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Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.

– William Wordsworth

There is some pleasure even in words, when they bring forgetfulness of present miseries.

– Sophocles

I sit down this morning with a head full of brambles, needing to write, to get it out, but wondering how on earth I can put together anything that might in any way serve anything. Maybe it’s okay to just get it out, but one feels compelled to offer something of worth amid the noise.

Wordsworth’s quote above hit me. We are born into this mad, bewildering place, leaving behind our cosmic comfort, to muddle through. With vague remembrances we arrive, the clouds of glory dissipating with each passing moment.  I don’t know anyone who doesn’t feel like they’re stumbling along, figuring it out as we go. His words also hit me because I was riffing on forgetfulness, thinking about a recent experience.

Weeks ago, I headed to the local UPS to get some promo printed for my busking setup. On the community corkboard there, I noticed an ad for a local record shop that was nestled in the laneway across the road. It’s been there for a few years now, but I wouldn’t have known about it had I not seen the leaflet at UPS. Of course, I had to go have a look. They had some great stuff. I’d share the name of the store, but I can’t remember it. Fitting for a blog post about forgetting stuff. After browsing for about a half hour, I decided on two records. The first is an original Freedom Records pressing of David Wilcox’s Out Of The Woods. Not only is this a great record, full of great songs, band grooves and David’s wacky sense of humour, there’s a familial connection. The late Scott Richards was a close mate of my Dad’s and played with him in The Shays, one of the seminal rock ‘n’ roll groups that played Toronto’s Yonge Street strip in the sixties. I grew up knowing him as an uncle. After the band was done and they hung up their black suede ankle boots, Uncle Scott went into the record biz, starting Freedom Records. Wilcox was one of his first signings. The other record I picked up was Bobby Gentry and Glen Campbell, two artists I’m fond of. I thought the two of them together might be smashing. While I held the record in the shop, I had another, more mundane remembrance. I recalled holding this record at another shop, contemplating buying it. I remembered not buying it, and thinking that I’d give it a go this time.

I headed home with my wares. I pulled out the Bobby and Glen record and put it on, all the while feeling something tugging at my sleeve. The songs didn’t grab me. As that dawned on me, I realized that I’d had the same feeling in recent months. I riffled through my LP collection, and there it was, my first copy of Bobby Gentry and Glen Campbell. I was already in a not so great frame of mind that day. Feeling the bottom drop out a bit, I stood in my living room, looking at both copies of a record I didn’t like, purchased months apart from one another. I texted a mate a while later, saying “Not only did I buy the same record twice, I bought the same SHIT record twice!!”

After sleeping on it, I mellowed. It was only after having a bit of space that the hilarity of the situation hit me. And to be fair to Bobby and Glen, I’ve come to see the record(s) like a book you buy that you don’t connect with, but that, years later, you pull off the shelf, crack the cover, and realize that it was just a matter of time before you and the book were aligned.

As to the Sophocles quote, there is always welcome forgetfulness in words. And for the workers in song, there is also forgetfulness in music. My perpetual comfort and connection in music continue. After penning this draft, I will listen to the final mixes to the two tracks for the new record that have keeper vocals on them. The Maycomb Trial and I Thought are their names. They sound amazing. On Monday, I will head back up the country to Grey Roots Audio to continue tracking the vocals. I’ve an idea for the cover image of the record, inspired by the drive up there and a bit of family history. I’ll head up a bit early to take some pics.

I’m off to have a listen, then off into the day to pick up some new gear that I’ve been geeking out on for weeks.

As always, thanks for reading.

K. xo

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Two weeks ago, I headed to the park to play a set. I did not feel like doing it. Long week. I forced myself out the door with the rig. It was either sing or mope around the house. I set to work, feeling better with each passing bar. A few songs in, I saw my mate, Brian, who lives at the Woodgreen building next door. When I last saw him, he was talking to me from a gurney while being loaded into an ambulance. This afternoon, he was smiling and waving at me from across the street. Brian’s been a champion of my music since we connected a few years ago. With a twinkle in his eye, he calls me the new Gordon Lightfoot, which I love. It was good to see him back out and about.

