between $1-$500+ to our efforts to finish my next record. There’s even an option there for keeping with trends and purchasing a digital copy. (http://kck.st/2phvIgA)

It’s certainly not a pragmatic or the most sensible investment in our digital times.

But I’m not above asking or hoping otherwise.


In February, a couple weeks after Trump took office, I opened the New York Times to this front-page headline: Popular Domestic Programs Face Ax Under First Trump Budget

The opening sentence of the piece read, “The White House budget office has drafted a hit list of programs that President Trump could eliminate to trim domestic spending, including longstanding conservative targets like the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, the Legal Services Corporation, AmeriCorps and the National Endowments for the Arts and the Humanities.”

On one hand, I wasn’t surprised to read this. I won’t explain why.

However, only days earlier, I had submitted for publication a short essay about my service years in Americorps beginning a couple months after graduating college (10/1995-12/1997). When I name-dropped the Student Conservation Association (with whom I served from 1995-1996) in my Leonard Cohen article last fall, it somehow caught the eyes and ears of an organization in DC, Voices for National Service, who were in the process of collecting narratives for a book-length publication. (The book, In the Service of Others – composed of stories and testimonials by individuals who have worked as national service volunteers for different organizations – was released in March.)

As I shared in my short essay, that single year I lived in a dry cabin five miles deep in the New Hampshire woods working for SCA and Americorps continues today to prove a watershed year in many ways – if not actually the most notable, “vocational” threshold among the many thresholds one passes through in a single lifetime.

For instance, after a few years writing lyrics and singing in a couple bands, I finally picked up a guitar that year in the woods and committed to learning to play so I could continue writing songs. If you own a guitar, living in the woods on $69 a week (after taxes), with the bare minimum belongings is good for that kind of endeavor.

Through that year of service, I also landed an internship at the state mental hospital, twenty miles from the state park where I lived. Part of our service year with SCA involved internships with other area non-profits, and mine included the state hospital gig, and another one at the New Hampshire Writers and Publishers Project, a non-profit serving the region’s literary community.

As I shared in an interview with a woman at the Voices for National Service a few weeks before the NYTimes article appeared, I landed in Alaska in 2003 to live and raise my kids within easy-to-reach wilderness areas. I work full-time for a mental health agency. Additionally, I supplement my income here by teaching Creative Writing classes at the University of Alaska and by recording, performing, and releasing music. So, I can draw a nearly straight line between my service year in the NH woods from 1995-96 to my vocation(s) here in Alaska and where my life finds me today.

So, while I’m hardly surprised that a wealthy NYC real-estate magnate recently handed the most powerful position on earth would find what I find important expendable enough to “ax,” it was still hard not to take that opening sentence personally. I understand that what I’ve done and do today doesn’t boast outcomes that I could expect any business person of the current President’s standing to understand. In this way, he’s only the manifestation of everyone who’s ever challenged my undertakings, or questioned or maligned these: whether making music, writing columns that afford me my wifi bill (but feel like a life preserver), teaching a subject I love as an adjunct professor to pay for after- school childcare, and then more as I remain employed in “the humanities.”

I’ll allow, maybe, that it’s high time I grew up. Yes, on one hand, I’m long overdue.

But I’m also very, very stubborn. And the songs don’t just go away because you…gotta “grow up.”

Anyway, my entire “career path” – the combined pile of my vocations and pursuits – adds up to me being entirely invisible, a Nobody to, at the very least,  the current administration’s budget office. So. There’s that, too.

(On one hand, I might have known I was in trouble when I fell so hard in love with Emily Dickinson and Walt Whitman my sophomore year of college…(“I’m Nobody! Who are you?/Are you – Nobody – too?”))

I know we’re raising families and trying to put food on the table and attempting to stay employed and to keep our businesses alive and to pay off medical expenses and puzzling over that term “Retirement” and wondering what it means to save for it when there’s no money left after the bills. I know, too, that there aren’t many in a position of power who will ever understand or care about our dearest-held fools errands or what a single album means to us in a lifetime, or what it can possibly mean that we find a sense of purpose and calling in the wounded world where and when we do. I know, too, that a lot of us are donating extra funds to organizations working to improve the lives of people in dire, dire need of help. Many of you are my heroes for these sacrifices you’re all making.

And I know I’ve gone longer here than anyone has time to give to anything right now, too.

Still, in closing, some Jon Nobody’s simply asking if you’d consider either donating to the crowdsourcing campaign I recently launched to fund the next record, or to invite any music fans you know to perhaps contribute some tiny amount to it. If, say, you enjoyed any part of “Hope, Alaska” and can think of anyone who might enjoy a set of Americana, indie tunes currently in process, please direct them this way: http://kck.st/2phvIgA

If you know someone who’d rather pitch cash at music than at Starbucks’s new Unicorn frappe, maybe you can direct them to that link, too.

I’ve recently seen firsthand that it makes less practical, rational sense than ever in my lifetime to make and release music. Especially “physical” music – for the tactile of us….

So maybe it’s just like Brian Wilson said…

Thanks for reading.

I hope this finds you well and taking care.

By the way: Give a call. Pay a visit. Drop by. I’ll buy us coffee, or a couple rounds. Or come over. We’ll make food, build the friendship fire. Sometimes, when the kids are at their mom’s, it get a little too quiet. Would love to catch up.



I’ve recruited bassist, Silas Hoffman, and drummer, Cameron Cartland, for this record. We recently recorded all the rhythm section’s work for this album and I couldn’t be happier with the results…

Launch: New Album, New (30 Day) Kickstarter – Tuesday, April 25

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA – 2017: Musician Jonathan J. Bower.


