download the original
the credits run out and the lights come up. everyone else has left the theater, but they’re still not ready to return to reality.
she blows her nose, while he presses his palms into his eyes, in an effort to stop the tears. “oh, man,” he groans.
they turn to each other and start to giggle. it’s like looking in the mirror, eyes red, noses running, puffy cheeks, satisfied smile.
she finds her voice first, “yeah, it was pretty good.” the sarcasm is obvious. read more >
when his mother told him a month ago that they were moving to south carolina he was pissed off. beyond pissed off.
“next year is senior year! are you kidding me?!”
his mother’s tears killed his protest in an instant.
he had never seen his mother cry before. read more >
for matt margolin.
we played music together for many years. back then, he was one of my closest friends. and though we hadn’t seen much of each other this past decade, i always thought of him with great fondness. a kind man, a chaotic genius on the guitar, and a champion of the fifteen cent poker bet. he was my daughter’s godfather.
i wrote this song last weekend, before matt had the sudden and unexpected medical emergency that eventually took his life on friday. when i heard of his collapse, i had a hard time finding my feelings, there was so much confusion and shock and distance. but as i finished recording yesterday, i realized that i had hidden those feelings in this song.
i will miss him.
thus ends the cycle “connect the dots.”
i have loved “jesus christ superstar” since elementary school. after the crucifixion, there is a final number called “john 19:41.” i listened for years without ever inspecting what lay there, i assumed he got sucked up to heaven in a brilliant white light. read more >
number 29, the penultimate installment of “connect the dots.”
mr. sullivan swims back to the day he lost his son. thanksgiving 1985. read more >
probably the most depressing song yet, but i’m sure i can top it.
after two weeks of revery, mr. sullivan emerges back in his hospital room. things continue downhill.
not much to say here. the battlefield has shrunk to the point of the few inches that separate reality from dreams, and for our hero, the lines are drawing still closer. read more >