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resolution

2017 was a difficult year. A lot of effort and focus put on being a better person in the eyes of those close to me; being a better son, being a better boyfriend, being a better co-worker, etc. But sadly, all of those efforts came at the expense of myself, in effect making me a worse person to those who matter most.

This year I plan to better myself and better those around me by making large strides in improving my experience of life and reconnecting with what it is that makes me tick. Recommitting energy towards music, reading, writing, my faith, passions outside of work, etc. As a result, I need to take a step back from some things that are bringing me too much negativity.

Although I have benefited immensely (through work, through music, through friendships) from social media, I fear that my experience of the social platforms has been hampered as of late by the content I absorb. Whether it be the fights between individuals with opposing viewpoints or the way people portray their lives to be, I find myself in a vicious cycle of scrolling through Twitter or Instagram and automatically feeling a little worse about myself. And my life is pretty cool, all things considered, but... you know how it can be.

Anyways, I’m gonna take a bit of a break from it - so if I’m ignoring you on Instagram or Twitter, I’m sorry for it! I’ll probably return at some point.

In the meantime, here’s a completely unrelated picture. It was from Laguna Beach, this past March. Probably the highlight of an otherwise shitty year. 2018 will be better, no doubt.

Sundays at Grandma’s

When I first moved to Fargo, the consistency of a Sunday dinner at grandma’s house was what helped me get through my weeks.

Around four o’clock every Sunday, I’d hop in my car and head down University towards Southwood Drive. I remembered the house from my visits as a child which, I’m sad to admit, came too few and far between.

When I had ultimately made the decision to go to Concordia College, it was in part predicated on the hopes that I would be able to get to know my grandma better before she passed away. Being stripped of the opportunity to spend quality time with any of my other three grandparents while they were living, I was committed to my Sunday nights at grandma’s - I wanted to build that relationship while she still knew who I was.

At the time I first started visiting, grandma was still a pretty good cook. She’d make bratwursts and potatoes, lasagna, tacos, and a few other of her quick-and-easy favorites. We’d chat about how school was going, what my new friends were like, if I had kept in touch with my parents that past week, and things of the like. She would ask me when I was going to introduce her to a girl; I would smile at my plate, shake my head, and say “someday, Grandma.”

Following our ice cream dessert, we would turn on 60 Minutes.

“Oh, it’s such an awful country we live in now, isn’t it?” she’d say. I wondered what it was like for her when she was my age.

Around six thirty I would look at my watch, sigh, and say “well, it’s probably time for me to head out.”

“So soon?”

“Yeah, sorry, grandma. I’ve gotta get my laundry done - next week, though?”

She’d send me off with leftovers in a tupperware container, saying that I might get hungry and need a study break.

As the years went by, I had a front row seat for the regression of my grandma’s mental state. I found myself repeating the same stories often, each time with my grandma acting as surprised as the time before. She would do odd things like set the silverware on Kleenex instead of napkins, and write me birthday cards six months before my birthday. She started calling me “Evan” or “John” instead of “Jack,” and grew increasingly frustrated with herself when she couldn’t keep up conversationally. It was difficult to watch such a charismatic and sociable woman lose her confidence.

Though I still visited on Sundays, the meals she cooked turned to carryout pizza, week after week, with her continually telling me “I found this new place called… Papa Murphy’s. Have you had it?” Yeah, the last six weeks, grandma, I wanted to say. My post-dinner calls to my mom, where we would discuss the funny things grandma said and did, changed in tone. We were all concerned at how rapidly the decline was happening.

One Sunday in October of my junior year, right before grandma moved to the retirement community, I tried to remind her of a story.

“Hey, Grandma.”

“Yes?” she replied, brushing the crumbs off the sides of her mouth and blinking at me.

“Remember that time you were showing me your childhood house, and the camera crews started following you?”

“Well, of course,” she said, “I was the star of the show!”