Regardless of what songs I sing when I play, I always close with The Beautiful Season. It’s a track off my last record, and it’s been a closer in the live set for a few years now. It’s about the importance of being with each other. About halfway through, I noticed a woman crouching near one of the benches nearby. I thought she was collecting butts, an action that didn’t match her appearance. Looking more closely, I realized she was caring for an injured pigeon. Her family arrived and started helping. After an emotional week, in the middle of singing this song, seeing people stop to care, I nearly wept. When the number was done, I went over to thank them for stopping. They were unsure of what to do. I called 311 and they notified Animal Control. Then the long wait began.

While this family was comforting the pigeon, a guy materialized out of nowhere. “Hey, were you just singing? I was taking a nap in the grass over there and woke up to your soothing sounds.” We spoke for a while. Right into the deep stuff. No small talk. Family, relationships, partners, exes, work, life. He told me he came up in Scarborough, now lived up north, but came to Toronto a couple of times a month to get his city fix. Upon saying our farewells, he finished with “God bless you.” He didn’t strike me as a religious man, nor am I, though I’m always touched when someone says this. It doesn’t matter who or what you believe in. To me, this blessing is universal.

The helpful family soon left, but returned a short while later and wrapped the bird in a t-shirt and left some fresh picked wildflowers. I sat with our injured ward, seeing it grow weaker and weaker. I eventually took him/her home to wait for the city workers to come and pick up.

We are met with angels everywhere. After a difficult week of struggling to return and return again to a workable baseline, I was filled up by all of these experiences. The afternoon started with me not wanting to sing. It became so much bigger than the music, while the songs were the catalyst for all of that connection.

I was reminded, not only why I make music, but of our humanity. Of the ways in which we are beautiful and caring. Of the best parts of us.

As always, thanks for reading.

K. xo

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I think everybody longs to be loved and longs to know that he or she is lovable. And, consequently, the greatest thing that we can do is to help somebody know that they’re loved and capable of loving.

– Fred Rogers

We cannot direct the wind, but we can adjust the sails.

– Dolly Parton

I still find it quite easy to find my way into a child’s imagination. We’re all Peter Pan ourselves in some respects. Everybody should keep some grip on childhood, even as a grownup.

– Tim Curry

I was in the shower this morning, thinking all the random shower thoughts we think, having all the imaginary arguments. Out of the morning mind haze came the YouTube clip of Mister Rogers at the Emmys, accepting a lifetime achievement honour. There’s a standing ovation. Before he’s even said a word, the camera pans to different shots of the glammed out actors, most of them with tears in their eyes. I wept. It was a gentle one, but deep. As someone with a range of intense emotions, I often wonder at how even and kind was Fred Rogers. I imagine there had to have been potentially contentious exchanges while navigating the production of a show that lasted for so long. I picture him handling them with a grace many of us might spend our lives reaching for.

What a week, Dolly Parton and Tim Curry passing on the same day. Two of my favourites. Dolly for her kindness, empathy and songs. I remember watching 9 to 5 as a kid. There wasn’t a time when her music wasn’t on my radar. I love Tim for his personality. And for Frank N. Furter, a role that became iconic only six years after the Stonewall riots, in an era where being different might mean being murdered (as I write this it occurs to me that even today, we still have a long way to go). I have early memories of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. My older brother would take the bus downtown to the Roxy Theatre in Toronto with his mates every weekend to see the film. He’d bring home the tickets and post them, in proper order, on his bedroom wall. I remember being eight and borrowing his Rocky Horror iron on t-shirt, with Riff Raff printed on the back in those early eighties felt letters. We went to visit an aunt who fancied herself a member of high society, when we were anything but. She lived in a posh condo, with all the amenities. While we wandered around the pool and squash courts, she tut-tutted my Mum “Jeannie, how can you let him walk around with that on his back in public?” O, the horror. I’ve thought a lot about Tim and Dolly this week, watched a lot of clips. Losing beautiful people is hard, especially in these days where we continue to feel isolated and anxious while the world burns.

