Crazy

The book has been out for about a week. In all the commotion of getting the book out, I have barely been able to stop and enjoy it. I wrote a book! It seems funny when I think I about it. I wrote a book. And all indications, thus far, are that its a pretty good book. I shouldn't be surprised about that, I suppose. But when it was an idea in my head, it was just an idea. I have a million ideas. Most of the time, they just roll around in my head for a while, driving me crazy. But now and then, one of those ideas gets free and takes on a life of its own. I'm gonna make music. I'm gonna put out a CD. I'm gonna start a record label. I'm gonna be a photographer. I'm gonna take up nude photography. I'm gonna get a ph.d in psychology. Those were all just ideas. Crazy ideas. Then they all came to be. But they never seem quite real until they happen, because when they're rolling around in my head with all the other crazy ideas I have, they just seem so......well, crazy. But this one happened. I wrote a book.

So after a week of having people reading about my life, I'm sitting here taking it all in. I've had people sending me emails and text messages telling me how my book has touched them. I've had people tell me they know so many people who NEED to read this book. To be honest, that's what I was hoping for. I hoped my story would touch people. I hoped my purpose would be understood. I mean, that was the point. I've spent so much of my life feeling misunderstood. I wanted to write it all down, once and for all. I wanted to get it all out. I figured if I did, maybe someone else would be able to avoid feeling as crazy as I often feel. If the feedback I've gotten in the first week is any indication, it appears as though this crazy idea is going to accomplish its mission. Only time will tell.

There are lots of other crazy ideas up there in that head of mine. I've got some music I've been threatening to make. I'm about 90% done with a photography book too. But for now, I think I'm gonna see where this book takes me. Best selling author has a pretty nice ring to it. See. There I go again.

Tomorrow

Tomorrow it happens. The book will be out. My life in black & white for all to see. Its a strange feeling. Tomorrow there will be strangers that know me better than many of my family members do. There will be people who come up to me on the street, asking about events of my life as if they were scenes in a movie. The triumphs and horrors of my life, right there in perminent ink. Fair game for anyone who wants to know. I suppose that shouldn't seem strange, except that my life has never been exactly an open book. It's been quite the opposite. Even those closest to me know that there are things about me that you just don't ask. It's always been that way. But tomorrow, that will change.

I have, throughout my life, built walls around me. Most can't see them. But I can. Those walls have protected me, emotionally. They have shielded me from the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune that I have lived through. But, like a soldier bunkered down in a fort, I have come to realize that the walls you build to protect you will eventually be your prison. And so, tomorrow, I gain some freedom. I don't do it because I think anyone out there should really care what my life has been like. I do it because I no longer want to live behind the walls.

The premise of the book is that there are lots of conversations I never had with my father. He left before I could have them. Because of it, there are lots of things I didn't know. Figuring those things out took a very tough growing up process. Now that I've figured out a small piece of it, I kinda wanted to write it down for my son. Just in case. My intention is to live long enough to actually have those conversations with my son. But, because my life is always full of surprises, I'm writing this book almost as an insurance plan. I wanna know that, no matter what, he'll know about me, from me.

So, in turn, everyone else gets to know too. And I get to be free from the walls I built. Tomorrow.

Its finally here!! The book is done. Its scary and exciting at the same time. My life, put into words for the world to see. Things that I've spent most my life not speaking about in public are about to be common knowledge. It feels a bit like busting out of jail. The walls I built for myself are about to come down. This should be interesting.

Serenity

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference." - Serenity Prayer.

I was not always the man I am today. I can assure you of that. I am stronger today than I was yesterday. Fifteen years ago, I was light years from where I am now. Their are a great many differences between the man I was and the man I am. But, there are some similarities too. The devils that plagued me then still plague me now. The difference is, I have lots of experience fighting those fights. There's a strength that comes from all that experience. I guess you could say I'm battle tested. Still, the devil is a tricky bugger. He doesn't give up very easily. At the moment he sees that you're getting the best of him, the devil doesn't just pack it in. At that moment, he tends to try harder. He has this way of sending people and situations into our lives just to see if we'll crumble under the pressure. That's how he operates. He tests our will.

I have to admit, my life has been looking up lately. I've had some good days. But, that doesn't mean I don't have my battles. I do. In fact, the battle is starting to heat up a bit. In these moments when I wonder how I'll maintain the strength to carry on, I think of the serenity prayer. I learned it when I worked with addicts. Its powerful stuff. God, give me peace. Allow me to be still. Allow me to see that this battle will continue whether I like it or not. Give me the strength to do my part. Give me the wisdom to know when my part is to go sit down somewhere and wait. Give me the peace of mind that comes with knowing that you are on my side.

That's my prayer tonight. Amen.

One Day

I feel like I've been reading a lot about myself lately. I was in the newspaper the other day. I got to read an interview that was all about me. It was an interesting feeling. Doing the interview was an experience in and of itself. Having a bona fide journalist ask me questions about stuff that mattered to me, now that was interesting. Having someone know so much about me before we ever met was kinda weird. But it was nice too. I spend a lot of time feeling like no understands me. No one gets it. But this lady seemed to get it. She didn't ask about nonsense. She asked about the good stuff. That stuff that matters to me. I felt like I was being interviewed for Playboy or Rolling Stone, minus the riches and fame that generally go along with being asked to do one of those interviews.

After I read my article, I went and read my book. I had just gotten it back from the editor, so it needed my attention anyway. It was the first time I'd read it cover to cover. I wrote it and purposely stepped away from it for a minute. I think it helps with the editing process to be able to read it with fresh eyes. So I read my book for the first time yesterday. Reading the newspaper article and the book, and getting all the encouragement I've been getting lately, has brought me to an interesting place. I've become supremely aware of the depths from which I've come. I've struggled. I've seen pain almost beyond imagination. I have impacted lives. I know this, because it was purposeful. I have attempted to make my life mean something, and I think I've succeeded in that. Still, all this attention that has been paid to me and the life I've lived has almost made it harder to do what I've been doing all this time.

Because of the choices and sacrifices I've made in my life, I find myself once again struggling. Its nothing new to me. I've struggled before. But I always felt like I had blinders on before. I was struggling because I had no choice. I put my head down and kept pushing. But then, somewhere along the way, someone said, "Hey. Look how hard that guy is working. Look what he's done." I appreciate the acknowledgment. I really do. But it really does bring into focus what I've been through. Its kinda like a little kid with a cut. He doesn't cry until you show him the blood. Well, I'm starting to see the blood.

I was sitting with my friend last night, complaining about my current struggles. I don't do it often. I'm a relatively positive person. But, now and then, life gets heavy. In those moments, I start to wonder when this struggle will get easier. When will I get to not be poor? When will my ex stop torturing me? When will my kids truly understand what I'm trying to do for them? Every time I ask those questions, aloud or in my head, someone says, "This will all be worth it one day." I already know its true. Sometimes its me that says it. But today, when I'm as tired as I can ever imagine being, I only have one question. When will "one day" actually be today?

Nietzsche and the Sleeping Boy

Today is Wednesday. Like every other Wednesday this semester, I woke up bright and early. On Wednesdays, I work from 8:30am to 8pm in the counseling center at school. That's no big deal. I actually love the work. Forget that I don't get paid for it. I love what I do there. The real problem is that this morning, I felt like garbage. I had been up last night stressing about the fact that I'm broke. It happens from time to time. The miracles that I work with my finances start to wear off, and I remember that I don't have two nickles to rub together right now. So I woke up this morning in less than great spirits.

As is the custom on Wednesdays, I wake up early, get myself dressed, take my son to his mother's house. I always hope that he can stay asleep. No need for him to be awake that early. Daddy has to head off to school long before he does. So I pick him up out of bed and carry him to the car. Then I carry him to his mother's door and make my way down the road. This morning, though, as I picked up the 50lb lump of sleeping boy, I began to question myself. Why do I do this to him? I could just let him sleep at his mother's house during the week. He wouldn't complain. I'd have more time to write those papers. I'd have more time to rest my head. I'd probably have more money. I mean, my fellowship pays me just barely more than my child support payment. Some months I don't even break even. Taking on the responsibility of feeding and entertaining the kids during the week, when their mom would gladly do it, is not easy. So why do I fight for more time with them? Why am I not a weekend warrior like so many dads? And why am I in school anyway? Why don't I just go find myself some "regular" job? Why do I chase these big dreams of mine? Why do I spend my every waking moment hustling to build a life for these kids that they never asked for and don't yet understand? Why?

So I picked up my son this morning, like every Wednesday morning. He halfway woke up this time. I only knew it because he said to me, with his head buried in my shoulder, "I love you daddy." I responded, "I love you too buddy." After a second or two of silence, he said, "Daddy, I wouldn't change you for anything."

Nietzsche once said, "He who has a why to live can bear with almost any how." I believe what he meant was that once you figure out what you are living for (why), you can endure any struggle (how). Every now and then I ask myself why it is that I am willing to what I do. In those moments, I look at my babies, and I say, "Oh yeah. That's why."

Getting High on Scales and Arpeggios

I've been playing my horn a bit lately. Not a lot. But, in anticipation of the recording of a new single, I've been getting the rust out. I do this from time to time. When I can't stand the distance anymore, I go back to where I started. Sometimes it takes months. Sometimes its years. But eventually, I always end up sitting around with my horn in my hand like I did when I was twelve. I guess the heart approaches what it yearns. That's what Paul Simon said anyway.