It’s been a while, and only because it has been such a long while, it’s a little hard to know how and where to begin this correspondence.

What’s new with you? It seems a lot’s happened since Bower’s “Hope, Alaska” came out…A lot that hangs heavy in the air in recent months, for sure, but that I doubt I would skillfully know how to address or discuss here of all places.

I will share that of the books I’ve read so far this year, even as recently as last night, and of the songs and albums I’ve listened to over the last few days, I’ve also returned with some  frequency to these lines from the poet, Robert Wrigley:

“Hope is a thing with sleek skin. A trout…There is no future and it’s coming.”

I can’t remember why a friend shared that with me a few years ago, but it still sticks. And since this correspondence is going to be too long anyway, I won’t go on and on about what those lines mean to me here and why it seems to make all the sense in the world to me in a time that not much going on in the world makes any sense to me at all.


Wrigley’s words worked one over on me a few years ago, too, and enough so – in just such a way – that I threw those lines into the “Hope, Alaska” liner notes as a kind of footnote or “P.P.S.” at the last minute – like, right before we sent the album art off to the printers. I can remember pulling a quote about Phillip Seymour Hoffman at the eleventh hour and asking Bradley to make this last edit and worrying that – after everything I’d already put him through – he would reach through my computer screen and lift me off the ground by my throat like Darth Vader.

And in recent days – and in these strange times we find ourselves in – I feel like I’ve come a kind-of full circle. The songs on “Hope” were in part meant to push and pull on that buggering term and here I find myself in 2017 pushing and pulling and wondering about it more than ever.

Meanwhile, there’s this other thing going on, too. There’s new music. And some of you know about this already.

Three years since the last Kickstarter, I must admit that I’m still surprised I survived the crowdsourcing effort. I’m not saying I’m surprised we met our fundraising goal – though the moment we did that had its own shock and disbelief built into it, too.

But I’m more shocked I survived all the “shameless self-promotion” and the “buy my stuff” and “here’s my Bower face again” thing that Kickstarter’s all about. If there were any reason I’d ever pine for major label support today, it’d only be because someone not me would be paid to handle the promotion side of this machine so that I could just be my “INFJ”-self (see Meyers-Briggs) and mind my beeswax and write and record and play songs and that’s it.

So why I’d leap into the fray all over again is – on one hand – beyond me.

However, in other ways, it’s also a no-brainer, too. I met some incredible people through that crowdsourcing stint, then played in some remarkable locations, and – because the Kickstarter campaign brought the album to life – I have watched the “Hope, Alaska” album and merchandise travel to locations around the world that I haven’t. And that strikes me as pretty amazing. And – depending on the day – it can prove a little annoying, too. “Hope, Alaska” has been to Ireland and Paris and I haven’t yet. I’m jealous of my own CD. How is that even possible?

I also believe these new songs are right and good enough to warrant getting out of my own self-conscious way again and giving Kickstarter another whirl. So, we’re going to do that: We launch next Tuesday, April 25. If you liked the “Hope, Alaska” album enough to think it could be worth investing in the next record, then mark your calendars – or enter it in your phone or iCal or whatever we all do to remember stuff now.

Last summer, I spent a lot of the season house sitting and during this period, without any intention of doing so, I found myself flush in a songwriting period for the first time in a couple years.

One night, after being at it and in the songs for a lot of the day, I went out and wandered around town for fresh air and to maybe feel human around other humans for a few minutes, and at some point in the evening landed in a bar and ran into a couple people I knew. A few of us were shooting the bull for a couple minutes when one of these guys asked me, “Hey, what ever happened to your music thing anyway? Why aren’t you writing songs anymore?”

I can’t remember how or if I even responded to him; maybe I fainted on the spot, or turned and ran away like Forrest Gump, or maybe I leapt on him like a jungle cat – but whatever I did I woke up in my friend’s house the next day – so at least I made it back in one piece and continued working on the songs.

And in the months since that time, we found there are enough songs to warrant a new album. It’s untitled, but the working title, for now at least, is “Brave.” (We’ll share the story of that song/title soon enough, via other means.)

The only way I’ll know how to swear by and represent these songs to you and anyone else, however, is to share them with people, but – like the last record – the only way I’ll be able to do that is to leap into the void and engage in another crowdsourcing effort.

So, again, next Tuesday, April 25th, the new Kickstarter for this record will launch and go live. Forecasting recording production, post-production, and replication costs, it looks like I’ll be working to raise close to twice what I raised for the “Hope, Alaska” Kickstarter. (The “Hope” Kickstarter covered replication and some minor post-production costs.)

The album will feature Evan Phillips at the production helm again, as well as a couple returning musicians and a batch of new ones, too. Evan and I started pre-production tasks for the album in the new year, and even in their currently rough, skeletal form, we’ve become pretty excited about where this project will go once it’s underway. I’m entirely comfortable sharing that these feel like some of the “best” (most gratifying?) songs I’ve written since returning to songwriting in 2012.

Perhaps more than requesting that those of you who backed my last project get behind this one, I would doubly appreciate if you would consider sharing word of this project with anyone you think might enjoy the kind of sounds, themes, and songs we put together for “Hope, Alaska.” While this record won’t sound exactly like “Hope” it will certainly bear some clear similarities and hardly prove a stylistic departure a la…well, like recent Bon Iver, for example.