I haven’t written any blog stuff since June. I took a break to focus on a bunch of new songs. I wanted to put all my energy into the consistent flexing of one aspect of writing, to see how it all played out. We often need to write a few stinkers to carve out the keepers. It was great. I’m happy with the new geetar tunes and have written a third piano song, which has been a brand new and amazing outlet.

I also powered down the studio for weeks and weeks. The rewarding warmth of all those winter days and nights in the studio creating the new tracks didn’t translate once the summer weather arrived. I needed to feel the grass under my feet. I’ve been busking a bunch, meeting lots of kind and wacky characters, experiencing the usual connection that I’ve come to count on over the years of performing at street level. There are some live irons in the fire. I don’t feel jazzed about being out late these days, but the call of the club gig beckons. I’ve been out to see more local live music this season than ever. That’s been rewarding socially and psychologically. We need each other. It’s also inspired me to convince the curmudgeon I live with, the one that appears around 7pm when it’s time to get ready to go out, that live shows are where I live and thrive.

With back to school nigh, I’m ready to dive back into the record. The next step is to record keeper vocals. The arrangements turned so well, I understand that the vocals need a deeper investment than ever before. I’ve had difficulty getting the singing done at home. The neighbourhood’s grown noisier since recording Stereophile. In timely fashion, a friend recently mentioned that having someone produce the vocals is the way he always does it. I haven’t worked with a producer since my trip to Nashville back in 2012. I’m hoping to make this happen, so I can focus on delivery and emotion, while someone else handles the pragmatic bits. Artwork is also under way. The shot above is going to be on the back of the record. It was taken one night by my old pal and local artist, Dan Whalen (@danwhalenart), while meeting to take the 72 Pape bus to see our mate’s band play. I love the shot. It’s totally in the moment, totally off the cuff. Just two pals heading out to a show.

At the end of the day, that’s what it’s all about; being with each other, supporting friends, creating community. Bringing it all closer together through shared experience and connection.

As always, thanks for reading.

K. xo

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What’s he building in there?

– Tom Waits

Hi Friends,

I’ve been carrying on with a foot in two worlds: Summertime is nigh. With its arrival each year, it’s always hard to stay in studio rat mode. While I’ve yet to take the live rig to the park, there’s been no shortage of barefoot hangs in the local grass. It feels so good to sit under the trees again. That said, I am still in studio rat mode. The new recordings are going so amazingly well. I’m finding time to be parkside and in the studio. There’s a rhythm to it all. Finish work, get outside for a blast of sunshine and earth, grab dins, walk, sit on a bench and yell at the clouds and/or hold court with the locals, head home, fire up the gear as soon as I walk in the door, and get down to it.

There are nine new songs in the works. This week saw me writing a strings intro and a piano part for Hideaway, the last of the acoustic guitar-based numbers (there’s one full piano composition on deck that’ll be the subject of its own blog, very excited about it!). The strings bits came smoothly and mostly fully formed. The piano part is another story. I banged it out piece by piece. It’s interesting, being the guy writing and performing everything. I’ve always had band envy, the practice of rehearsing a song together til everyone gets their parts really tight before recording. I occurred to me this week that I’ve been lovingly getting the different parts together as though I was a member of a band playing his instrument. The depth of energy it takes to be the one writing and playing everything means taking time. I let the parts simmer. Listen to the dailies. Keep nurturing the notes and delivery.

In this recent case, with the piano on Hideaway, I’ve gone deep. The better part of the arrangement licks came freely. When it came to the break, I knew how I wanted it to feel. I banged it out. It was full of clams (bad notes and obviously mistakes), but the feeling was there. I knew where I wanted it to go, but the technique it required was beyond me. Today’s technology would allow me to piece together the parts with mouse clicks. I’ve done this sparingly in the past, it’s handy. I made a conscious choice to not do that here. I decided that I wanted to sit with it, to rehearse and develop the part til I could lay it down with groove and conviction.

It happened. And it was worth all the effort. As a result I’m a better player. A better arranger. More tools in the toolbox. More art in the art house. So good.

