Writer • Musician
I thought I'd grown numb to gun violence, until it finally happened close to me. In my county. Maybe it’s just another indicator of the distance we feel from one another, from east to west. Maybe it’s natural in a land as vast and diverse as our own, an impediment we must continually seek to …
A Letter Written by Sam Lyons to J.L. Quinby, Esq. | Quinby! You sly devil, you… You recently asked me what I thought was the most defining aspect of my philosophy. The cornerstone of my ethos, so to speak. Well, I think I have my answer. One of the strongest components of my own self-awareness, …
Continue reading "Repetition and Awareness. The Universal Dance."
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 …
I never saw the need to call myself a feminist, much less a proud feminist, since the basics of feminism always seemed like common sense. If you exercise common sense, what’s there to be proud of? Nothing. It’s a waste of energy. The crucial detail of common sense is that it’s common. Therefore, just follow …
Out in LA, one of my acting teachers would often remind me, along with anyone in class venting any sort of self-frustration, that Rome wasn’t built in a day. Though it was an obvious point, it was easy to forget. Few of the greats, if any at all, were incredible by day one. As a …
I'm a man deeply suspicious of creative how-to’s. That is, any book that advises me on how to approach anything creative. How to write well. How to act. How to draw. How to sing. I woke up this morning and worked on “The Morning Pages”, a daily writing exercise that demands three pages of whatever …
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 …
The self-titled debut album "Ren Michael" is now available for download on all digital platforms. The story begins with a girl. She looks, casts one glance in the mirror and is gone no sooner than she arrived, her voice but a whisper as it echoes down the street, leaving the hero alone in the cold …
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 …
I stopped in a small town somewhere in the desert for a quick breakfast. Then I drove farther north until I reached the last town before the mountains. I stopped there to fill up on gas and get supplies, which consisted mainly of sandwich bread, fruit, two cans of tuna and some peanut butter. Then …
I felt like a thief in the night. Maybe it was guilt, a sense that I was betraying someone, or something. I remember a sign, standing tall on the side of the highway while I was driving through the desert. “Blessed are they,” it said, “Who trust in Him.’ Four years ago, I moved to …
https://youtu.be/xXzZp0faoOI Words & Music By Ren Michael Come you princes and gamblers And I’ll tell you a tale About an unborn world From the cold winds of hell I think you will find That my story’s been told, indeed it’s centuries old And though I am young, You may know me quite well. They …
Reading John Muir's My First Summer in the Sierra makes me wish that over the past few years, I had kept a more comprehensive journal detailing my own travels, along with my many encounters and experiences in Los Angeles; as opposed to what I fear might only amount to scattered, disconnected ramblings and loose sketches based on the things I …
The Root Riding that train through the European plain, thinking Of what’s to be gained, and I think And theorize about things Realize We stand on the brink In that final realm as the thunder rolls The final frontier of the human soul. – Political discourse like broken leaves Stands in the shadows of laughing …
Music and Lyrics by Ren Michael My hands shake they’re not mine Rain falls, can’t recognize My eyes frozen in time Mirror broken, this home ain’t mine I see my brother’s sweet day In bright daylight it fades Stranger beside me prays I’m lost in falling rain I remember your sweet kiss Your loving arms, …
Ren Michael 