Its funny to me that when I take a break from my trumpet, I always find myself saying I don't need it anymore. I'm not a trumpet player. I'm not a musician. I'm a psychologist now. I'm a photographer. I'm a writer. I've got all these things occupying my time. If I go a few weeks without playing, I start to tell myself that I don't miss it. Of course, deep down, I know its a lie. But I say it anyway. And then something happens and I need to play again. Last time, it was a chance to play with my brother. A few years ago it was a trip to Cuba playing for the troops. Before that it was a friend in town asking me to play for a spoken word performance. Its always something. Someone will call and say, "Can you play for....." I'll object. I'll fight it. I'll refuse. And in the end, I'll relent. I'll spend a few weeks getting my chops in shape, and I'll come out of hiding for a night. I'll play my horn. I'll feel that rush. In that moment, I'll forget that the rest of the world exists. It will be me and my horn and the music. Then I'll walk off stage and put my horn away for a while. Of course, it will hurt for a minute. But I'll get used to it. I always do.

So here I go again. The opportunity has arisen for me to record a song with a relatively well known singer. If all goes well, the song should get a little bit of attention. Certainly more attention than my music has ever gotten in the past. And so here I am, playing again. Practicing. Dreaming. Feeling that rush. Its kinda like getting high, I suppose. The ride is great on the way up. That feeling at the top is like none other. But the whole time, I keep thinking about how much its gonna hurt when I come back down.

Happily Ever After?

I've always liked romantic comedies. Pretty Woman. The Notebook. Those sappy "chick flicks" have always been my favorites. I don't try to hide it. I get plenty of harassment from the guys for it, but I don't mind. Those movies always touch my heart, no matter how silly or cliched they are. I like them anyway. I think the reason I like them is that I'm a romantic. I believe, deep down, that a fairytale love affair can actually happen. You meet a girl and all the sudden everything moves in slow motion. The music starts playing. She smiles. You smile. Its instant.

In today's world, that type of fairytale doesn't make much sense. Happily ever after seems like a by gone notion anymore. People have become a bit skeptical about the idea of fairytale love and soul mates and all that. Try telling your mother that you fell in love yesterday over breakfast and you're likely to get a lukewarm response at best. People just don't believe anymore. But I've always counted myself among the believers.

Still, I wonder why it is that when I find myself smack dab in the middle of my very own fairytale, I can't help but wonder if its real. Maybe because I've had my share of heartbreaks, I can't help but wonder which way this story's gonna turn out. When you watch it on a movie screen, there's really never any doubt. Even when the drama starts and they fight and go their separate ways, you know they'll get back together. When the girl is crying, and the rain is pouring, and the sad song is playing, you just sit with your popcorn and wait for the strings to come in. You know they will. All those twists and turn are only in there to make the ending more fulfilling. Because that's the point. The happily ever after. When it's your life, though, it isn't quite as simple and easy as that.

So here I am in the beginning of my very own romantic comedy. I don't get to sit with my popcorn and watch this one. I've got a part to play. I wonder how this one's gonna end. Somebody cue the strings.

The Difference between Bears and Boo boos.

I can think of a great many experiences I had when I was young that, at the time, felt like dire situations. When I went through them, I felt like they were the most awful and painful circumstances one could ever be in. Looking back, I've come to realize that those very situations that I dreaded being in are the ones that made me who I am today. My life is proof that anything that doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

Still, I'm now a parent. Being so puts a completely different slant on the who "that which doesn't kill you" bit. Anyone who has kids will tell you that there is this almost undeniable instinct that crops up as soon as your child is born. Its this undying urge to protect your child from any and every hurt and pain that the world has to offer. Although that instinct is helpful when fighting off the bear that sneaks into your cabin on your weekend camping trip, you can see how it might be problematic in other situations.

Every parent goes through this. Watch brand new parents. When their baby girl falls, mom and dad run to her aid. They kiss the boo boo, no matter how small and meaningless it might be. They give her hugs. They sing her songs and console her. Then watch a parent with several children. When their baby falls, they don't even get out of their chairs. They barely look up. They've figured out that that scratch will heal. More importantly, that fall will teach the baby a valuable lesson. So, they let it happen.

The thing I'm learning about being a parent is that, just like I did, my children have to take their lumps. I can't fix them all. I can't rid the world of all the broken glass on the sidewalk. I can't run background checks on every boy that knocks on the door. Even if I did, it wouldn't do much good. They need those scraped knees. They need that broken heart. There are times when I should go into superdad mode and beat up the bear. But there are also times when I have to let them get that boo boo. The lesson learned from it is more important than the tears they will cry in the process. The hardest part, for me, is knowing the difference.

The Unspoken Rules of Voyeurism

It's an interesting thing having a blog like this. I know a girl who has a blog about hot dogs. So, I often talk to her about hot dogs. There are people who have sports blogs. There are gossip blogs. My blog, though, is about my life. Its the rough, unedited thoughts I have about my existence. I sometimes write before I even think. I made a promise to myself that if I made this blog public, I would continue to write it as if it was private. Thus far, I think I have. But the interesting thing about having a public blog about my private thoughts is that, just like I do with the hot dogs, people tend to talk to me about it.

It shocks me to have people talk to me about my blog, because I imagined that there was an unspoken agreement. I imagined it to be a lot like getting dressed every morning with the blinds wide open. I notice the neighbor watching. I see her. She sees me. I don't mind that she's watching, because I rather like the attention. But when we see each other in the street, we pretend as if our intimate daily encounter never happens. Its as if she knows that acknowledging seeing me naked every morning would force me to close the blinds.

As I said, I imagined that my blog readers understood the unspoken rule. Keep looking in the window. Don't force any awkward moments, and I'll keep the blinds open. Clearly no one else saw the same soft core movies on HBO that I watched when I was a kid, because no one seems to understand the rules. People send me messages saying, "So I was at work reading your blog and...." or "I think your blog is really interesting Rueben." To be honest, I don't mind those comments so much. When they come from people outside of my daily life that just wanna let me know they were reading, I actually like them. Its the only way I know someone is looking in the window. But when people close enough to me to think maybe I'm talking about them say, "So was that me you were talking about?" or "I see from you blog that you......" I really kind of hate that. Its that awkward moment while my neighbor and I are grabbing our newspapers and she yells over the shrubs, "SO I SAW YOU NAKED EARLIER. COULD YOU MOVE A LITTLE TO THE LEFT NEXT TIME? THANKS!" Not cool.

I say all that to say this. If you wanna let me know you're looking in the window, great. I keep it open for a reason. But if you start asking me about that mole on my left butt cheek, I'm gonna have to close the blinds.

The Long Ball

There's a moment in baseball that I love. I love several moments in baseball. There's one that I love more than most. If you've ever watched a good hitter at work, there's this great moment that happens now and then. He steps up to the plate, the pitcher delivers a pitch, and the batter swings. Not an "I'm gonna crush this ball" kind of swing. Its just a nice clean swing. Then you hear the bat find that ball right in the sweet spot. Crack. Right at that moment, while most fans are standing up, watching the ball sail, waiting and wondering if it's gonna clear the fence, the best place to look is in that batter's eyes. See, he already knows. He felt it. He felt that ball meet that bat. The right pitch. Just the right spot on the bat. The perfect swing. It all came together. It's a matter of physics. That batter doesn't need to wonder if that ball has the distance. He's not looking for it at all. At that moment, he looks down at the grass in the infield. He tosses that bat over to the dug out with absolutely no urgency. He already knows that when that ball lands, its gonna be rolling around in the cheap seats. It's gone.

Life is like that sometimes. Sometimes it just goes right. Sometimes you just catch hold of that fast ball that the pitcher's been whizzing past you all game. Why? Who knows? Who cares? At that moment, the only thing that matters is enjoying that leisurely stroll around the bases. You don't run, because you want it to last a little while. That pitcher has had your number all game. This time, you had his.

It doesn't happen all that often, but now and then you knock one out the park. I like that moment.

If Danny Names Her

My buddy and I have a system. Because I’m single, it’s not at all rare for me to call my buddy, Danny, to talk about some girl I met. It might be a pretty girl I saw as I was walking the halls at school. It might be a girl I had a date with last night. There are a myriad of reasons I might see fit to mention a girl. So, there are a great many girls I might mention in the course of our conversations. Most of those girls get mentioned once or twice and never rise to any level of importance. Occasionally, though, some girl is particularly interesting. In order to keep this information straight, Danny has come to put these girls into a set of categories. Most are filtered out. He never asks their names, because he has come to realize that it’s not worth learning them. It only creates clutter and confusion in our conversations when he has forgotten or confused some girl’s name. So, if I mention a girl and he predicts that I may never mention her again, she just becomes an anonymous girl. Sometimes, but not often, I mention a girl and Danny decides that she cannot be anonymous. Usually because he believes he’ll need to mention her again, or because I’ve mentioned her enough times to prove it necessary, Danny will decide she needs a name. Not her actual name, mind you. She gets a nickname. It’s a sort of honor, really. He has deemed that she is important enough to need a name so that he might refer to her accurately in our conversations. Usually having something to do with geography, but sometimes referring to her career, Danny will use my description of the girl to create a name that we will use as code when talking about her.

There was Morgantown, because I met her at school in West Virginia. There was Jamaica, because she was originally from Jamaica. There was Sweden. Not that she was from Sweden. I met her immediately after Jamaica. The most significant difference he could find was that she was white, so he named her after the whitest place on earth he could think of. There was the teacher, because she is, well, a teacher. We couldn’t use geography there, because she lived too close to home. It would have been too confusing. There was New York, because I met her during a trip to New York. She actually became special because she was so pretty. She has become our measuring stick. If I mention a girl and say, “Danny, she’s so fine,” his response might be, “Okay but is she New York fine?” This is the system we have. One might say that the perfect girl would be cool like Morgantown, as fine as New York, and…… I digress.