Here’s a bit of the outro from last night’s session. Hope ya dig…

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People do not seem to realize that their opinion of the world is also a confession of their character.

– Ralph Waldo Emerson

For well you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool / By making his world a little colder

– Paul McCartney, Hey Jude

Denslow’s Humpty Dumpty, 1904

Contempt. In the past few years, I’ve a few times come across something Nick Cave said in response to inquiries about his growth and perspective as an older chap who’s navigated deep grief in the last decade, having lost two sons. He talks about how he, for the better part of his early adult years, held the world and the people in it in contempt. This really stayed with me, as someone who, from an adolescent age, started to observe, with a questioning eye, the many stupidities of humankind.

Over the years, this awareness developed into a contempt of my own. One need only take a short look around to find deep lack in the way stuff gets done; our considerations toward one another, our blindness to our interconnection and shared suffering, summer road work in Toronto. We often live in disregard, usually, I think, unconsciously, while we race about making life happen.

This unconsciousness, for many of us, stems from trauma. For some us, the trauma is complex, wont to rear up without warning, reducing us, whispering self-hateful slogans into the raw spaces. The more I learn and experience, the more I see that this is most of us. We are generations of humans learning to express our vulnerabilities and what’s there in the dark corners of our internal experience.

My own inner world has lately been an amplified, fitful landscape, with my friend Contempt shouting righteous indignation from the rooftops. This isn’t new. Anytime the black dogs rear their heads, I stop seeing the beautiful bits. Things get fucking ugly. The world, the method, the person in the mirror. Standard self-hateful fare. And how on earth did that become standard fare? Through years of damaged practice. Through experiencing in my formative years things no one should experience.

The grace in the current crisis appeared through radical acceptance. I’m apprehensive using the term. It’s been overused in new age lingo, when at the root it’s accessible to everyone. Accessible but difficult. It’s hard to take the things that hurt us most and let them in. They’re strange friends to sit next to. I’m aware that this thing that’s followed me around forever needs a hug. I’ve known for years that we don’t necessarily get rid of the fragmented parts. It’s only through this current wave of struggle that I’ve felt a dawning surrender. That I’m broken and that’s okay. There are good bits, too. Love and Hate springs eternal.

I came across today’s quote a few days ago. It hit hard and clear. I’ve been listening to the confessions of my own character and not digging the sound. My lens is dirty. Yes, there are so many aspects of the world that are completely messed, but the vehement distaste I’ve felt, that’s informed so much for so long, has been a major player in stamping out trust and good things. It’s a fear-based exercise. Creating false safety by tearing down externals.

I’ve spent years trying, like all the King’s men, to put myself back together again. To mend the scattered parts. It hasn’t worked all that well. Sounds like it’s time to let the satellites wander…

As always, thanks for reading.

K. xo

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There were times when I blundered and got the dreaded look from the lads. But that was a good sign. It showed I’d attempted something I’d not tried before.

– John Bonham

Fills bring the thrills, but grooves pay the bills.

– Steve Gadd

The funk isn’t in what you play. It’s in what you don’t play. It’s in the space between the notes.

– Clyde Stubblefield

LOS ANGELES – JUNE 03: Drummer John Bonham of the rock band ‘Led Zeppelin’ performs onstage at the Forum on June 3, 1973 in Los Angeles, California. (Photo by Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images)

This week has been a full on, intensely stressful one at my day gig. One that saw the music vibes down to a trickle. These ones always drag. I’m the kind of character who needs to be creating something to feel connected and grounded. I’ve been recently reintroduced me to the concept of radical acceptance. It requires being cool with everything as it is, especially the hard stuff. Timely, but also difficult, trying to apply it to situations aflame with conflicting personalities and an avoidable disarray regarding the planning and execution of work.

 It’s now Saturday morning in the window of the local. The sun is shining in. Friends pass by and we catch up. I sat with my coffee and listened down to my new tracks in their current state. About half of the record’s been recorded. The working title is Misfit & Rhyme. It’s all sounding great. The next phase of the recording is live drums.

