Whoa. Back when I was a creative 25 year-old…

I found this somehow randomly in an old myspace account from when I was 25. Whoa. I used to be able to write, for real. Think I should use it for my bio?

I thought about the Army.

I also thought about playing French Horn for studio sessions in LA until I found out that only three people in the world do that. And I love Ben Folds (“Army”) but all puns aside, after that realization, I really did think about the Army. And the Marine Band. And the Air Force, all at the recommendation of my favorite college professor and mentor…until I remembered that I’m an artist and true artists see the beauty and the pain in everything and more often than not go insane. The regimen and the mental “boxiness” of the military mindset would only accelerate that, I’m certain.

I’ve had more than a handful of jobs already in my twenty-five short years, none of which have appealed to me. The least of these was filing government paperwork for the USDA Forest Service (one of several “desk” jobs I tried my hand at), seconded only narrowly by running shifts for the illustrious Starbucks Corporation in roughly six different geographical locations. I’ve waited tables, painted informative signs, sold cowboy boots and played for weddings. In all of this, I learned to write songs.

Songs, not music. Music is notes and tone painting and dynamics and all that expressive, yet replicative jargon I learned so well in college. Songs are heart, soul and breath. I’ve learned that life may kick you in the face, but if you laugh through your tears and cry into your pillow at night to the God who listens and comforts you and occasionally answers in a hushed voice, then will you find the key to opening the songbox of your soul. And when you’re a writer, or a painter or a pianist or an architect, you live dreams. You see the world in a sharper, clearer (although not always more recognizably beautiful) way. Tree branches seem to cut the air and ice crystals are diamonds. Relationships are unmeasurably deep and never quite what they seem. “Fifteen Hundred Miles” becomes a metaphor for distance of the heart and mind. And no other occupation will ever capture my imagination or my passion…I am both doomed and blessed to be a creator. The security blankets and the 401Ks and the 2.5 car-garage-suburban-American ideals will never be for me. So you see, I thought about the Army. And that was all.