There is, though, one other category. It’s rare to reach it. If a girl rises to the status of being considered a fixture in my life, Danny learns her name. It takes some time. In fact, there are only three girls in my adult life that he actually refers to by name. I married (and divorced) the first one. The other two were significantly long relationships. That’s it. Those three. Everyone else has had a nickname. It’s a predictive system, I suppose. Danny knows me. He is rarely wrong. If she gets a nickname, she’ll probably be mentioned a bit.

So this morning I’m talking to Danny. We are talking about girls, of course. I had realized that there was a girl I’d mentioned a few times this past week and that we hadn’t agreed on a name. I think I had referred to her by her job, but it hadn’t really stuck. So I asked, “What are we gonna call her?” He responded, “I think this one is gonna have to be called by her birth name.” Of course I protested. It has only been a week, after all. Seems a bit premature to me. But, it’s a predictive system, as I said. “Its like that?” I asked. “Just like that.” I guess we’ll find out.

Doin' What I Gotta Do

I heard a young brother, one whom I know and love, say, "Doin' what I gotta do." While I can understand and appreciate the sentiment, I'm afraid it's a trap. We young brother's get caught in this trap pretty easily. Our lives are hard. Our struggles are longstanding. In our attempts to deal with our circumstances, we do what it takes to get by. Or do we?

Do what I gotta do is one of those catch phrases. It means I'll do whatever it takes to get out of this situation I'm in. The problem is that it has also become an excuse. Folks have found lots of ways to overcome a great many obstacles in life. Some are hard. Some are easy, or so it might seem. But we naturally gravitate towards the ones that feel easier or faster. A quick fix is a good fix, right? Maybe. But often times, those quick fixes are not the best choices, all things being equal. And that's where the catch phrase comes in. As a justification for doing the wrong thing, we say, "Doin' what I gotta do."

But, there's a problem with "Doing what you gotta." See, when you "do what you gotta", you are essentially insuring that you will be required to do it again tomorrow. Why? Because the quick fix is never a lasting fix. Its like telling a lie. When you lie, you have to remember the lie so you can tell it tomorrow. Tell enough lies and the burden of those lies becomes far more problematic than the original and perhaps uncomfortable truth.

The trick is, when you chose an action as a solution to a problem, that solution shouldn't create new problems. If it does, those problems should, in theory, be significantly less troublesome than the original problems. Otherwise your solution is counterproductive and therefore a bad idea. Too often, doing "what we must" really means doing what we probably shouldn't, because we don't have the patience and strength to do what we should. When we do this, we put ourselves in the position to have to do these things over and over again. We are not actually fixing our problems. We are putting them off.

I say all that to say this. Young brother, don't do what you gotta do. Do what will change your tomorrow for the better. You are struggling today. Accept it. Live it. But put in work to make tomorrow a little better for you and yours. That way, tomorrow, you won't being saying, "Doin' what I gotta do." You'll be saying, "Doin' what I wanna do."

Rueben and the Pips

You know that song. Gladys Knight sang it. It goes, “If anyone should ever write my life story, for whatever reason there might be……” Well, it just so happens that I did. I wrote my life story. I wrote it because it has occurred to me that, in many ways, my life has come full circle. I lost my father when I was very young. Because I lost my father, I spent a lot of years trying to figure this whole man thing. And now, here I am trying to teach this man thing to my young son who is very close to the age I was when I lost my father. I am, coincidentally, not much older than my father was when he died. My daughter is now 17. That’s the age I was when I became a father. It’s all quite surreal, when I think about it. I think about it pretty often.

So I wrote it all down. My life, as I see it. Just like the song says, I’ve had my ups and downs. Unlike Gladys, though, I can’t necessarily say that the downs have been few. I’ve probably had more than my fair share of bad days. I mean, I was there when my father died. I was seven. How many people can say that? Really. When I wrote all this stuff out, these ups and downs that have been my life, I did it in a relatively matter of fact way. That’s how I think. It is what it is. No frills, no thrills. No artful suspense and colorful prose. Here’s what happened. I guess its because that’s how it all happened. Matter of fact. I’m not one to spice it up or sugar coat it. I lived it. I’m still here. I suppose that means I’m okay. But, when its all written out like that, it becomes clear that I’ve lived some life. There’s no question about it. I’ve earned my stripes.

Gladys says, “You’d be there, between each line of pain and glory, because you’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” Now I don’t know who Gladys was talking to. But as I read through my life, line by line, I know who I see. Her name is Renae Brock. I call her Dre. She hates when I call her that. I started when I learned that the Spanish word for mother was madre. I shortened it. It stuck. And in my life, so has she. Every time I’ve fallen, she’s caught me. Every time I’ve gotten up, she’s been there to pat me on the back. From beginning to end, she’s in there.

Lots of people love their mothers. Its human nature. She gives you life. She’s the first person on earth you meet. There’s a bond there that can’t be denied. But this one is different. She’s something special. She made three kids who shouldn’t have been okay, be okay. She made us stronger than most, in fact. One guy put it in perspective for me when he observed, “Y’all ain’t just doing okay. Y’all don’t just have good jobs and whatever. Y’all tearing sh#t up!” Maybe that’s true. If it is, I blame my mother.

After writing my life story for the world to see, one thing has become clear. Maybe two. First, I love my mother. Second, I owe her everything I have and more. Thanks Dre.

Lamenting Loves Loss

I lost a young love once.
When it began I was a kid.
It died of injuries suffered
from all the childish things I did.

I fell so deep in love once
that it had me struck with fear.
Held that love so tight I lost it
in attempts to keep it near.

I lost a love before I had it,
and it was the strangest thing.
Looked just like love in the beginning,
but it turned out to be a fling.

Now I've lost so many loves
that its been hard for me to see
whether I've been losing love
or maybe loves been losing me.

Schizoartistic Disorder

I've said it a million times before. Art is my sanctuary. Its my medicine. But medicine's a funny thing. In my business, medicine rarely fixes anything. It generally just masks the symptoms. As soon as you stop taking your medicine, the symptoms come back. And so it is with me. Art helps me drown out the voices. I know they're still talking. I just can't hear them so much when the music is playing.

When I start an artistic project, its usually because I need an outlet for my frustration. But because my outlet works so well, I sometimes forget what it was that I was frustrated about. This tends to leave me open to being blindsided. When I wrap up some project, high on the creative juices, I often forget that I got high for a reason. Then I come back down to earth and remember.

I spent the last two months on an artistic high. Movies. Music. Books. Photography. Its been nonstop. And now, as I wrap up most of these projects, I'm smacked with the realization that the summer is over and I'm back to the business as usual. I can already hear the voices calling me. Someone hand me my pills.

Next?

What a summer. I was a finalist in a modeling contest that put me on TV and all over the newspaper and the internet. I was the guest speaker at a celebration of the Black community in my town. I officially accepted a national fellowship from the American Psychological Association last week. My music was accepted to iTunes sometime in the last few weeks. I finished writing my first book and wrapped up filming on my first movie this week. In fact, shooting ended this afternoon. I submitted my book to a possible publisher this evening. In a few day, I'll start school again.

When I started the summer, my plan was to do research. I had started a research project at school and was excited to do my very own project. But, because of personnel problems at school, that project was put on hold until the fall. So, I had to fill my time. I suppose I did.

It feels like I've been going non-stop for two months. I can't remember when I last took a break. Then again, I don't like breaks. When I finished the book and the movie all in the same week, it sort of left me with nothing to do. My first thought was, "What's next?"

I suppose one day I'll slow down. One day I'll relax. But not today. Today I work. Funny that I even call this stuff work. I mean, I love this stuff. Learning psychology, making music, making movies, writing books..... Nothing could be more fun to me. This is my dream come true. This is the life I wanted.

So, as I think about that new song I have been wanting to release, that research project waiting for me at school, that photography book I was supposed to finish this summer, and the next movie idea, some might wonder where I find the time and the energy to do all this. I wonder that too sometimes. I'd figure that out if I had a minute to think. But who has time to think?!

Here Goes Nothing....

So I finished the book. Not that book. The other book. I know. Its tough to keep up. Its not easy for me to keep up either. So anyway, I wrote the 1st draft of my book. Its sort of autobiographical. Its about growing up without a father. More specifically, its about becoming a man and never having an example to follow. I'm pretty happy with it, so far.

This book, for me, takes my creative explorations to a new level. My art is usually relatively abstract. I play jazz music. I can express my feelings about a great number of things and never really have anyone know exactly what I'm feeling or thinking. I take artistic nude photos. Its an expression of my interests (obviously), but its not really a commentary that lends itself to intellectual understanding or even critique. But this book is different. I talk about my childhood. I talk about my father. I talk about my mother. I talk about my children, my thoughts on life, and everything in between. The message is far from abstract.

I've had an interesting life thus far. It has made me who I am. I've always said that if people only knew..... Well, I guess we'll find out.

iTunes? Really?

So I'm flipping through the iTunes store, as I often do, and I decide to put my name in the search engine. I had submitted a few tunes from my solo album a month or so ago. I never heard anything, so I assumed they didn't accept me. But, just for fun, I thought I'd see what happened when I put my own name into iTunes. Well, much to my surprise, there I was. Lord only knows how long it had been up there. I don't even know how to check if any units have sold. But there I was.

Its a pretty strange feeling really. I bought a couple Gladys Knight tunes last week on iTunes. I bought some Phil Collins. Before that I bought this Lady Antebellum tune that a friend of mine let me hear in her car. I've bought James Brown on iTunes. Jay-Z. Billie Holiday. John Mayer. Those guys are all supposed to be on iTunes. And then there's me.