I have the capacity to record almost everything at home but a full drum kit. I got in touch with an old friend, Cory Blackburn, of the Blackburn Brothers. We’ve been mates since high school. We share friendship, but also musical lineage: both of our papas were players on the Yonge St. scene in the mid-60s. Cory and the brothers have been doing amazingly. After years of slugging in out on the bar scene, they released a killer record and have been playing a lot of huge North American and European festivals. It’s awesome to watch. It’s also been hard to get our schedules together! We finally made it happen. Drum sessions are booked for later this month and I’m super pumped. I’ll send Cory scratch tracks of me singing and playing the acoustic. He loads them into his system and I’ll sit behind his drums for the first time in years and let ‘er rip. The kit is a beautiful Gretsch in silver sparkle and Cory, being a drummer himself, is a whiz at getting killer sounds. I’ve played this set many times and I know sitting behind it again will feel like coming home. There are fives songs in the queue.

I’ll spend the next two weeks laying down the vox and guitar bits and getting them mixed down for the sessions. I’ll send the lot to Cory, along with tempo. We’ll talk about how we’ll approach the recording. What sound we’re going for. All the juicy stuff.

It feels great to have the next wave of the project sorted. I’ve been feeling a bit rudderless for the last few weeks. I have something to hang my hat on now.  And I haven’t seen Cory for a million years. It’s going to be a musical and family reunion.

I’ll share some grooves when they’ve landed.

‘Til then…

K. xo

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I dream of painting and then I paint my dream

– Vincent Van Gogh

I’ve recently been checking out Carly Paradis, keyboardist and newest member of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. I first noticed Carly when seeing Cave & Co. at their Toronto stop on last year’s North American leg of the Wild God tour. As a longtime fan of the Bad Seeds, I was immediately aware that there was someone new in the fold. When seeing live music, I’m there for the music, but I also geek out on what’s happening on stage, the gear, the sound, all of it.

That night I noticed, during the song Red Right Hand, which has been a staple at Bad Seeds live shows for over thirty years, that something wasn’t quite right. The keyboard hits were landing on a beat different than we’re used to hearing. It was one of Carly’s first gigs, so she was still putting it all together. Nick Cave noticed, too. While stalking the stage, singing the song, he looked over at her. He realized what was happening. He ran over to his piano without missing a beat and started playing the part, demonstrating it for her. She sorted it right away and the band played on. It was an amazing musical and personal moment between both the players on stage and a longtime appreciator of all things sonic sitting twelve rows away.

The other night, I had a dream where I was with Carly. We were discussing a piano part I had to write for Nick. I had the tune all set out. I woke up with it still in my head. As I’m sure many creators do, I lay there, wondering if I would remember the dreamy nugget. Sometimes we think it’s there and nod back off, only to find it’s slipped back into the collective ether from whence it came. I did fall back asleep, and, glory be, dreamt of it again. I woke up before dawn and trudged down our dark hallway, taking my guitar into the bathroom so I could record it without waking the kid. Although a piano song in the dream, I sketched out the guitar chords, with the melody over top it and got it down on tape (read: iPhone).

I realized later in the day, part way through work, that it needed to be finished on the piano. While taking lessons last year, I started to write some songs on the keys, but couldn’t quite get there. This time, I did. It was so amazing. The melody worked exquisitely with the chords. I hadn’t played any piano in weeks or maybe months. Also amazing is that the little bit of piano theory and form that I’ve learned was available to me as a composer for the first time.

Last night, I started to write the lyrics. They tumbled out mostly fully formed. I woke this morning and listened the the dailies. It all sounds really good. I’m going to sign off here and finish up the words and coffee, then head back home to put it all together. If it goes well, hopefully the new recordings will have a piano song among them…

As always, thanks for reading.

K. xo

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Fame and stuff like that is all very cool, but at the end of the day, we’re all human beings. Although what I do is incredibly surreal and fun and amazing and I’m really grateful for it, I don’t believe my own press release, do you know what I mean?

– Tom Hardy


I’m just getting settled as a responsible man – but if you split the elephant into little mouthfuls it will be fine.