Since I am needing to raise a bit more than I did in the last campaign, I’m going to have to reach a little further out than I did with the last one, and it’d mean the world if you knew anyone with whom you could share this project or introduce to the music.

We have some great incentives and “backer rewards” this time around, and we’ll feature weekly updates, including backer-only video performances and behind-the-scenes glimpses of the project in progress. Backers will also get an early look at Brian Adams’s remarkable album art for this project, an early-bird glimpse of the track listing and more, and a digital copy of the record ahead of the release date.

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA – 2017: Musician Jonathan J. Bower.

Thanks for reading all this if you made it this far. Oh, and if you want the absolute first, earliest early-bird glimpse of the record, then read the P.S. below my sign-off. In the meantime, I’ll probably shoot another message Tuesday, when the Kickstarter goes live. And that message will be crazy short (I PROMISE) in part because this one is so crazy long. And once the campaign goes live I’ll be like a man with his hair on fire for 30 days straight anyway and probably only speak/write in monosyllables or emojis.

Ok. Be well and take good care,

Jonathan Bower

P.S. For about five minutes late last year, I thought that I’d title the new record “Tribute” and I toyed with this track listing of alternate titles. With the exception of “John Prine” (& never minding tracks 3 & 9, written before last summer) none of these are the actual titles of the songs on the new record, but were – at one time or another – working (alternate) titles, or seeds, that helped me stay a course while writing them:


1. Song for Leonard Cohen

2.  Song for Matt/Bill Cunningham

3.  ***

4. Song for Trace

5. Song for Cameron

6. Song for Sam

7.  John Prine

8. After Harvey James

9.  ***

10.  Song for ?

Saturday, January 21st, 2017 Anchorage, AK


And Wow.

I’ve never marched in white out conditions with a couple thousand people before.

It was beautiful.

A sight to see. Here are some pictures & a few words:

In the spirit of the Quakers, who were on my mind a lot on Saturday – and who are known to concur with another by saying, “This Friend speaks my mind” – following Saturday’s events, “This scene speaks my mind.” My peace of mind. For now. And onward we go.



The Week in Waxwings

Well, a more accurate title would maybe be “Two Weeks of Waxwings.” These pictures were snapped over the course of a couple weeks when my day’s activities crossed paths with what at first glance would appear the random goings-on of waxwings in Anchorage, Alaska.

Over the last five years, I’ve come to adore these birds and to anticipate the unpredictable moments that our paths cross.

Perhaps it’s what Mark Whitmer – in The Sibley Guide to Bird Life and Behavior – calls “the stately, upright posture” of waxwings. When they descend and then perch in a tree, they appear almost distinguished, proud – and entirely oblivious to the cold temperatures this time of year. They’re good role models for helping you endure, with character and dignity, the bitterest cold of the long winter months.

And maybe it’s also, in part, their head crest, which on one hand immediately – for me, still a novice birder – distinguishes them from other flocking birds, and that also just looks really cool in profile or silhouette.

I don’t know. If I knew exactly what it is about them that consumes me this time of year, and how to describe it, I would. Maybe it’s mostly that I have an associative affection for the word “bohemian” – a word that too accurately describes my life and the choices I’ve made in adulthood – and so I’m narcissistically drawn to them as a sort of totem or spirit animal/bird.

All I can say here is that when I hear them approaching or within earshot, in this season – deep winter in southern Alaska, from December through February – something goes to rest, goes light and easy inside me. In the moment I hear the waxwings – before I see them or even know where to spot them – whatever weighs on me or is taking up too much space in my mind disappears. I immediately start scanning the sky in the direction I hear their song.

And maybe that’s another part of what attracts me to them: I know their song. Even from a considerable distance, I can hear them and know that waxwings are close. I can only distinguish between a couple other kinds of birds by ear, from far away – without seeing them. They’re one of the few bird species that I immediately recognize by sound.

Then, once they’re within view, the real show begins. It’s this part that causes me to drop everything – whether my activity, or my “troubling mind.” Such as when, a few days ago, while running a work errand, my head teeming with worry about one or another thing, I saw a flock of them twisting and sharply turning  through the air, diving and racing around the sky before finally descending together on a few nearby trees. I pulled over, put my hazard lights on and got out of the car. I lost track of how long I watched them take turns diving from the top of one tree down to a nearby mountain ash – where they consume the berries – and then fly back to the higher branches, only – I imagine – when they’ve had their fill. I lost track of how long I watched them, but when I returned to my car and drove away, I also lost track of everything that had been consuming my “trifling mind” until our paths crossed.

A friend of mine texted me a couple weeks ago telling me she was zoning out on videos of starling murmurations, and she encouraged me to do the same. Curiously enough, I had a little earlier been reading about the science of starling murmurations at a website and had just watched a video that was included with the article.

While never, in my experience, as dramatic as witnessing a starling murmuration in real time, when you watch waxwings in flight you’re aware that a flock’s motions and activity possesses its own science, too, and – like the starlings – equally proves mysterious and musical to witness as it happens.

Maybe, if a starling murmuration is an orchestra performing a symphony by Mozart or Beethoven, then watching waxwings flock and fly and descend and feed is like witnessing an acclaimed jazz trio or quartet at the peak of their powers in an intimate venue.

Lastly, I appreciate the “shy” nature of these – and many, many other – birds. I’m not a nature photographer. I like the way they don’t let me step too close before swiftly darting away, out of sight. I admire that these regal, beautifully-coiffed birds – like others, of course – are not prima donnas. They are beautiful singers – and fliers – and exceptionally dressed, and yet they don’t trust a close up encounter. And don’t need one the way I do. The way I crave one.

