Writer • Musician
From the First of December Farewell my friends, for tonight I embark on a journey. And so rise the crimson waves. But I've got a few parting words. I read 'A Season in Hell' this afternoon and saw that the answer, if real, cannot be found on this earth, but it may lie underground. This …
The plan was to get to Frisco after things settled with the LA move, but I hand't been able to swing it since; and so it wasn't long after getting back from Coachella and hiking the desert mountains there that I began thinking about mysterious Big Sur in the north and finally making what would …
'...It all died with Kennedy,' said I from beneath hollow ground. 'I see it all so clearly. Does it still live with Kennedy? Still...' 'What's that?' asked my neighbor, I couldn't make out his face. 'The American Dream?' 'What's that?' he asked again. 'Some kind of peace? Some prosperity?' I didn't answer him for I …
Big Sur. The most elusive, and the darkest of places which now felt like a legend in my mind. The home to writers who could never truly write about it and who would always ultimately resort to telling whoever was listening that they just had to go see it for themselves. I was on my …
The waves crashed violently on the coast of San Simeon. But from my view, watching the sun disappear at last and leave the sky cast in some mystical grey and blue, it all appeared very peaceful and necessary. I watched it while I stood parked on the cliffs with 'Mama You've Been on My Mind' …
Big Sur is freedom. It is eternal youth smiling to you and shining above you with God's great sun gleaming high as the waves crash in a morning tempest over the sharp rocks below. On this winding road you hang over the Pacific Ocean, and you hug tightly the green cliffs and the redwoods that …
Where the winds dance so fierce and passerby enchant, Where the dreams lie low, steered, beneath the dim lit street lamps, I stand wide-eyed and smiling, though frozen cold and standing alone. This is a city, though never singing, so wise so old, for San Francisco. Where sad-eyed dogs they trot, and children remain away …
I went to Frisco for the first time when I was a boy, with my mother when I was six years old. We stayed with her cousin back when she used to live in the city. Now she lived across the bay not far from Berkeley. We talked a little of that time but not …
Monterey, CA (written on the way back to LA from Frisco) So food is important I've learned that. Whether it is a lack of it, an abundance or some healthy and sustained intake, food or the thought of it can drive the creative mind to goddamn epic horizons. Right now I am hungry is all. …
Out again after the shootaround in west LA and Wilshire, with the king photographer. What I thought would be an epic duel with the sun turned out to speed right on through, for the heat of the past few days was nowhere to be seen. The photographer is a true professional, used to be an …
The key to all of this is to have no fear and to not seem to take anything real seriously. This is only a fun lil' gig. It's been hot in LA for days and also in the shop which is more like a sweat shop, and even in my creepy and charming apartment but …
Was about to work on the keys but it looks as though I am not allowed. I went to straighten some name issues with SAG, which brings me to this atrium-like cafe on Wilshire and all I can think of is how I need to make it here more, for the sidewalks are as packed …
Continue reading "Coltrane and daylight flights over crystal oceans"
Met with the photographer this morning in the southern parts of the city beyond Wilshire. I had little idea of what I'd see. I needed new headshots for the rolling season. His house was like a western Buddhist temple, a fresh hut with all its summer windows open and the air sweeping in like 9 AM heaven. The …
Looking through old photographs and faded portraits of heroes. I thought it was some insult grabbing pictures and putting them on display, but its a tribute and these men have become part of who I am, and as far as those who are not shown I am sure there is a reason. Maybe its that …
First night of recording this song 'Cassandra' about a girl whose face flickers like firelight on stone walls. She is the young hero girl of the west coast, innocent yet dangerous and possibly immortal. She is elusive yet universal. Some divine child that has been and always will be. Me, I'm just a young man …
Continue reading "Sweet Cassandra. The Hero Girl, Divine Child Part 2"
The morning began to the sounds of 'Slow Train Coming' echoing from one the neighboring apartments though I didn't know which one exactly, and me deciding to read Huckleberry Finn for some reason. The rest is a blur and I think someone came in and knocked me upside the head as I ascended into the …
Continue reading "Lead up to ‘Cassandra’. The Hero Girl, Divine Child Part 1"
I remember being a small boy and staying awake during the nap hour of pre-school, since I never liked going to sleep and its calling forth of that inevitable and so sorrowful end to a day, much as it still seems to do now. So I stayed awake in the dark room, we all did, …
Continue reading "adolescence, it’s last crossing. Epilogue to the Italian kick"
On west third street, a couple o' blocks from the shop is doughboys cafe and bakery and it feels very homey and Italian. The coffee is always warm and is served in mugs that look bigger than my head. A young couple and lone young fathers bring their babies and little children here for early …
After La Dolce Vita Marcello Mastroianni is a man's man and an actor of the truest form who roams the desert hills palms up and facing the Italian badlands, lamenting over the crying woman dressed in black, kneeling to the ground with her child like some old Sicilian tragedy. Marcello, brother of Brando. The other, …
From the wake of exhaustion I am invigorated somehow as I sit at a small cafe table, with my head leaning against the table and looking out at the sea of small tables before me. It has the feel of a quiet night though patrons are scattered about the cafe, some silent and alone and …
Continue reading "Christmas Eve on July 31. Saints, refrain"
Ren Michael 