– also Tom Hardy

Last night, I watched I’m Tim, a Netflix doc about Tim Bergling, aka Avicii, the unfortunately late EDM superstar. I didn’t know much about him, only that he was globally known and that he’d committed suicide a few years ago. The story is achingly typical: a sensitive, high-anxiety kid who found himself through making music. Fame struck. Tim turned to drugs and booze to maintain. At some point, he’d had enough and stepped away. Also achingly typical is that, while to all around him, he was in a better place, he took his life while on a solo vacation to Oman. A bright-eyed kid, destroyed by fame. In the doc, there are voiceovers by Tim while he was alive. He says “Making music was much better before I was famous…”

With the vapour trails of that floating through my head, I woke this morning and checked out a piece about the bluesman Skip James. In the 1930s, Paramount Records paid him $40 to record a body of his work. The Depression hit and Skip disappeared into obscurity. During the blues resurrection in the 1960s, a young John Fahey (one of my guitar influences) and two pals scoured Mississippi in search of Skip. They found him, with terminal cancer, and brought him back into the limelight. Before the disease finally got him in 1969, he gigged for three years, appreciated, beloved and respected for his talent, songwriting and what he brought to the blues. Who knows what might have happened in the thirty odd years between the recordings and resurrection? Maybe three years was enough to not have the life sucked out of him by fame.

I’m no stranger to craving fame. My younger desires firmly embedded that craving when I first started down the musical road. Along the way, I unconsciously wove the need for fame into the validation that we all seek, on both human and artistic levels. It’s something I’m not as haunted by now. I’m more comfortable in my own skin. I still find myself moaning internally (sometimes externally) about working a day gig and not being able to make music full time. This, too, has become better with time. I’ve engineered my life to maximize my creative time, and time with family, while working a day gig that brings in a suitable income, with people I care about. With all this in mind, a friend a few days ago sent me a clip about Philip Glass, the American minimalist composer. Even after achieving success, he kept his day gig as a plumber and a cabbie. The clip goes on to say that, if you’ve got a day gig, congrats, you can finance your music and stay independent. It was a reminder of what an amazing place I’m in.

The kid was away at camp last week and I missed her a lot. I took advantage of the time and worked in the studio on guitar parts for the new recordings. It took a lot out of me. I started a week ago Sunday and worked every day through to tonight (Monday, Feb 2). I was a bit spent as this past weekend dawned, but found the chutzpah to keep on keepin’ on. Apart from the creative juice expended, my feet went weird. We live in a sub basement. The floors are very cold in the winter and the studio nook, at the front of ours, is the coldest part of the unit. I have to kill the HVAC when I’m recording anything with live mics. It was dreadfully cold. I ended up with chilblains across my left toes. If you haven’t heard of them, they’re a nasty business. Abrasions on the skin due to prolonged exposure to cold. This while wearing thick socks and slides. I felt most of the time like I was recording in a walk in cooler. That is, when I thought about how cold it was. Mostly I was just there, digging the wood and wire and the toasty sounds coming out of my amp.

The recordings are going smashingly well. This time round feels different than all the rest. A close pal, who often gets to hear the dailies of the new tracks, said there’s a levity to these songs that wasn’t there before. I feel that. Life is still not without its struggles. It never will be, but the music is good right now. That means a lot. It’s my meditation and place of stillness while we navigate these barbarically insane times.

I hope, when the new record comes out next year, that it reaches far and wide and, at the same time, that I remain mostly anonymous. It seems like the worst time in history to be a famous person. Here’s to success under the radar. Maybe I’ll start looking into getting my plumber’s certification…

K. xo

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How did it get so late so soon? It’s night before it’s afternoon. December is here before it’s June. My goodness, how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon?

– Dr. Suess

Persistence Of Memory – Salvador Dali, 1931

It’s that time of year when our feeds and minds are full of ways in which we might improve ourselves. Usually rooted in feelings of lack, we use the new year as some kind of barbed yardstick to quantify all the ways we don’t measure up. If I’ve learned anything this year, it’s that these feelings, the deeper ones, aren’t so easily tamed by taking up a hobby, losing weight, or any of the usual resolution suspects.