I don’t have fancy lenses that cost the maintenance needed on my car, or the price of a good guitar. I’m occasionally wracked with envy and wishing I did. I am, it’s obvious, as much a novice photographer as I am a bird watcher. More than the perfect, most beautiful or postcard-perfect shot of wildlife or nature in action, I’m more interested in (and snap pictures of)…”moments” as I experience them. These are often inexplicable or intended (/staged) photographs. I yank out my phone (in most cases) and play with lighting as quickly as I can, and look for form in the moment. Sometimes it “works” enough to my satisfaction. Or, to put it crudely, sometimes this process affords me a few photos that, for me, “don’t suck.” (A lot of them, however, do, and I do trash a lot of the pictures I take.)

Anyway. I stopped looking at social media and the major newspapers and media and magazines last week, beginning 1/19. I found that without my feeds and media at an absentminded, automaton click away, I was scanning the sky a lot more. Looking somewhere, anywhere. For something. Not just for anything.

I think I was looking for waxwings.


A (Belated) New Year’s…Affection/Desire

You have traveled too fast over false ground;
Now your soul has come to take you back.

Take refuge in your senses, open up
To all the small miracles you rushed through…

…Imitate the habit of twilight,
Taking time to open the well of color
That fostered the brightness of day.

– John O’Donohue

Happy New Year – belatedly, I know.

How did you welcome 2017?

I wasn’t sure how to ring in the New Year this year at all. On one hand, since my boys and I were traveling in the air for a lot of 12/30 – returning to AK from PA – I hadn’t even thought about it. Add to this, jet lag from returning to AK at 3am New Year’s Eve morning, and the fog of missing family and friends back East following our return, and I was plumb oblivious about how to proceed towards the new year.

Also, the last quarter of 2016 felt, for me, like it was all motion all the time, possessing very little conscious pause or rest. A lot of this was my own doing, I’ll allow – I took on a bit of extra work in the fall and winter – and then some of it was just the furious pace and energy (and stress) that seemed to characterize the closing weeks of the U.S. Presidential election season.

Anyway, I stopped by the home of friends for a little while that evening, then stopped by my favorite Anchorage hideaway bar and asked Mandy to give me that rye on the rocks that she’s always recommending. At 11:55pm, the bar staff graced us all with free champagne. Sometimes you want to be where nobody knows your name (except for that one bartender), and that proved the best, right way to ease into the year ahead, bewildered uncertainty and all.

In the soft, blushing light of New Year’s Day morning, I woke up feeling that, in hindsight, I may have spent at least half of 2016 holding my breath, too. And for a few different reasons – not any single specific one I can name right off the bat, though I can think of a few circumstances in the past year that loaned to that feeling.

But, despite these feelings and thoughts, I also woke up on New Year’s Day feeling absolutely “speechless.” Wordless. And I’ve felt that way for a lot of the week since then, too.

As a writer, not knowing what to say, the feeling of maybe not having anything to put down in writing can feel briefly disorienting, and sometimes downright unhinging. Especially when you’ve grown accustomed to drafting your thoughts on a regular basis. I was, for example, writing a weekly column for the paper here from September through the holidays. I’ve been back in the writing groove for a while, so – what gives? Pray tell, how this sudden vacancy?

And yet, I wasn’t distressed this time around. Just a little tired, really.

And quiet.  Rather, I only felt quiet – and by that I meant the “presence” of quiet, let’s say – and in its arrival, or in the awareness of it that morning, I wanted only to rest in that. And have spent as much of the week since New Year’s Day giving over to that impulse when I’m able.

In this way, I wondered if I had unknowingly come to occupy the curious spaces the Irish poet and philosopher John O’Donohue wrote about some years ago in his poem, “For One Who Is Exhausted” (which I’ve included here, below the photo essay). Rereading that, yes, I have to confess – a big part of me easily identified with the circumstances described in the poem; it’s not a big leap to recognize myself occupying the emotional landscape he writes about there. In some obvious, simple ways, some of what I’m feeling and experiencing can be chalked up to little more than plain, ordinary exhaustion.

Meanwhile, there was the year ahead to consider and I admit, too, that I’ve had little idea about how to embrace it, lean into or welcome it. Not for any reason other than perhaps – putting the looming matter of our country’s president-elect aside for a moment – my own poor planning, as well as a soft-spoken desire to honor my time here – in the world, in writing, in work, in play, in parenting – in a different way. Or, not different, so much as “tweaked,” or “slightly altered”…the way you might alter or hem a dress or favorite pair of pants.

Though how exactly, I can’t say just now…I’m “speechless” right now, after all. (He said, a few hundred words into a post…)

On New Year’s Day, however, a friend I hadn’t seen in a few weeks stopped over for coffee. We sat on the couch and caught up on our lives and at some point I noticed the day’s bright sunlight splashing across the coffee table in front of us. Not too long later, I noticed that same sun casting across my friend’s lap, and then – not long after that – it was reaching along her shoulder and chest and then soon her face was blinded in it.

It passed, too, of course. The sunlight soon moved across her face, and then along the edge of the couch on her right side, and across the rest of the room as it traveled its path across the sky outside.

I didn’t stop our conversation to note as much, but watching the sun proceed along its course through that room and along the sky seemed to offer me the closest thing I have to resembling a New Year’s resolution for the coming year.

I won’t even call it a resolution, actually.

