Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Top 10 Albums of 2015

Top 10 Albums of 2015

10. Brandon Flowers, The Desired Effect
9. My Morning Jacket, The Waterfall
8. Punch Brothers, The Phosphorescent Blues
7. Belle & Sebastian, Girls In Peacetime Want To Dance
6. Sufjan Stevens, Carrie & Lowell
5. Dawes, All Your Favorite Bands
4. The Mountain Goats, Beat The Champ
3. Lianne Le Havas, Blood
2. Jason Isbell, Something More Than Free
1. Father John Misty, I Love You, Honeybear

Monday, December 15, 2014

Top 10 Albums of 2014

Not bringing the blog back yet. Just posting this for record-keeping purposes.

Top 10 Albums of 2014

10. Bob Mould, Beauty & Ruin
9. Jenny Lewis, The Voyager
8. Blake Mills, Heigh Ho
7. The Willowwacks, The Willowwacks
6. Spoon, They Want My Soul
5. Nickel Creek, A Dotted Line
4. First Aid Kit, Stay Gold
3. Ryan Adams, Ryan Adams
2. David Bazan, Bazan Monthly Vol. 1
1. Beck, Morning Phase

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

Half Right

For a long time I have used this space as a way of just getting ideas/experiences out to the world. Most people who regularly read it forgot about it years ago when I stopped talking about it and stopped promoting it. And that sort of freed me to really express thoughts that existed deep down in me. Thoughts of addiction, love, melancholy, life, spirit, death, suicide, food, fraternity, sex, and always music (because what isn't music?)

Not always about me, but always about me.

But it seems that these things are being expressed in other ways right now. I love this space. And I love the few of you who have kept up reading it and still even leave a comment sometimes. Thank you for ever caring at all. I'll come back hopefully sometime.

See you later, if I see you at all.

Monday, August 18, 2014

The House On The Hill

A house for summer with lawns and porches,
Edwardian books, adventure stories, the smell of musty closets,
thin mattress over metal springs, blankets with holes,
a cabinet of arrowheads and stones, forbidden
dumb-waiter creaking, they said it was too old,
odor of attics with discarded bureaus, portraits.

I lived with relics of children already aunts and uncles—
a doll’s house, college scrapbook on the shelf,
baseball bats and gloves forgotten in the window seat.

Nothing could change in the days of salt air filling
the garden, storm winds rattling the big windows,
Mother and Grandmother reading in small circles of light,
now ghosts whispering. The house a lost arm aching in the night.

--Anne MacKay

Saturday, August 2, 2014

On Air

I've never felt so high as when I was 30,000 feet and thinking of your name. How you were mine. How you had shown me so much for so long and kept me in your back pocket until God allowed you to me pull me out. 

You knew what I could have never known: yourself and your limits. What you needed was never what I wanted. I couldn't have given you the time you deserved. But still, you buckled until you knew what you needed. And I fought like a boy fights his brothers for the last serving. 

How lucky I am to have submitted to whatever watches o'er and to be immediately granted what I needed all along. 

Oh I soared 50,000 feet and I didn't pray for my life. My life is only what I'm granted. But your life is beautiful and full of saving the needy and uplifting the wanting. I prayed that I could ever be what YOU needed and what would continue to help uplift those who can't lift themselves up. 

And then I fell asleep as tho floating on air was where I was born.

Sunday, July 27, 2014


When I wake up earlier than you and you
are turned to face me, face
on the pillow and hair spread around,
I take a chance and stare at you,
amazed in love and afraid
that you might open your eyes and have
the daylights scared out of you.
But maybe with the daylights gone
you'd see how much my chest and head
implode for you, their voices trapped
inside like unborn children fearing
they will never see the light of day.
The opening in the wall now dimly glows
its rainy blue and gray. I tie my shoes
and go downstairs to put the coffee on.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

A Prayer For The Newly Living and Devout

Oh, I know we haven't spoken for hours.

I'm sorry about that. Work always finds a way to stretch out the hours and ignores the truly important. Or maybe someone I know proves that point to be incorrect.

Someone has been occupying my mind for these long years. And she has finally nested in the part of my brain that leave my fingers bored and not paying attention to the not-so-subtle barrage of notes I play for my supper.

She leaves me undevout to the musical altar I have created. But, only You deserve to have the final call on my sincerity.

If devout is following what some white guys say about some writings about You, then I certainly haven't been devout. But I've talked to you every day since I can remember.

And I have an amazing memory.

But in my possible failure to be devout to some legend that only exists for power, I've been trying to uphold and edify, what I believe to be, Your creations.

In my introversion, I struggle with seeing the heart in everyone, but ultimately fight for the things I can't see. For isn't faith believing what you see ain't so? And doesn't everyone have a heart?

It wasn't until recently that I realized that I'm a creation of Yours. That I'm also worth fighting for and that I'm also worthy of talking to You like You might want to be talked to.

It's like 26 years of moments finally made real what was only fantasy before: I can be Yours; I can be special for you and to you. I'm alive and anew. I inhale what you have provided for me for so long.

I pray that you fill me with whatever I've been resisting for so long. I want to finally leap into the dotted-line trajectory of which I've fallen short for so long.

I want to be amazed by Your works to me and through me.

And ultimately, let me feel small. But also, never let me forget that I'm ever You.