Earlier in the year, I found a book called When Things Fall Apart, written by Pema Chodron, a Buddhist nun with a wonderful perspective. It both reminded me and helped me newly see that only when we’re okay with the parts of ourselves that we can’t stand to look at or acknowledge can we be okay with anything.

The past year was the most difficult I’ve experienced. It dawned with continued worsening of the chronic pain that’s plagued me for the last few years. In February, I released Stereophile, which felt amazing, but was followed by zero interest from the general public and shops that I tried to get the book and record into. Not helpful was the fact that, due to chronic fatigue and spiritual exhaustion, I wasn’t able to, or interested in, putting forth the relentless effort it takes to promote any creative work. I then found out that I’ve a heart condition that’s going to require surgery later this year. It sounds like a standard procedure, but nonetheless added another thing to the list of maladies. In the early spring, a romantic relationship came to an end, one in which the friendship and familial aspects, just as, if not more important to me than the romance itself, were subsequently decimated in the ending’s wake. Early summer saw some standard bloodwork flag the possibility of a rare form of cancer for which there is no cure. It took until December 1st to get the final word. Turns out I don’t have cancer. Almost a half a year with that question hanging around. Egad. Add to all of this my role as solo householder and single parent to a beautiful, brilliant kid with a handful of her own challenges, and it’s fair to say there was enough cooking this year to leave a body wanting. There were many times I thought I might cave. I didn’t.

While the year was my hardest yet, it also offered great gifts. Revelatory is the word that comes to mind. Were it not for the intensity of the events I’ve listed, I wouldn’t have had the capacity to see where I stand. To own my behaviour and reactions. To begin befriending the parts made previously unbearable. In Chodron’s book, she talks about the importance of possessing unlimited friendliness toward ourselves. It sounds simple, but it’s dead elusive. We’re all so hard on ourselves. Our feelings of unworthiness eat us alive from within. They become the anger we inflict on others. The demons that drive us to addiction. They’re a departure from our innate humanity and basic self-worth. The work I put in this year has given me the ability to start seeing different possibilities. However tarnished by the hurt and suffering we endure, our hearts still shine. Whatever the depth of the darkness that surrounds, we’re still fundamentally okay. In the heat of the moment, clearly seeing what’s up is almost impossible at first. I’ve had recent experiences where I’ve been able to see where certain reactions are coming from, closer to the events themselves. This is usually after the reaction. With practice comes the ability to see it rise and catch it before it goes live.

Also present in 2025 were dear friendships. My appreciation for the support and understanding of a few close souls cannot be understated. Where nighttime reigned, there they were, reminding me of the dawn which was, always and inevitably, just round the bend. If you’re reading this, you know who you are. Thank you so much for always seeing me, and for your patience and love.

I’ve often berated myself for how far I have to go to be “whole.” The tandem filters of self-awareness and the things that hurt have a way of sending these messages. According to the Buddhist view, it’s all right here and available to us right now. With lots of life and twenty years of yoga under my belt, I understand that part. A life lesson revisited, from a perspective only experience can offer. I’m full of gratitude for seeing a bit more clearly. The ground needs constant, gentle cultivation.

If, from all I’ve said here, anyone is thinking that I’m breezing into the new year full of vim and vigor and ready to become instafamous for living my best life…I wish it were true (except for the nausea inducing instafamous for living my best life part). I came into the holiday season crawling across the finish line. The break has done nothing to improve my wellbeing. I’m currently on Herculean doses of meds, none of which are making my days pain free, but help enough to weather the day. I can feel my heart beating its odd time bebop rhythms in my chest and it’s dreadfully uncomfortable. My doc finally found a med that’s helping with the acute anxiety I started feeling partway through the year, which no amount of meditation could mitigate. It’s doing its job and then some. I wake up each morning feeling stunned psychologically and in dreadful pain from the chronic issues. My yoga mat (mindfully) mocks me from its dusty corner. I can’t remember the last time my body felt not only good enough, but average enough, to get through the day without deep discomfort. I list all of this, not for sympathy, but to illustrate how inspired I feel by the budding successes of Buddha-based technique I’ve had. If I can feel relaxed and okay with all of the crazy shit that’s going on, well, that’s an amazing thing to work toward.