I remember I was at a party one time and a guy came up to me and told me that I was in his iPod. It took me a second to realize what he meant. At first I thought he meant that I had somehow stolen his iPod. Then it hit me. My music is in his iPod. Why, I couldn't tell you. But it was. I knew that he knew some people who I'd given a copy of my CD to, so it made sense after I thought about it. But every time someone tells me they were just listening to my CD, I have the same reaction. How did you get it, and why were you just listening to it.

So now, years and years after I made my CD, its on iTunes. For those that don't know me, my music will be brand new. In a sense, that's kinda cool. There's the potential for a brand new audience for my music. But it just means that there will now be the possibility of true strangers, in any city I might travel to, to say, "Hey man, you're in my iPod." My response will probably always be, "Really? Why?"

The Blind man and the Fool

I remember back in college, a bunch of us were sitting around talking about the "what ifs" of life. Someone one asked my buddy, Leon, what if he found out that his girlfriend had been cheating on him while he was off at school. He said, "I would thank her." We all thought he was being silly until he explained his logic. He explained that if she had been cheating on him, then she wasn't what he thought she was and that he would appreciate that she had shown him what he couldn't see. That always stuck with me as profound wisdom. Steven Covey wrote about a similar kind of logic when he talked about paradigm shifts. The idea is that reality is always what it is. Truth cannot change. Our perception of it, however, is what really matters. Perception's change all the time. Something that appears at first to be one thing, turns out to be quite the opposite. Then when you look back on it with clearer vision, you see all those little hints that you chose to ignore or missed all together. The truth was always there. You just couldn't see it.

I find this idea particularly fascinating in relationships. Especially MY relationships. How do things that are so wrong appear to be so right? How do all the signs, which in hind sight will undoubtedly point to inevitable disaster, somehow seem to point to romantic bliss at the onset of things? And how is it that these signs are so often perfectly clear to everyone but the one that needs them most?

They say that love is blind. I suppose that makes sense. Love clouds the vision and makes the wise man into a fool. But as a wise man once told me, the only difference between a genius and a fool is time. If when you close your eyes and leap, you fall into happiness, that foolish jump will look awful smart. But if you're not so lucky, that same decision looks like a fool's errand. The problem is, only time can tell that tale.

One of these days time is gonna call me the genius and not the fool. Until then, I'm still blind jumping. Look out below.

Lights, Camera,......

Today is the first day of shooting for my movie. I say that as if there will be lots of days of shooting. There will likely be two. But, I'm sitting here waiting on the crew. This is my first film. I don't really know what to expect. I'm working with a director. I'm working with actors. I'm not used to this stuff. I'm used to flying solo. The creative juices have always been my responsibility. Today will be a little different. My job today will be as more of an observer. I write the flick. But then I passed the torch to a director to carry for a bit. It's gonna be up to him to make my dream come alive. That's a little scary for me. But in a good way.

I remember when I had my first photo shoot. I had this same feeling. That "Is this real?" feeling. Its like I'm asking myself if what I'm about to do is what I'd envisioned. Will it fall apart? Will it be great? I had the same feeling when I took the stage for the first time with my horn in my hand. I had practiced. I had prepared. But getting on the stage while people are watching is different than practicing. And that first photo shoot, just like that first gig, felt just like I thought it would. Amazing.

Here I am, standing backstage, horn in hand, waiting for the downbeat. Waiting for the announcer to say, "Ladies and gentlemen......"

Full Exposure

I'm a writer! I suppose I've been a writer for a while. I studied writing. I've been writing poetry, fiction, and biographical work for years now. But writing and publishing are two different things. In my opinion, you're not a writer until someone else says you are. 3rd graders write papers. No one publishes that. So, when your work ends up in print somewhere, then you're a writer. Well, this morning I'm a writer.

My local paper decided to print my last blog entry as an editorial piece. And so, this morning, my words are printed for all to see. I always knew I'd get published one day. What I didn't know was how strange it would feel. Especially because they printed something that was written without the intention of being printed in that format. They printed my raw unedited thoughts. My life. My experience. And in a few hours, everyone in my little neck of the woods will get to read it. That's a little bit scary. I've never had an audience this big for anything I've done. When I write my blog, I don't imagine that many people read it. Those that do, in my mind, are my friends. Its a captive audience, so to speak. Its intimate. Its close. Its just me and my pals telling stories. But the newspaper? That's exposure. That's public. I must say, I feel a bit naked.

In a few hours, my raw, uncut thoughts will be hitting everyone's kitchen table, beside their cup of coffee and their scrambled eggs. I hope I've got on clean underwear.

A Talk With the Elders

I was recently asked to give a speech about the Black community in my little town. The town is celebrating it's 200th birthday, and they wanted to acknowledge the storied history of the Black people in the area. So, they asked me to speak. I still can't figure out what made them do that, but I'm awfully glad they did. I guess because I'm a researcher now, I didn't feel right speaking about something of which I didn't know. I mean, I'm 34 years old. What do I know of the past 200 years in my town? So, I decided to ask a few questions.

My idea was to speak to my elders in an attempt to gather a bit of history about my community. I figured it would make it easier for me to speak about the town with some authority. What I got, though, was an education in life. See, old folks, like children, speak the unedited truth. They do it because they don't have to edit anymore. So when I asked them what my little town was like, they told me more than I asked. They told me how LIFE is supposed to be.

Eighty something year old Black folks have seen a different type of life. They've experienced things that we tend to try to forget ever happened. The very idea that there were jobs and areas, stores and restaurants that were off limits, not because of their means but because of their skin color, was outside of the scope of my understanding. But what was even more interesting to me was that they told these stories with such pride. The pain that they had endured didn't break them. It made them. They say that which does not kill you......Well these were some strong folk.

Being a relatively progressive soul, I have always thought of myself as knowledgeable. I have read my history. I have paid attention. I'm not afraid to say I know more than most about what my people have been through. But that's in the abstract. When you sit down with the people who were there, it changes the view a bit. Seeing tears in the eyes of a man who had endured racism as he pioneered in his work place. Seeing the joy in the face of an old lady speaking about the first Black doctor in her town. Hearing stories about not being served at a lunch counter. When you see it on TV, its like watching a movie. When you shake their hands, it touches you in a different way.

I am a part of that story. My father bought a home in an area that, before him, had never been open to Blacks. In fact, the neighbors even petitioned to buy the house from him. The guy next door put up a fence in the driving rain the night we moved in. As a kid, I never understood why they had lined that fence with grease. It took years to realize that it was so that my brother and I wouldn't climb over. We used to get into fights. We used to be called names. I always knew MY story. But after speaking to my elders, I knew that it wasn't really my story at all. It was our story. And in our story, my little part wasn't that bad. Before my father, it was unthinkable to live in the house that I took for granted as I grew up. My son truly has no idea that there are places in this town that have still never been home to Blacks. He has no reason to think that. But now I know he has reason and need to know it.

Knowing the story has changed me. It has given me a greater respect for my history, my elders, and my life. It has given me a brand new perspective on the state of my community. The bitterness, divisiveness, and entitlement that many of my peers feel is laughable when you consider the pride and connectedness that the elders felt in the face of odds my peers and I could scarcely imagine. Those folks put their heads down and made a way. No matter what. And because they did, I live a life that they could only imagine.

I don't know why they chose me to speak. I'm sure glad they did. I can only hope I did them justice. I can only hope I made them proud. If I live 80 years, I can only hope that I do as much for my community as those elders did for me. I've got work to do.

When did they take down the sign?

When did they take down the sign? You know, the one that said, "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses." When did they take it down? Because for years folks came. They came by the boat load. To find freedom. And their children were born free. Americans. And now, when a new, darker people, a people speaking a new language have come to find that same freedom, suddenly folks who's parents came to find freedom themselves want to turn off the lamp and close the door. But when did they take down the sign?

What You Wish For

I've always wanted to be a model. Well, I shouldn't say always. For as long as I've been able to get attention from girls by standing around half naked, I've liked the idea of being a model. That started round about the age of 12. Being the attention starved middle child that I was, I would do just about anything to get attention. It didn't take me long to figure out that there was a negative correlation between the amount of clothing I wore and the amount of attention I got. So an occupation where being half naked was the norm seemed like a good idea to me. As an adult, I pretty much let go of the idea of becoming a model. My need for attention was out weighted by my fear of rejection.

But a funny thing happened a few weeks ago. When I saw a modeling contest online in which my only requirement was to send in a few pictures, I saw my opportunity. I'd be able to say I attempted my childhood wish without actually taking much action. I'd also be able to pass off the rejection that I'd undoubtedly receive as a product of the overwhelming response that internet contests get. But then the unexpected happened.

Now, all of the sudden I'm reliving my childhood fantasy and getting all kinds of attention at the same time. The funny thing is, it's not as fun as I imagined it would be. Although I love all of the attention this little contest has gotten me, being looked at isn't always enough anymore. When I was young, having girls looking and staring was the goal. As an adult, I'd much rather be admired for my mind than my body. But it doesn't work that way. A model gets looked at. That's the point. I guess I should be careful what I wish for.

R.I.P.

