Writer • Musician
Only Love For me there is only the road. Sometimes I think it's the only real home for me listening to good music and digging every new place I see and all the old places too with the sun in my eyes and above me the moon and the stars. It's a real sweet spot, …
The Hungarian rhapsody by dear ol' friend Franz Liszt as I've read the words aloud to myself and feel that I might recite them all as they become bonded to my own in soul, as I proclaim this new music of ours o'er the cliffs of Cambria at Moonstone Beach, as my forebears brought me …
I don’t often post in the moment because I‘m either without reception or—most of the time—too caught up in the moment itself. This was a combination of the two, though by the looks of it, I am in the middle of taking a picture. Needless to say, I post a lot of pictures after the …
Inspiration has many faces, and sometimes it can leave you spellbound to the point that you see no reason to do anything else, because you feel the overwhelming feeling that everything’s been done already. It’s why I’m wary of museums. Of course it’s a matter of perspective, depending on the individual and the choices they …
I got to the hostel around 8. It was built into the top two floors of an otherwise mostly vacated building just a few blocks south of Andrassy Avenue, the main drag running through town. When I say town, I mean Pest, which flanks the east side of the River Danube. Together with Buda, on …
The story begins with a girl. She looks, casts one glance in the mirror and is gone no sooner than she arrives, her voice but a whisper echoing down the street, leaving the hero alone in the cold night wearing an old pair of boots, a Spanish knife in his pocket, a beat-up guitar strapped …
On the Move, and at Peace By Cal Corso | Reading a book on Albert Einstein and I’m thinking about Vienna, listening to Liszt's transcription for the piano of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Right now I’m in the second movement of the symphony. And yea that sounds about right now, don’t it? I am sort of …
Jude Moonlight's Journal | Last night I went out walking and I heard the distant sound of drums playing late in the night. At first I couldn't quite find where they were coming from but I walked farther down the street and deeper into my neighborhood and I heard the sounds grow louder, so I …
Continue reading "I do feel like playing. Last night I went out walking…"
Oh moon Home to seven trembling faces Nameless, blank expressions Your face, the friendliest I’ve known Oh moon Home to my heart and soul Your soft glow Carries me ‘cross the night Though I tremble by thy naked hand Oh moon Stranger to the angels and to blues sparrows flying like arrows in silhouette across …
Broward County. I’ve known that name my whole life. Broward. Such a strange sound as I think about it and say it out loud, just a little under my breath. Broooowwwward. To me it’s always meant home. Even though, as I’ve said many times over the course of many writings throughout this young career of …
I first heard the song many years ago and like most people, I most often associated it with the Animals. Then I discovered they weren't the original writers and that Bob Dylan recorded the song before they did. But it wasn't long before I realized Dylan didn't write it either. He only recored it because …
Every issue in politics, I once said, typically boils down to the fundamental, opposing forces of fear and faith. The faith I’m talking about isn’t religious faith, and that’s why I am skeptical to even use the word. To me, it has nothing to do with religion or even God, at least not the God …
In the wild cathedral evenings On the St. Petersburg canals Near the church at midnight they call 'Spilt Blood' I met a woman singing a song I knew too well She looked at me Her skin stark white a ghost alone, in the dark of the night She smiled at me Her eyes they gleamed …
If there’s anything that I try and avoid writing about, its writing. That being said, I’ll keep this beginning part short. For starters, I really don’t even think of myself as a writer at all. I’m no Hemingway or Kerouac or Walt Whitman. I don’t know how any of those guys fell into the …
Ren Michael 