So, here’s to us at the dawn of another calendar year. May we find more kindness for ourselves and each other. May childlike wonder and the wisdom of the ages be with us. May you and I continue to tread this chapter lightly, finding our way through the thick and thin of being, while the world rages on and time flies by.

As always, thanks for reading.

K. xo

by on

For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream

– Vincent Van Gogh

Let all the children boogie

– David Bowie, Starman

Saturday, October 4/2025. How did that happen? Here we are, rising to meet darker mornings and lighting the candles sooner in the evening. Or, in my case, the candles and the blue Christmas lights that I hung for the season around our mantle at home when we moved in to ours five years ago. They never got packed with the rest of the holiday swag. They were too cozy and amazing to not have all year round.

Today’s pic was created by my dear kid. She had a pal over a few weeks ago. I was pickin’ and singing’ while they were drawing and making slime. I guess she caught the music vibe and this was the result. I love how I look like a young goth boy and that I have no feet, floating along like a ghost. The goatee is on point and the Bowie tee is the coup de grace. Funny thing is this was how I looked in my twenties. The kid nailed it. I guess, apart from the black hair and eyeliner, not much has changed.

The new recordings are well underway. Vocals and acoustic guitar. The bare bones of five new tracks prepped and ready for an as yet unbooked drum session in the wilds of Belfountain, Ontario. I have some string and organ parts fleshed out for these ones. There are five more songs in the queue for acoustic guitar and vox bits. Ten songs feels like a bit much, but I can’t decide who won’t make the final cut. Well, there are about twenty-five hanging about. These ten feel like the strongest, culled from songs old and new. Some of the older numbers don’t feel lyrically congruent with the immediate current. The first four tunes came easily in the studio. Number five flipped me the bird. It’s one of the simplest guitar bits, but the one with the most grace and black space between the notes. These almost always require a different touch. For the audio nerds, I also went down a preamp rabbit hole, working on the vox and acoustic guitar chain, all the while working on getting the part recorded. It’s all moving forward nicely, with no shortage of madness and that feeling of absolute connection that keeps me returning to the music well.

Stereophile continues its journey. I’m working on getting the book into a local bookstore on consignment. An old friend of my brother’s contacted me through my YouTube channel, after listening to the record. He described it as dystopian. That concerned me and made me feel like I got it right. The lyrics are full of our potential for great love in a landscape that’s not thriving. I’m learning to live with these and all the pairs of opposites. The conflicting internal elements that are part of my everyday experience. Of feeling okay with not feeling okay, in a world where it so often makes sense to not feel okay.

I recently saw an FB post about Laurens van der Post, a South African educator, writer, philosopher and conservationist. He’d spent time in the desert with the Kalahari people. One night they asked him if he could hear the stars. When he said he couldn’t, they thought he was joking or having them on. Upon realizing he was serious, they were sad. They knew that someone who couldn’t hear nature must have the greatest sickness. This really hit me. We gaze at the stars, but have any of us caught up in this western living ever heard them? I remember sitting on the steps of our old place on summer nights. It was on a hill in a quiet neighbourhood. I could hear the garden growing. It made sounds. It was one of the most beautiful and stilling things I’ve ever experienced. We now live on a main street in Leslieville. There’s no more of that. In fact, last night while trying to track the acoustic guitar parts mentioned above, the traffic bustling by only a few from the front door made recording a terrible pain in the ass. I’m aware it was late rush hour on a Friday, but there it is. When she calls we have to answer.

Anyhoo, back to the stars. Imagine that. Imagine hearing them. I don’t often enough extol to good stuff modern life offers. There’s a lot to wonder at. I do riff quite a bit on how much we’re losing to modernity. Not hearing the stars is another reminder. It also reminds me that we’re connected to these brilliant lights in the sky. We’re made of the same love. While we reach and listen for the starsong on high, may we hear the same murmurations inside.

Let all the children boogie…

K. xo