One of the most interesting things I ever had to do was write my obituary. We did it as an exercise in one of my counseling classes for grad school. It made me think about what I hope to accomplish in life. It made me think about what I'd like for people to know about me. It read: Dr. Rueben Nathaniel Brock died today at the age of 75. Dr. Brock was most known for the string of Grammy winning albums he released in his early years, but most recently he also won a Pulitzer Prize for photography. Brock wrote and directed several films and was active as a model. Dr. Brock was world renowned for his work with children. A doctor of psychology, Brock was a pioneer in behavior modification through the arts. Brock leaves behind a wife, a daughter, and a son. Brock's son, Rueben, will take over as CEO of Brock Ventures, the multi-billion dollar company that handles Brock's entertainment, education, real estate, and philanthropic endeavors. .......................Give me a minute. I'll get there.

V.I.P.

So my little town is celebrating 200 years of existence this summer. One of the events of the bicentennial is an exhibit showcasing the history of the Black community here in good ole Washington, Pa. There will be old photos, memorabilia, choirs singing, and a guest speaker. That's all relatively normal and uninteresting except for who they decided to call upon as the guest speaker. Yup. You guessed it. Me.

When the person running the show called me, she said they were hoping to get someone who was young and contemporary, yet still a pillar of the community. And then there's me looking around trying to figure out who she's referring to. Kinda like that moment at the club where the finest girl in the room is staring in your direction with the come hither eyes and you're going, "Wait. What? Who me? Seriously? You're looking at me?" Forget about the fact that you went to this club because you knew she'd be there. Never mind the fact that you've been staring at her all night. When she stares back, its nothing short of confusing.

I've been working in social service for the past twelve or so years. I've been in music and the arts since I was a teenager. I started my first business at age 21. (I sold printing supplies, like business cards and letterhead.) I got national distribution and major radio station airplay for my own record label while sitting in an office across the street from Shorty's Hot Dogs. Everything I've done has, in one way or another, been an attempt to let my light shine. I have been attempting to be an example for the young black kids of my town for a really long time. I refused to leave Washington when pursuing the music business because I decided long ago that if I were going to make it in music or anything else, I was going to do it right here. Why? I just believe it can be done. I want to show all those kids who don't have hope that there is a reason to have hope. I have dedicated my career in psychology to the study of the phenomenon of role modeling and how it effects young peoples beliefs and choices. Make no mistake, I am where I am on purpose. I didn't just end up at this club. I waited in line a long time to get in. But now that I'm here, I'm left scratching my head trying to understand when and how I arrived.

I hear stories about my father and the things he did for people here. The way they talk about him and others of the "old guard" make them sound a little bit like saints. I have this image in my head of what a leader looks like. I have this idea of what a role model might FEEL like. I can tell you, I don't feel like that. I'm just a guy. A regular guy. I'm broke. I'm struggling to make my dreams come true. I'm piecing things together in an attempt to be a good dad and a good psychologist at the same time. I make mistakes. I do stupid things. I think I imagined that one day I'd wake up and realize that I'd "made it." Apparently not. Or maybe today is that day.

It was with great honor that I accepted the invitation to speak at the bicentennial event. But giving a speak is easy for me. Accepting that the pretty girl was staring at me and is now walking over my way is gonna take some time. I hope she walks slowly.

Deep Breathing and ADHD

I started pre-production on a short film today. Its a film I wrote a few years back and never really had the nerve to move forward with until now. Its exciting and at the same time scary for me, because film is brand new. Every time I venture out onto these limbs I tend to climb onto, I have the same fear: will they get it? Not so much in the sense that I fear people might not like the film. Some people will. Some people won't. More than that, though, I wonder if people will ever truly understand my purpose in all of this.

I remember having a conversation with my daughter once where I was attempting to explain to her my master plan about making music and photography and movies, and writing books, psychology, and so on and so forth. I was excited to share my dreams. I was excited to be so bold as to dream my dreams. Her reaction.... "Dad, why do you wanna do so many things?" The question is fair enough. Its one that has been asked of me by so many and on so many occasions that I am beginning to think my answer doesn't make sense. But the answer is simple. I can't help it. Its like creative Attention Deficit Disorder. One minute I'm knee deep in music, the next I'm taking pictures. Then, all of the sudden, writing poetry. And now I'm making a movie.

When you do one thing, and do it really well, one of the problems that can arise is that your talent becomes your identity. Michael Jordan IS a basketball player, in most peoples eyes. He's not a guy who happened to play basketball. The problem with that is that when you stop doing that thing, it kinda looks weird. Like when Jordan played baseball. People thought of him as a basketball player attempting to play baseball, not an athlete that switched sports. What we might not realize is that perhaps he liked both sports equally and just happened to make it big in basketball. On the other side of that coin is the person who does many things. What do we call him? Jack of all trades, master of none. It implies a lack of commitment and focus. Anything he does in one genre is automatically compared to things he has done in others, whether the comparison is reasonable or not. So, unless he's a master of ALL trades, he is criticized by default.

When I see old friends, it's inevitable that they will ask, "Do you still play?" They are referring to my trumpet, of course. I never know how to answer that question. The simple answer is no. I rarely play my trumpet anymore. Even though I write music often enough, it rarely calls for me to play my horn. But when I give the simple answer, I can see their eyes sink. Its as if I've disappointed them by letting go of what they knew to be my dream. What many don't realize is that I did not give up on the dream. I expanded it. Somewhere along the way, I stopped being a trumpet player. I became an artist. I'm a poet. A photographer. I musician. A writer. And with any luck, a filmmaker. I love them all equally. Because most people I know have heard my music but never seen any of my other work, they tend to see this as a silly idea. The scatter brained musician that can't focus. But for me, the title of musician does not apply. I'm just a guy. I love to create. Its like breathing to me. If I stopped, I'd die. If I only did it one way, I'd feel suffocated. So, as I begin this new endeavor, while somehow still working on several others that I've got going on, remember this. I'm just trying to breathe.

Broken Hearts and Shattered Dreams

Broken hearts and shattered dreams
That’s all he’s got, or so it seems
From years of loving hard and true
And doing things not easy to
Romantic kid, ambitious fool
Heart wide open, world so cruel
Broken hearts and shattered dreams
That’s all he’s got, or so it seems

A heart that breaks but always mends
A will that only slightly bends
But will not break or be deterred
Even by a dream deferred
A masochist with foolish pride
And strength that will not be denied
But broken hearts and shattered dreams
That’s all he’s got, or so it seems

Remove the heart, for pities sake
For one won’t have, then one can’t break
Erase the dreams and clear the mind
There is a bliss in being blind
But take those things and what would be
For this is his identity
Its all he’s got, or so it seems
Those broken hearts and shattered dreams

And so it is and shall it be
He walks this path religiously
Never a stop along the way
Ask where he’s going, he will not say
What’s in that bag he holds so tight
The one he grips with all his might
Its all he’s got, or so it seems
His broken heart and shattered dreams

Move Up Day

My daughter is a junior in high school. She'll only be so for a few more hours. In our school district, they have this tradition called move up day. Every grade sits in their designated spot in the gym. Freshman sit in one corner. Sophomores in theirs. So on and so forth. Then, after some pomp and circumstance, everyone gets up and "moves up" to their new spot. So in a few hours, my daughter will be a senior in high school. She's a bit nervous about it. I suppose I should be too. Surprisingly, though, I am not nervous as much as I am grateful.

My daughter, who is currently a junior in high school, was born when I was a junior in high school. So, in a lot of ways, life came full circle for me this year. My daughter reached the age that I was when she came into my life. They say that having a kid makes you grow up faster. I am here to tell you that this statement is not entirely true. When I was 16, I was a boy. When I was 17, a child was born, but I was still a boy. The child being born didn't change me much. What did change me, though, was having a little girl watching me live my life.

I remember driving her around one day. She was about 3 or 4 years old. Just old enough to form sentences. Someone cut me off in traffic, and I reacted the way I normally would. "What the *&%! are you doing?!" Then a little voice whispered from the back seat, "Why did you say that bad word?" It hit me. Someone is listening.

I remember having an argument with my wife one day. This was not odd. Before she was my wife, we argued. When she was my wife, we argued. Now that she's not my wife, we still argue. But the arguments changed at some point. See, before my baby girl was old enough to pay attention, I wasn't the nicest guy in the world. But I remember arguing with her mother one day and thinking to myself that I had to at least be relatively nice. After all, baby girl is listening. Thats when life changed. That's when I realized that my job as her dad was to teach her what men look like, sound like , and ACT like. So, in order to do it right, I'd have to act like a man. Not a boy. Actions speak louder than words, right? And thats how this boy became a man. Not at age 17, but somewhere along the way.

Over the years I have gotten better at it. And every step of the way, she has been there to point me in the right direction. Not by saying so, exactly. She's still a kid. She doesn't even know she's directing my steps. But that little voice that I heard in the back seat of the car that day rings in my head an awful lot. Before I do any dumb boy thing that I might wish I could do, I always hear that voice saying, "Daddy why did you...." Its usually enough to talk me out of it.

So as I look at my little girl, who is about to be a senior in high school, I think of the boy that I used to be. I think back on the last 17 years of my life. I can't pinpoint the day that it happened, but somewhere in there my little girl taught me to be a man. One of those days, I'm not sure which one, but one of those days was my move up day. For that, I have to thank my baby girl. Good luck today, my love.

Shakesphere and Mr. Ecklund

I was just reading the blog of a friend of mine. She's a teacher. From what I can tell, she's a good one. I make that distinction because they aren't all good ones. But the good ones make all the difference. At least they did for me. See, I was that kid. I was that sad case. That little black boy who's father died when he was seven. That kid who had so much potential. You know the story. You've seen the after school special. The kid that could go either way. Smart as a whip, but doesn't much care. Seems a little distracted, but look at that smile. That was me. Mom's working hard just to feed me and my siblings now that dad is gone. I'm getting into mischief at school. Nothing serious, mind you. Just talking loud and saying nothing. Skipping class. Not doing my work. You know that kid. That was me.