This year, I want to note and find light. In the spaces. Wherever it is and wherever they are. (The light and spaces.)

And so less wordy, verbose posting (I’ll slip off this part of the intention frequently no doubt, I’m sure). Less adding fuel to our collective anxieties, nerves, and caution. Less Facebook and twitter, if any, for example. Less clutter.

More light. More spaces.

More songs. Music. More poems. More white space on the page.

It took seeing the sun travel across this friend during our conversation to find or discover this well of desire. After she left, I felt suddenly giddy (Scrooge, revived, human again) and infused with affection. I looked at pics I’d snapped the night before and earlier in the morning. I grabbed my cameras and jumped in the car – it was nearly sunset – and I drove over to the coastal trail for a New Year’s Day walk in the frigid winter air at sundown.

I wanted only to be in that naked, rich silence, and to catch a little more light. And that’s all I still want. And I think, I trust, that’s all I’ll continue to desire for now, too…

Happy New Year.

A Blessing for One Who is Exhausted

When the rhythm of the heart becomes hectic,
Time takes on the strain until it breaks;
Then all the unattended stress falls in
On the mind like an endless, increasing weight,

The light in the mind becomes dim.
Things you could take in your stride before
Now become laborsome events of will.

Weariness invades your spirit.
Gravity begins falling inside you,
Dragging down every bone.

The tide you never valued has gone out.
And you are marooned on unsure ground.
Something within you has closed down;
And you cannot push yourself back to life.

You have been forced to enter empty time.
The desire that drove you has relinquished.
There is nothing else to do now but rest
And patiently learn to receive the self
You have forsaken for the race of days.

At first your thinking will darken
And sadness take over like listless weather.
The flow of unwept tears will frighten you.

You have traveled too fast over false ground;
Now your soul has come to take you back.

Take refuge in your senses, open up
To all the small miracles you rushed through.

Become inclined to watch the way of rain
When it falls slow and free.

Imitate the habit of twilight,
Taking time to open the well of color
That fostered the brightness of day.

Draw alongside the silence of stone
Until its calmness can claim you.
Be excessively gentle with yourself.

Stay clear of those vexed in spirit.
Learn to linger around someone of ease
Who feels they have all the time in the world.

Gradually, you will return to yourself,
Having learned a new respect for your heart
And the joy that dwells far within slow time.

–John O’Donohue

Songs for the Darkest Time of Year, Vol. 4

I cried when I wrote this
I’ll always remember
The worst kind of lonely
Is alone in December.
– “Here It Is,” Over the Rhine

I don’t mean to hate December
It’s meant to be the happy time of year
– Merle Haggard

This time last year, while running errands around town with my boys, my 8-year-old, Matt, shouted from the backseat and above the music on the stereo, “Pop? Does Over the Rhine not like Christmas?”

The most recent of the Cincinnati duo’s three Christmas albums was playing–2014’s Blood Oranges in the Snow–and the song that sparked his question, “My Father’s Body,” was a haunting, melancholy reflection on the loss of a parent.

While I’ve never, over the course of the band’s three Christmas records in twenty years, felt that the husband/wife ensemble dislikes Christmas, I do think my son posed the matter nagging him in the only way he could frame it right then. As a tuned-in listener–but a boy entirely beholden to an American childhood’s manic thrill and wonder towards this holiday–you’d be forgiven for hearing a band singing about Christmas in minor chords and thinking that they missed the memo about cheer, joy and all that jazz.

Wait, what? Acknowledging, singing about grief in the season of making merry and bright? Quick, someone pop Elf into the DVD player. Someone hand that boy a tree-shaped cookie.

Or maybe that’s what any sane parent would do. That afternoon, however, I tried to casually inform my youngest that while, yeah, Christmas is fun for many kids and families, sometimes it’s also a sad time for people, too. He seemed surprised by this, as I would have been at his age. And that’s when I shared with him that one of the saddest days of my life was the Christmas Eve, a long time ago, when I attended the funeral for a murdered relative.

After I shared that, I wanted a few tree-shaped cookies, too. For both of us.

I forgot about last winter’s interaction until a couple weeks ago, not long after the start of a new holiday season. That afternoon, I popped OTR’s 2006 holiday collection, Snow Angels, into the car stereo.

I don’t know where my head went after the album started, but not long into it, I noticed my 12-year-old, Sam, seated next to me in the front of the car, muttering and repeating to himself, “Yup…Uh-huh…Yeah…Yup…”

I assumed he was talking to me and that I’d spaced out, unaware he’d started a conversation. I pushed to the surface and asked, “Huh? What’s that?”  

Sam nodded towards the stereo, “I’m listening to the song.”

He turned the knob, rewinding the second track, “Darlin,” and returned it to the start of the first verse:

So it’s been a long year –

“Yeah,” he nodded.

Every new day brings one more tear –

“Yup,” Sam agreed, which is when my heart plunged for the umpteenth time in two weeks.

Till there’s nothing left to cry.

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled, and then looked at me, “See,” he asked, “Ms. Drinen died, and then Beckett,” (his best friend’s dog) “and it feels like there’s nothing left to cry…”

A knot caught in my throat and my eyes welled up with tears and now it was me who wanted to avoid going to those places right then. And so I turned the volume down and we again worked to pull it all together.

A couple weeks earlier, our little Waldorf-inspired ASD school, Winterberry Charter, lost a cherished community member and teacher. It’s proven a deeply-felt loss for Sam, his classmates and a number of the parents of the kids in his class. She had become a good friend to many of us. Some of Sam’s classmates had been her students from Kindergarten until her official resignation last year, when she left her position to attend to her health.  