I remember always wondering why people looked at me the way they did. It took me years to realize what that look meant. It was the "oh poor kid" look. That look of pity that you give someone when you don't know how to fix them but you really want to. I got that look a lot. People used to say, "If you would only try harder, you could do anything." People say that, you know, and I'm not convinced they really even believe it themselves. But they say it anyway. The idea of potential is an interesting one. But, lest I get on some psychological rant about the infinite potential of a child, I'll save that part for another entry. I digress....

So there's me. That sad case. Flirting my way through high school, good at girls and not so good at geometry. Skipping English class to practice my trumpet. Not caring at all that the only subject I got an A in was band. And then there was Mr. Ecklund. Dennis Ecklund. English. Senior year. By about November of my senior year, I had already been awarded a scholarship to go to music school, so Mr. Ecklund was lucky to have ever met me. I tended to not be in class my senior year. The band director and I had an understanding. I needed to practice. I didn't need much else. So, I got a lot of late slips and other teachers got a lot of excuses. But Mr. Ecklund saw something in me. I suppose they all did, but he decided not to JUST give me that look and that "potential" speech. He decided to make me a bet. He bet me that I couldn't get a B. Me being a cocky little so and so, I never backed down from a challenge. Of course, I was too stupid to know it was a trick. That quarter was Hamlet. Hamlet is not easy for a 18 year old that pretty much only reads music. So I had to go to class if I intended to know what the heck old William was talking about. Of course, I thought it was stupid. It was a waste of my time. That's actually where the bet came from. I was mouthing off in class about how I didn't need blah blah blah. Mr. Ecklund saw an opportunity. I fell for it. We had to learn a monologue. That was the graded part. He bet I couldn't earn a B on it. I chose "To be or not to be."

And so it was that for a few weeks that quarter, I actually paid attention. Of course I was doing it out of spite. Who's the old white dude to tell me I CAN'T get a B on some 5 trillion year old play?! I'll show him. Well, I suppose I did. I worked. I read. I went to class. Along the way, I started to like it. Until that moment, I had not liked anything other than music. I had not cared about anything but me. And for a couple of weeks, I was pushing myself to something different.

Here I am, 17 years later. I look back on that moment in time and I can honestly say that it changed me. It took years for me to realize how and why. But it did. I got my B on the monologue. But that's not the point. The point is, Mr. Ecklund was one of the few people that didn't look at me with that pity look. The smile he gave me after I stood in front of him and acted out Hamlet's famous speech was not one of pity but of pride. In that moment, I had REACHED the potential. It changed the way I saw myself. It changed what I thought of my abilities. Years later, after I had left music school, I enrolled at the University of Pittsburgh where they allowed me to design a major for myself. I studied all kinds of things. Film. Dance. Photography. Poetry. Fiction writing. And.....yup, literature. I wrapped them all into a behavior modification system for helping wayward kids like me. When I really think about it, I can say for sure that I wouldn't have done any of that without learning that monologue.

Everyone knows a kid like that. The kid with all the potential. Everyone gives him that speech. "If you'd only just try......." People say it, probably not ever realizing what would happen if the kid listened. I mean really listened. But I am that kid. And I listened. I've got two college degrees, and I'm working on a third. I've helped more kids than I can count. I've lectured on my own research at a major university. I've had my music on the radio. I've had my photography published. In a few years, I'll be Dr. Brock. My daughter, who was born around the same time I learned that monologue, is graduating from high school next year. I play ball in the backyard with my son every chance I get. I'm that kid with all the potential, only I am reaching it. I truly believe that I can do anything. I prove it everyday just by being and doing all that I am. And in a strange way, I owe it all to Shakesphere and Mr. Ecklund.

The Independence of Solitude

There is a really great quote that I like from Self Reliance. I read it years ago, and I've been contemplating it ever since. It goes like this. "It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinions; it is easy in solitude to live after your own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude." So what does all that nonsense mean? It means its easy to be yourself when you're by yourself. But its hard to be yourself when the world is watching. Emerson said it. I agree. It sounds funny though, when you think about it. Its hard to be yourself. How can that be? It takes practice to be yourself?. At least for me, it does. See, I'm a people person. I like having people near by. I like having someone to talk to. I like feeling connected. The problem with that is that I also like seeing people smile. Making people happy. That was great when I was on stage. The desire and ability to figure out what people want and give it to them is a knack that not everyone has. But when you get off stage, you're supposed to turn it off. After a great performance, you get to walk back stage and unwind. You get to stop performing. That's the idea. But in life, the idea is to NEVER be performing. Even when you're "on", you're supposed to just be yourself. You're supposed to be just as comfortable with being yourself ON STAGE as you are back stage. That's what I've been working on.

But how do you do it? How do you have the nerve to go on stage, without the shiny suit, and play originals all night instead of covers? After all, if you're playing the songs they like, you know they at least understand what you're doing. Right?

So that's what I've been contemplating lately. How do I keep, as Ralph would put it, the independence of solitude? I wish I knew. I mean, I'd like to think that as the years go by, less and less of me is a performance. But old habits die hard. There's still that desire to see someone smile at me. The performer in me comes out now and then. It probably does in everyone. The trick is to eventually learn to be performing as little as possible. Like I said, I'm working on it.

One of my favorite lines to a song says, "Ah but when I sing, I can hear the truth auditioning." Well, I'm singin'. I hope they like it.

To be or not to be.....

As I near the final stages of this photography project that I am working on, I find myself at a familiar crossroads. Its exactly like the crossroads I came to with my record. I create my art for the love. There is no question there. But, what do I do next? In music, the question was, do I look for a deal? Do I go play gigs? Do I promote my art in all of the ways that a relatively shy and introverted person like myself hates to? (As I say that, I can hear my friend Angela saying, "You? Shy?!") See, for me, art is more of an outlet than an occupation. When I made my record, I honestly never figured anyone would like it. It was a bit of a shock when people did. But I made the record with the understanding that I had no intention of PROMOTING it. I just wanted to put a piece of me out there in the world. But things have changed since then. I have come to realize that my art is not JUST my outlet. The response I've gotten to my art has made me realize that I really want to give it to the world on a larger scale.

As an artist, there is a certain degree of selfish love that goes into the process. I make art for me. I don't do it for money. I don't do it for fame. But when the idea of making money through my art comes up, things begin to change. The business of SELLING art can often over shadow the the business of MAKING art. The independent spirit in me tells me to stay independent, just like I did with my music. Don't worry about record deals or publishing deals. Don't look for mass approval. Make art. If anyone likes it, great. But on the other hand, I also know the law of averages. If I expose enough people to my art, I am bound to find quite a few that like it. To do that, I'll need the help of those yucky business type people who sell things by marketing them and labeling them and making them appealing to the masses. While the process of releasing my record on my indie label was very gratifying, so was the moment I get national distribution and the moment I heard that I'd been put into rotation on a major radio station. Last time, those things happened almost by chance. If they had happened by design, its possible the outcome of that project would have been very different.

So here I am at the crossroads. Do I continue on my path as the independent artist, the backpack kid with a camera in one hand and a dream in the other. Or do I go for broke? Do I push to get my book published in the traditional sense and promote my work to the masses? And if I do, what happens if I fail? Ah. There's the rub. After all, one cannot fail at anything one does not try. Is my anthem of independence really just a cry of fear. Because I've been to this crossroads before, I'd like to say I know the answer to that question. Still, here I am pondering the question once again.

chemistry

Chemistry is a funny thing. Not the kind you do in a science lab, although I suppose it works the same way. I'm talking about human chemistry. What is it that makes humans connect in such a way that some are more drawn to each other than others? It happens in every setting in which human interaction is key. I think about my days as a jazz musician. Think about a hand full of guys getting on stage not really knowing what's gonna happen next. Sure, there's a road map. But in jazz, you improvise. Anything can happen. Sometimes its good. Sometimes its magic. The magic happens when the chemistry between that particular configuration of guys goes beyond the skill of the players and factors in the way they compliment each others styles. The way they think. Their choices of when to play, when to pause. These things are all unspoken and happen instantaneously. So, it can't be about any academic type of skill. Chemistry is something different.

The same is true in photographing people. I'm currently working on a book of artistic nudes. I am always working with a different woman. I have to, in an hour or so, meet the model, come up with an idea for the shoot, form a rapport with her, and get the shot I need. Sometimes it just doesn't work. Maybe I can't find the words to get her to see my vision. Maybe she isn't feeing comfortable with the concept. It can be any number of things. But when it works, it just works. Its not that I say anything different. Its not that one model is THAT much better than the others. Its chemistry. Sometimes its just there. When I stare at a model through that lens, and I see her staring back at me, there is a moment when I know. I get a chill. I always know when she feels it too. I can see it in her eyes. Its that magic I was talking about.

Lately, because I'm back in the dating scene, I've been thinking a lot about this whole chemistry thing. I guess I'm fortunate in that I have been going on lots of dates. (I say that because I think of myself as kind of a big nerd, so I tend to be surprised when people wanna go out with me at all.) But this frequency of dating has allowed me to compare chemistry in a rather concrete way. Its pretty interesting. I think that, for the most part, I'm always being myself. Its all I know how to be. But sometimes, me being me creates a really fun and interesting dynamic with a woman. I like to talk. I like to laugh. I joke. I'm almost always bordering on inappropriate. I'm way too honest and open. So with some woman, that goes over smashingly. Then with others, it just doesn't work at all. So what is it? Why is it that some conversations seem so forced, while others seem as relaxed as old pals?

It doesn't happen often. I've experienced it only a few times. But now and then I meet a girl that I can talk to for hours even though we've never talked before. Its not lust. That happens just about every time. This connection is on a much deeper level. Kinda like hearing Miles play with Wayne, Herbie, Ron, and Tony, as opposed to hearing him sit in with some house band somewhere. Yeah, he's still Miles either way. One just feels better. I saw a video of Miles sitting in at a Prince concert once. I thought, "Who's idea was that?" Doesn't matter that Prince is amazing. Doesn't matter that they obviously had mutual respect for each other. You can't account for chemistry.

I guess my point in all this is, I've been sitting in with a lot of house bands lately. I'm looking to form my next great band. If you know a good rhythm section......

The Renaissance Man and the Jedi Knight

Ever since I have been able to understand the meaning of it, I've been striving to be something of a renaissance man. That probably sounds a little bit pretentious, but it's true. I have always liked the idea. A man who seeks "to develop skills in all areas of knowledge, in physical development, in social accomplishments, and in the arts" seems like a pretty good dude to me. I guess its a lot like me striving to be a gentleman. I spend a lot of time talking about the idea of the old-fashioned gentleman, because I am teaching my son the ways of this lost art. With my pupil being but five years old, it is proving to be a hard fought battle. My son is quick to remind me that "being a gentleman is too hard!" He's probably right. Its not easy to open doors for women who don't expect doors to be opened for them. It sometimes leaves you standing there looking a little silly as you rush to grab a door a few seconds too late to hold it open for the girl that is now running away from the weirdo guy she thinks is trying to stalk her. The same is true of the whole renaissance man idea. It sometimes feels a bit like a futile endeavor. The acquisition of knowledge that no one cares you have doesn't always feel as noble as I had hoped it would.

I liken it to Luke and Han. (That's Luke Skywalker and Han Solo for you youngsters.) Luke is a young Jedi, learning the ways of the Force. He strives to use his mind. He strives to control his emotions. He uses a light saber instead of a gun. He speaks to his forefathers. Then there's Han. The money hungry pilot with the quick wit and the quick trigger. Who do the girls swoon for? Not the Jedi.

I always imagined that the Greek polymath would be a rather sought after lad. The Italian renaissance man, at least in my head, would be quite the catch. But when I look at recent history, I find that girls don't go for that. James Dean. John Wayne. Brad Pitt. These are not learned men. These guys are not known for their scholarly works. In fact, I'm having trouble thinking of a famous "renaissance man" that isn't 500 years back in our history. I guess I was born at the wrong time. Ancient Greek philosopher, perhaps. Knight in shining armor, maybe. But Jimmy Dean or John Wayne I will never be.

Still, even saying that seems wrong. Did I choose the path of the Jedi in order to be famous? Did I put down my gun and begin crafting my light saber in hopes of getting girls? Of course not. And such is life. The road less traveled is so named because most choose the other way. In choosing that path, one must accept his loneliness as his own doing. Its a hard pill to swallow. Its going down slowly.

As I teach my young padawan the ways of the Jedi, he constantly asks, "Why do I have to be a gentleman?" Sometimes I ask myself the same question.

Small Cigar

Dark brown skin
fits snug around a stiff
cylindrical form.
Only slightly smaller
than average in length,
but quite slender
in comparison to most,
it’s appearance is not at all
an accurate reflection
of it’s worth.

it’s stature,
less than inviting,
might cause one
to pass it by
in search of something larger,
perhaps more appealing.
But all who’ve experienced it
have found an extremely pleasurable,
and always satisfying
cigar.

just for old times sake

So I was diggin' through the old music today. Its something I don't do often. Something made me wanna hear some of the music I made way back when. My life now is so far removed from those days that I often forget that I did that stuff. Its funny to say this, but I actually like the music I was making back then. Of course, one would hope that he looks back on his past and is pleased with what he sees. I just remember how hard it was for me to listen to myself back then. All I could hear was the mistakes. I was critical of every note, ever idea. But now I can just listen and enjoy. Its a nice feeling. So, for those who haven't yet...... http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/ruebenbrock.

If I

There's a song I really like, by a singer I really love, that starts out "If I had the chance to change the past, shoot around the sun, unbreak the glass..." You know. Its a reference to Superman. That part in the original movie where Lois gets caught in an earthquake while Superman is busy doing other things. He arrives only to find his love buried under a pile of dirt. What does he do? He flies up into space real real fast and does a few hundred laps around the earth causing time to run backward just long enough to undo Lois' death. Every time I hear that line in the song, I think of that part in the movie. But it brings up a philosophical question that I've had in my mind for a really long time. If I could, would I?

I guess it's really a two part question, isn't it? First, if I had the power to change anything at all, would I use it? Superman was told not to. He ignored the warning. So, would I? Would you? Let's say for a minute that I would. The second, and more important question becomes, how far back would I go. Its one thing to go back five minutes to save a friend or loved one. I suppose anyone who could do that would. But then, life for me ain't been no crystal stare. There have been plenty of earthquakes. Which one would be the one to undo? Would I go back a year or so and pick my horn back up and finish that second record? Would I go back and push harder to make the first record more successful? Those seem like safe enough questions. But while I'm thinking about it, why stop there? In the grand scheme of my life, those moments were very small earthquakes. Maybe 2.5 on the Richter. What about the big ones. I've been through a divorce. I had a kid at age 17. Those were major moments. 6.0 at least. They were moments that, at the time, felt like things I couldn't handle. But I did. And what about the big one. That moment way back when I was seven, when it all changed forever. If I was superman, would I wind back time to a few minutes before that magical moment? That was a 9.5 on the Richter scale. The ripples are still being felt 27 years later. So would I undo it? And what would life look like if I did? After all, the further back you go, the less recognizable your life becomes. The path I'm currently on is a direct result of those earthquakes blocking other paths and opening the one I'm on. And I have to say, I like my path.

What I've come to realize about my life, thinking back on all my earthquakes, is that they shaped me. When the dust settled, I became a different person. I was stronger every time. I was wiser every time. And a few of those earthquakes brought amazing gifts with them. My teenage carelessness brought me my wonderful daughter. Can't undo that one. My rocky marriage brought me my son. Gotta keep that one. I go back a few years and focus harder on music and maybe I get a little further with that. Ok fine. But I do that and I'm probably not getting a ph.d in psychology either. Would I trade? I'm not so sure.

I guess the the point is, you can't have both. You can't have the parts of your life that you like and still undo the parts you don't like. The past is the past. It makes the present possible. What earthquake would I erase? Well..... you get the point. Now I wouldn't mind the whole flying thing.......

Mind, Body, & Spirit

I have long been interested in the old notion of a balanced life. I'm not even sure where it originated, but many ancient philosophers and societies valued the balance of the mind body and spirit. I have read that the Greeks believed in sharpening each point of the delicate triangle in order to achieve a degree of enlightenment. I have always liked this idea. It is only in the past few years that I have attempted to live it. Still, its not easy.

Physical strength is easy enough, for me. I work out on a regular basis, and aside from my constant struggle to gain a few pounds, I think my body is doing okay. I'm not gonna say I'm a specimen of health. I tend to not eat my veggies as often as I should. I consume more sugar than most kids I know. But, I'm in shape. I can run a mile without breathing heavy. I can knock out 50 push-ups without major injury. Strong body: check.

My mind is probably my most prized possession. I've always been a thinking man. Perhaps to a fault, I have cultivated my mind. I can think my way out of problems that most people don't even recognize as problems. When most guys jump to use their bodies, I find a way to use my mind instead. It has rarely failed me. (I say rarely, because it did quit on me once, but that's another talk altogether.) Statistically speaking, I'm more educated than just about everyone. When you consider the fact that only about 3% of our population has a terminal degree, the quest I'm on puts me on pace to be more educated than 97% of the folks you're likely to meet on any given day. More importantly though, I'd like to think that my life experience has taught me a thing or two. I've been around the block. On the way around, I paid attention. So at the risk of sounding rude, I'll say this. Strong mind: check.

That's two thirds of the triangle. That's pretty good, right? Only thats not enough. You ever see a three legged stool? Try taking away one of those legs and see what happens. A friend of mine brought an interesting question to my attention. He did so in the form of a comment. He commented on the rantings of my blog by saying "....the intense yearning for expression of the artist can not be consumated thru artistic expression, but rather in spiritual expression." There's that third stool leg.

I've always seen my art as my connection to God. My art is my sanctuary. I guess it makes sense. When I was young, we listened to jazz on Sunday mornings. It was like worship. I studied music religiously when I was coming up. Art is my higher power. When I am away from it, I feel empty. When I am in it, I feel whole. When I went away from playing music for a time, someone approached me and said, "God gave you this gift so you'd use it." That really hit me. Its a gift from God. It is my spirituality, if you will. So here's my question.

I don't hide the fact that God and I have not always seen eye to eye. I don't like church. I have, at times, felt a bit lost there. I have, at times, felt lost period. But God and I seem to agree on one thing. The art thing works for me. I give him credit for having it. He keeps the ideas flowing. It seems like a fair deal to me. But is my friend right? Is that not enough? Do I owe the Creator a greater thanks for my creativity? And if so, what? Is the expression of art, in and of itself, not my spiritual expression? Will I somehow find that enlightenment and fulfillment that I seek through some OTHER kind of expression? Because I love and respect the friend that planted this thought in my head, I'm gonna give my mind time to process it. In the mean time, I better go hit the gym.