On one hand, we’ve been reminded in the days since her death that she cast a wide, rich light on not only our school community, but throughout Anchorage as well. Reflecting on her life in this way has admittedly loaned a softer-than-usual tenderness to the holiday that might otherwise elude me if I were on auto-pilot and robotically ordering gifts on amazon, or anxiously hunting for specific Lego sets all over town. Which is not to at all suggest any of this has been worth the weight.

In this particular holiday season, songs about burying a loved one in winter or surveying the year and recognizing it’s been harder than we could have foreseen sound entirely more true and resonant of our lives than all the triumphant choruses of angels casting joy to the world or peace on earth.

And it’s not as though Over the Rhine represent the only artists undertaking a more thorough, full-hearted accounting of the Christmas season.

Merle Haggard, Lyle Lovett and John Prine, among others, have penned notable reflections on the holiday from the point of view of narrators caught in a vacant and stark no-man’s land. Their stories emerge from a limbo between the manufactured joy and requisite excitement of the commercialized Christmas holiday, contrasting with the stark reality of the challenging situations in which their characters find themselves.

John Prine – Christmas In Prison

Over the Rhine – If We Make It Through December (by Merle Haggard)

In that spirit, while it’s hardly a Christmas song, this holiday season I’ve found myself returning frequently to Jose Gonzalez’s “Stay Alive,” a song found on the soundtrack for 2013’s The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.

Jose Gonzalez – Stay Alive

In the week that Sam’s teacher passed away, a coworker and I were scheduled to deliver a two-day, Youth Mental Health First Aid (YMHFA) training at the mental health agency where we work. While we already offer the class at our place of employment a few times each year, we had weeks earlier been approached by The National Council of Behavioral Health in D.C. about participating in a nationwide effort to bring the training to states featuring the highest suicide rates. They asked if my coworker and I would add a class to our December schedules as part of a national effort to increase suicide awareness in at-risk communities.

Over the space of two days, YMHFA trains participants to become equipped to respond to youths experiencing a variety of mental health crises, with an increased emphasis on attending to individuals at risk for suicide or self-harming behaviors.

I’m well acquainted with the bullet points of our PowerPoint presentation by now and I know most of the case study scenarios, as well as the goals of each group exercise inside out.

I know, for instance, that most major holidays, and the darker time of year here specifically, prove a challenge for people at risk of suicide and other mental health issues. I know that regions in the northern climes, at latitudes similar to where Alaska is situated on the map, see dramatic spikes in substance abuse, suicide and depression compared with other regions on the globe.

I know all of this after many years in the mental health field and by my immersion in this and other training curriculums. And I have delivered the training enough times by now that I know at which point in the training I’m going to share the story of a suicide intervention I took part in a couple Decembers ago in Anchorage.

But even knowing this story was coming in the training that week–never mind having lived it–nothing could stop the sudden surge of emotions that rocketed to the surface when I commenced with it in front of our trainees in this particular week. I’d never experienced, in my years teaching or leading trainings, a moment where the weight of personal matters flooded in to overwhelm and unhinge my ability to manage myself in a class. And, in no time, I felt I’d triggered a rippling groundswell inside.

I offered the group a few extra breaks over those two days, though only so I could remove to the bathroom or my office to compose myself, to breathe off mounting overwhelm and collect my wits. The impact of one noticeable loss earlier in the week seemed to be calling to life other felt losses and crises during this season–Ghosts of Christmases past, if you will.

I texted and emailed my co-trainer out of sight of the training a couple times during the breaks, worried that I was proving as out of it at the front of the room as I felt inside. She knew about our school and family’s loss days earlier and conveyed her full understanding and expressed concern that our roles as trainers leave little if any room for attending to the emotions or feelings that our material might sometimes call to the surface for us.

I found something unexpectedly comforting and reassuring those two days then, darting home in the swiftly darkening December afternoons and ducking any mention of Christmas and holiday cheer and, in this case, listening to Jose Gonzalez wearily murmur, “I will stay with you tonight” in “Stay Alive.” In any other songwriter’s catalogue, that would sound like an invitation to bed down for an unforgettable night of carnal bliss. However, in Gonzalez’s hands, it’s an effort to insure a loved one knows he or she’s not alone; a genuine concern that the person in his care quite literally stays alive.

Similarly, I rediscovered in Neil Young’s voice a thread of pathos and an undeniable well of melancholy that I had not considered or encountered in a long time, which proved quietly consoling late into those evenings after the boys went to sleep.

Neil Young – Star of Bethlehem

Over the Rhine’s Linford Detweiler has shared that when he first heard lead singer, Karin Bergquist’s voice–before they were a couple, and when he and a couple friends were starting a band in the late 1980’s–he noticed that “Karin sang from the place where her pain lived.” The space she went to, the emotional landscape that she could convey in song demanded he also strive to achieve a similar legitimacy and authenticity in his songwriting efforts. “I came to believe that if she was willing to be that emotionally honest and vulnerable, maybe I had the permission to tell the truth as well.”

“Songs,” he added–and it cannot be overstated–“are safe containers for pain.”

Is there any other way to honor and be true to the spirit of your grief than to be present and grieve when you’re grief-stricken? No matter where in the calendar or the music trends that it finds you?