Sowing Seeds

I always say that there aren't many things that have been in my life longer than music. I've loved music since I was about 12 years old. I loved it and it loved me. You see, my father had planted seeds in me that I didn't even know where there until I got to be a teenager. He sat around on Sunday mornings and played old jazz records all day. My siblings and I would lay on the floor and listen. I'm sure we didn't WANT to listen. What five year old really wants to listen to John Coltrane? But when you're five, what choice do you really have? And so the seeds were planted. When I was seven, my father died. With his passing went those Sunday morning jazz experiences. But the seeds had been planted. They started to really grow when I was around 12 or so. By age 14 they had sprouted into a full grown love affair.

Like I said, there aren't many things that have been in my life longer than music. In fact, there's only one thing that I've ever wanted MORE than to be a musician. Even stronger than my desire to be a musician was my childhood desire to be a dad. Strange, right? Who does that? Who grows up wanting to be a dad? When you're dad dies at age seven, I guess maybe that's the normal reaction. I wanted to grow up and give some kid the stuff I never got. I never tossed a baseball in the backyard with my dad. He never saw me play. Mind you, I loved baseball. Loved it with all my heart. But round about the time when raw talent is supposed to meet polished skill, I stopped being good enough. I always theorized that it was my dad's fault. I would watch my buddies out on the field on Saturday afternoons with their dads. They practiced after practice. They talked about the games. I just went home with my mom. So, as a senior in high school, when played my final year of high school ball I vowed to have a son and teach him to play. I wanted to be the father I never had.

Flip to several years later. Music is more of a passion than a profession. Two kids. One ex-wife. I can't say things have gone according to plan. What I can say is that I was right. I love being a dad. Last year my son turned just old enough to play t-ball. I had, of course, bought his ball and glove when he was two. He finally fit into it. I took him out into the back yard and began to teach him how to toss the ball. I remember this warm feeling coming over me. I had kept my promise. I got to play catch with my son. He's now in his second season of t-ball. We can actually go out in the yard and play a little ball with confidence. I help coach his little league team, and I'm convinced I have way more fun than he does. But that's okay with me.

I tell you what though. Even more powerful than tossing the ball with my son is the feeling I get when I see my kids make music. I don't know that I can describe it. A few years ago my daughter was in the school play. It was Aladdin. She didn't wanna do it, but her mother made her. She wouldn't practice her parts in front of us. She wouldn't tell us much about it. So on opening night I had a bit of anxiety, to say the least. When her part came and she opened her mouth to sing, it was like all had been made right in the world. She sang. I cried. One of my old teachers came up to me after the show, obviously noticing that I was shocked. She asked, "Well, what did you expect? She's your kid."

The other day I came downstairs to find my son writing music. Mind you he's five. He had taken some paper out of my printer and drawn lines on it to make "music paper." He was writing lyrics on the lines. He had done the same thing the week before, so I knew what he was doing. At first it made me laugh. Then it almost made me cry. Now, do I think either of them will grow up to be superstars? Maybe not. Do I hope they stick with music or the arts? I honestly don't care about that. But when I see it coming out of them as naturally as it comes out of me, it warms my heart every time. I think to myself: My dad planted those seeds. I'm so glad I'm here to watch them grow.

Perks of the Job

If I added up all the time I've spent on artistic endeavors in the past 2 years, the vast majority of it would involve photography. Most people who know me personally don't know this, but I spend a pretty good amount of time on artistic nude photography. It always seems odd to me that it comes as a shock to them. It seems to me that the idea makes perfect sense. I love art. I am quite fond of naked women. This is a no brainer, really. But that tends to be the problem. I don't hide the fact that I really like naked woman. In that sense, I'm probably just like the average guy. So, when people hear about my artistic nude project, they tend to think its just a plot to get girls naked in order to fill some sexual need. That couldn't be further from the truth. I truly love art. Almost more than I love sex. It might seem hard to believe, but when I've got a camera in my hand and I'm staring at a beautiful naked girl, sex is the furthest thing from my mind. Okay, maybe not the furthest, but really really far.

The hardest part about being an artistic nude photographer is the perception. No one mistakes a jazz musician for a poser. If you've taken the time to learn anything about jazz, whatever personal gains it affords you are just fair game. The cool sax player who learned to play like David Sanborn might get lots of girls, but then again he deserves to. Right? The drummer in the rock band that gets panties thrown at him every night is just being a rock star. No harm, no foul. Those mysterious poet guys at coffee houses undoubtedly get the college girls at the poetry readings pretty hot and bothered. No one complains about that. Its just a perk of being so smart and artistic. But a nude photographer can't do that. It seems unfair. After all, the girls I run into while I'm working are already naked and staring into my eyes for an hour at a time. That's pretty intimate. It can even be an arousing experience. So, for me to then try to close the deal, so to speak, seems a bit like cheating. That poet would have to get the girl's Ramones t-shirt and her skinny jeans off of her before he's anywhere near what I get to see five minutes after I meet my subject. But is that my fault?

I guess I say all that to say this. Its just not fair. I get the worst of both worlds. I get blamed for doing what I never ever do. I don't get to do what any cool artist in any other medium gets to do if and when he wants to. I kinda feel like I'm getting the short end of the stick here. Then again, I do get to create art while staring a gorgeous naked women on a pretty regular basis............ Okay nevermind. I'm good.

Island Paradise

No man is an island. That's what they say, right? No man is an island. But what does that mean? No one can survive on their own? Everyone needs someone? So shouldn't the saying go: no man SHOULD BE an island? There's a big difference. I mean, what if you ARE an island? Seems to me that it's possible. I don't know that it's anyone's first choice. Me, I'd rather be landlocked. Totally surrounded. Even a peninsula has some connections. I could deal with that. But if you're the island, do you really have a choice? Think about Tom Hanks in that movie where he's stranded. I'm quite sure he'd have been happy to have a boatload of folks swing by and pick him up. Heck, come visit. Anything. But what say does he have in that?

I guess I've always been kind of a lonely soul. I mean, I make friends okay. I get along with people just fine. Most people are shocked when I say I'm shy. People see me smiling, and they assume I'm this happy-go-lucky guy. But its a trick. Its a front. Just behind that smile, just past that big laugh, there's always been a scared kid who really just wants to go home. But where's home? Hence the whole island thing.

The thing I love about music is that it makes me feel okay about being stranded. Still on the island, but at peace with it. Standing on a stage with my horn in my hand, I always felt like I was standing in the right spot. When I'm in the attic, writing music, its almost like I forget that there's water all around me. Like it somehow doesn't matter. The problem is I spend 99% of my time NOT on stage or in my attic. I spend an awful lot of my time walking the halls of the psych department. Or at little league with my son. Or driving my daughter around. Or out on dates. Or hanging with my friends. I gotta say, all I see is ocean for miles and miles.

Revelations

One year of doctoral training in the bag. One step closer to this new goal. This year has taught me a lot. I've come to realize something about myself. There's something that I always knew, but wasn't ready to acknowledge until now. I chose to leave the music scene behind. I made a decision, at some moment in time, that the cost of being a full time musician was too much for me to pay. I don't remember the moment exactly, but I know that there was that moment. Maybe it was way back in music school when my improv teacher told me it would take several more hours of practice everyday in order to get to the next level. I knew I liked practicing, but not that much. Maybe it was when my wife got sick and quit working. I shut down the record label I was running at the time and went to work at a psych hospital in order to feed the family. Maybe it was when I was in grad school and I started to actually like helping people as much as I liked creating music. At some point, plan B became plan A. But, until this year, I didn't know what that meant for me. One year of training toward the goal of becoming a psychologist has taught me one thing. It taught me that that decision was a good one.

I used to be a jazz trumpet player. I loved to play the trumpet. I wanted to be Miles Davis. I wanted to be Clark Terry. I loved the trumpet. Then I heard Paul Simon and it rocked my world. I realized that I just loved music. I began writing and producing music. Not just jazz, but all kinds of music. I wasn't a trumpet player. I was a musician. Then, on a whim, I studied a little bit of photography and poetry. Once again, world-rocking revelation. I'm not a musician. I'm an artist. I love creating art. Any art. All art.

That's where I was for a really long time. Until a few months ago, I suppose. In my years in social service, I kind of went through my work posing as a helping professional. It wasn't my identity. I liked it, but it wasn't "me." I was, after all, an artist waiting to get back to his art. But this year something changed. Somewhere along the past year, I figured it out. There's a reason I left music behind. There's a reason I love photography as a side job. There is a reason that plan B always seems to work and plan A always goes the way it does. Its because plan B was supposed to be plan A all along. I was born to do what I'm doing. The creativity in me is my built in defense against the crazy making experiences I've had.

When I look back on the crazy set of events that has been my life, I can come to only one conclusion. I'm supposed to be helping people. I've walked through the fire. I've been crazy. I've been poor. I've come out on the other side. And now I'm supposed to show folks the way. Thats my job.

The thing that I always loved about music and art is that it stimulated me in a way that nothing else did. My brain tingles when I am being creative. When I'm making music, or snapping pictures, or writing, its like I'm talking to God. As a psychologist, I'm in the unique position to be creative while also helping people. I get that same tingly feeling when I'm researching self-efficacy among black teens. I get it when I'm in the room with a client and I can see them making a break through. When I am presenting at a conference, I get the same rush I did on stage with my horn in my hand.

There's that world-rocking revelation again. I'm not a jazz trumpet player. I'm not a musician. I'm not an artist. I'm not even a psychologist. I don't think I fit in with the nerds in the psych department any more than I did with the artsy folks at music school. And maybe thats the thing. The stuff inside me is God's special formula for something. I'm not yet sure what. But a year of doctoral training has taught me one thing. Whatever it is that I'm about to do, I'm ready for it. And I think I'm gonna like it.