Doing so, of course, is not the least bit entertaining. It’s certainly not fashionable. Lord knows I’d prefer to revel in multiple romps with Buddy the Elf this time of year, to watch Jimmy Stewart learn life’s most valuable lessons from his guardian angel. However, this December I’m again reminded that it’s important to afford time in the less glamorous, more shadowy and vulnerable places when our hearts or circumstances beckon us there.

In a season where every place of commerce blares and demands, “Joy to the World,” “Deck the Halls” and “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” I’m grateful this year for a wealth of alternatives–songs for the rest of us limping or staggering through the season. I’ve no idea what state of mind or heart these songs have found you in this year. For me, these selections serve as dimly lit side streets away from the hustle and bustle and the glare of the bright lights flooding main street. In these spaces, you might feel terrified, sad and alone, but–take heart–you’re in good, reliable and undeniable company.

Take care, be well, and keep the good songs close in 2017.

Songs for the Darkest Time of Year, Vol. 3

A couple of nights ago, I returned to the gym for the first time since the election. The last time I went was November 2, the night of Game 7 of the World Series. I thought I’d be able to avoid election mayhem on all the televisions lining the wall and park myself in front of a TV showing the Indians/Cubs game. No such luck.

That night, I wandered up and down the line of treadmills, stationary bikes, and elliptical machines for a TV airing the game—the game in which the Cubs would, as we know, go onto break their 108 year-old curse—and not one TV featured it on screen.

A few aired college football, food shows and network dramas. Meanwhile, the overwhelming rest, of course, aired non-stop election coverage. So, I resolved to cut my run in half and then head somewhere that would be airing the game.

I stepped on a treadmill and on the screen ahead of me CNN featured a frail, elderly, razor-thin African-American woman, under which ran a headline indicating that this 100-year-old woman might not have been legally registered to vote in the election. I  stood still on the treadmill and watched the closed-captioning roll across the screen, telling the story of the controversy surrounding this limp, ghost of a woman.

I walked off the motionless treadmill back to the locker room, dressed, drove to the Blue Fox and watched the Cubs game and drank IPAs. It was the right decision.

Fast-forward to a of couple nights ago. I knew the TVs would be buzzing with all the ways Trump’s been taking up oxygen since November 9. So, I brought a couple magazines and loaded my iPod with podcasts in hopes they’d distract me from the TVs.

But then, approaching the treadmill, I saw the script for Star Wars: A New Hope receding into deep space on one of the televisions. I’d worried for nothing. I could run and lose myself in Star Wars for the 973rd time in 40 years.

And, for a time, that was just what the doctor ordered. Then, the TV next to the one airing Star Wars continued a program returning from a commercial break. It was a retrospective on Obama’s presidency airing on CNN. It opened with the Sandy Hook shooting of 12/12. Following select footage of the scene that day at Sandy Hook, the screen showed the President standing backstage in the White House briefing room.

I had never seen this footage before. I had seen his speech to the press—from the podium on the other side of the curtain on which he stood here—and perhaps you saw that speech, too: Maybe you recall the President losing his composure as he tried to inform a White House press briefing room full of reporters that 20 children had just been fatally shot by a gunman in Connecticut.

What I’d never seen—and saw now for the first time—was that he wasn’t holding it together in the moments before he walked to the podium either. Before someone cast the curtain aside so he could proceed to the podium, the President stood visibly shaken. He wiped tears away, and in one swift moment that curtain was swept open and it was show time; he inhaled then strode through the opening into the press briefing room.

On the TV in front of me, a farm boy was stumbling into the galactic journey—and myth—of a lifetime. Meanwhile, on that other TV—the one at an angle from me—I knew I was witnessing something more powerful than a Death Star, an army of Stormtroopers, or a cache of laser blasters. A true show of strength: A leader capable of empathy; a man shattered by the circumstances his fellow citizens were facing, who was unafraid to go to a vulnerable place in a dark moment, to risk connecting on a human level with those thrown into the deepest well of pain imaginable.

I knew, too, again, that I was—we were—encountering something in President Obama that I can never expect to witness or experience with the current President-elect. He isn’t even the President yet, and I’m already convinced of this.

And that both saddens and deeply concerns me. Though I’ll pray with everything in my being that he proves me wrong.

12/17/12 – The Decemberists

Shortly following its release, I learned that “12/17/12”—the track referencing the title of the band’s 2015 What a Terrible World, What a Beautiful World—served as a short meditation on the Sandy Hook shooting. However, I only recently learned that Colin Meloy penned his plaintive rumination in response to Obama’s address to the nation following the incident.

It’s hardly fashionable to note how truly challenging this time of year is for a lot of people, but even the song’s title plants the unspoken, unmentionable seed that is another lived truth for many people this season.

Many in my parents’ generation can tell me where they were when Kennedy was assassinated. When I first learned of the Sandy Hook shooting, I was, strangely enough, preparing to teach a CPR/First Aid class.

And did every parent across the country want to drop everything that morning and race to their kids’ schools and scoop them up and draw them close?

Colin Meloy assures me here that I wasn’t the only one.

Scud Mountain Boys – A Ride

“It was winter of ‘85. It was Christmas outside. At 1a.m. my phone’s awake. All f***** up, you called me for a ride … ”

The New Mendicants – A Very Sorry Christmas

When I first heard Joe Pernice in the mid-1990s, he was fronting a little-known outfit out of New England, the Scud Mountain Boys. Their Sub-Pop release, the lo-fi, acoustic and ambient, quaalude-infused, Massachusetts, remains one of my desert-island albums, though that lengthier discussion belongs to another day.

One reason, however, is that there’s no immediate base of comparison or point of reference for the record. What or who did they sound like? They sounded like the haunted and hazy musings of a stoned, downer, entitled brat who realized that his fun, or maybe his life, was over before the Zoloft started working. They sounded like the song you’d moan in the first 15 minutes of a blistering hangover, at the moment the full import of the previous evening’s regrets surged to the front of your throbbing head.

For example, as Pernice’s narrator looks back on that long ago Christmas in “A Ride,” he’s hard-pressed to understand—much less explain—his behavior toward the girl who reached out to him for help one inglorious evening. He made the drive, retrieved her, after which she hid her face in her pocketbook, her shoes in one hand. “The road was slick and we never spoke,” he recalls, after which he laments, “I held the wheel, when I should have held your hand.”

On that recognition, the electric guitar goes hauntingly ambient and spreads like a cloud of cigarette smoke through the room.

And as if that admission weren’t enough, Pernice then wearily acknowledges, almost as a beleaguered parting shot: “I look back and I don’t feel one thing. I don’t feel one thing.”

That, for him, however, is the clincher; evidence of a gaping vacancy at the heart of him. Still, whether that means or changes anything for him or not is hard to say.

“How come I can’t cross that water in my head?” he numbly asks, “How come I get the feeling a part of me is dead?”

Fast-forward nearly 20 years later—and perhaps a bit of therapy, maybe a good SSRI, or just plain maturing, growing up, and insight—and Pernice seems to have reached a vulnerability he couldn’t access as a young, spaced out phantom menace. In 2013’s “A Very Sorry Christmas,” and recording under The New Mendicants with Teenage Fanclub’s Norman Blake, Pernice seeks to reconcile with the ghosts in his past.

Over a charging power-pop melody, he pleads, “Oh silent night, oh holy night, oh fabled Christmas Eve – I come here as a beggar on my knees…I’m carrying a cross you won’t believe.” He then confesses, “I’ve hurt so many people along the way – some are dead, and some merely hate me,” after which he petitions the Christmas Spirit:

“On a very sorry Christmas Eve, I wonder if the ghosts will let me be.
On a very sorry Christmas Eve, I only want a chance to say I’m sorry.”

While I wouldn’t presume Pernice specifically intends the song for the girl of Christmas past in “A Ride,” the two songs portray one man’s path through the complicated meanings and experiences of the holiday from different sides of life’s stages and journey. Taken together, they play like snapshots, chapters lifted from the before and after portions of a modern day Scrooge’s redemption story.

Camera Obscura – Let’s Get Out of This Country

I feel awful admitting as much, but I’m one of those knee-knocking, anxious cads who—since 11/9—has spent time researching what I need to do to leave the States again, to make another move overseas. I know the effort has self-preservation written all over it, but I’m having trouble weighing the point of sticking around the U.S. to just keep signing online petitions that go … where exactly? All while this guy with his tweets and erratic, diagnosable behaviors is handed the keys to … well, everything. I’ve surfed the web, emailed with a few friends and pondered which country would most likely tolerate an American seeking asylum from the Trumpian tragedy the president-elect is currently stage-designing for everyone in full view.

Self-centered escapist fantasy or not, Scotland’s Camera Obscura’s 2006 piece of ear candy delightfully reminds me that traveling off to new lands is to adulthood what Christmas morning is to small children.

Carey Lander, the band’s lead singer—who passed away in 2015—touches on something teeming away in me this season as she blandly intones, “Let’s get out of this country/I have been so unhappy.” Even if temporary, her remedy sounds like a perfectly-timed respite:

We’ll pick berries and recline
Let’s hit road dear friend of mine
Wave goodbye to our thankless jobs
We’ll drive for miles maybe never turn off
We’ll find a cathedral city, you can be handsome I’ll be pretty

Sigh. She’s reading my mail. Yes. Let’s do that, please. Like, today?

Adam Jones & K.S. Rhoads – Who Will Carry You?

A heart-achingly beautiful melody picked and sung by Idaho’s Hollowood frontman, Adam Jones, I heard the song for the first time a few weeks ago in the closing moments of an episode of amazon.com’s series, “Transparent.”

Following November’s election, I spent a few nights binge-watching the program. In many ways, the family drama felt reminiscent of the varieties of family dramas many of us are living out in real time this season, and perhaps in past holiday seasons, too. If nothing else, the show is worth every difficult moment of Jeffrey Tambor’s stunning portrayal of one man working out the massively complex and intimately personal, conflicted matter of his sexual identity. His performances are easily worth whatever award anyone can throw or has thrown his way.

I’ve learned in recent years to appreciate a song that asks—and that even leaves me hanging on—a good question. Though not just any question, of course. It has to be a question you feel on the skin, or in a skip of your heart. The question this song poses, for example, is a timely one to consider. After the gifts, the goods, the items are given or gone; after all of our treasured moments have passed into memory—who is there for you? Who will carry you?

At a time of year when many struggle to feel they belong or to feel as loved or as honestly blessed as the smiling, gorgeous chuckleheads bursting with season-specific joy and products in unbearable ads and commercials, this song pushes us further, deeper in, beyond the glare. It drives you past the cashier and into the cold, dark night. Direct their question inward, and then look around. This song nudges you, asks that you take a more expansive view, inside and out. Chances are you probably know who will carry you when you need it. And if you don’t know, finding the answer to that question is a more dignified search than landing any bargain, tracking down any deal pitched to you in any ad anywhere.


(dispatches & ruminations from the regions of art & fatherhood)