We both laughed, as I started to clear our plates off the table. The moment I was referencing was back in 2011 during Fargo’s Historic Homes tour, when my grandmother’s old house was one of the main attractions. I took my grandma that day and we walked through the house, as she pointed out some of her favorite rooms as a child. The KVRR camera crews picked up on the fact that grandma used to live in this house, and started following, essentially letting the entire Fargo community in on my private tour. She lit up the room.

My mom used to tell me stories about how when she was younger, my grandma would be partying until the break of dawn with her friends. “I’d wake up in the middle of the night to them taking shots and grandma playing the piano in the living room,” my mom would tell me. “She was more wild than her high school kids were.”

It was that same sense of life that my grandma exuded that had me write a story about her in sixth grade, titled “Seventy-Five Going on Thirty.” I won an award for that story, which was a non-fiction piece about how hip my grandma was.

As the years went by, the Sunday nights at grandma’s became less frequent. My grandma would forget to call me, and I was beginning to develop a social life of my own up in Fargo. Grandma moved into a retirement community and started to have her Sunday meals at the cafeteria instead. When I did visit, she became more confused by who I was. At times I was her son, other times I was her brother. Though there are still some amazing moments where her mind seems perfectly in tact, the Alzheimer’s has certainly made its home in my grandma’s brain. It’s tough to see.

This weekend, I came over to her house to spend some time with her on Saturday morning.

“She’s just waking up,” said one of The Doves, a group of women my mom and her siblings hired to keep an eye on my grandma.

“Okay, thanks,” I responded, walking towards her bedroom.

My grandma strolled out into the common area, when she heard my voice, greeting me with a big hug.

“I’m so happy you’re here,” she said, clinging tighter to my chest. “I don’t like this life here anymore.”

---

Over six years ago, I moved to Fargo and had the intention of getting to know my grandma better. I’ve seen her at her highs, and tried to help her through some of her lows. Alzheimer’s Disease can take its toll on a person, but as I recount my Sunday nights at grandma’s, I realize one thing: although the disease has made my grandma forget who she is, it will never take away my memory of who she was.

Plagued by the thoughts of what could have been, hours spent scrolling through pics in my hands. Less bothered by memories that I let go of, than ones that I never had given a chance. The stage where we lost inhibition, in front of a crowd where we learned how to dance. Hold on to the moments that matter, and capture the world, it can change in a glance. Sometimes the fork in the road has more prongs than you planned for.

To The Company That Rejected Me & Forced Me to Smarten Up

This afternoon, I held a booth at the Career & Intern Expo at North Dakota State on behalf of my company.

It instantly brought me back to three years ago, when I was a wide-eyed attendee at this exact same event. I was a junior in college, waltzing around that ballroom with a certain confidence that, frankly, was based off nothing more than the notion that good things would come to me, because good things always came to me. I was a stranger to rejection; whether it be colleges I applied to or jobs I interviewed for, I was used to hearing “congrats.”

This same confidence emanated from me as I approached the Target booth at the 2013 Expo. I had cashiered for the Target in my hometown for four years, so likened myself to be a virtual shoe-in to nail the bullseye again and be on the up&up (Target fans will get the puns).

My initial conversation with the Target booth workers went great - I was even invited to do an interview the following day. I wore the same sport coat I had on the previous day, strutted up the stairs to meet my interviewer, and.... absolutely BOMBED. I was terrible. If you were to show me the transcript of the interview, I would probably feel my skin crawling from awkwardness. I had no experience! I was 20 years old and could not adequately describe “the biggest challenge I’ve faced in a work setting” nor “the number one thing I could provide to a team.” I had nothing. I remember at one point in our conversation admitting to scanning $25 worth of expired coupons for a customer... at Target. In my interview. With Target.

Needless to say, I didn’t get the job.

I felt the walls caving on me. All the dreams I had of experiencing vocational success and acclaim were whittled away into a more accurate depiction of a life of mediocrity. I thought that rejection may just be the end...

But like all things, a silver lining strayed not too far from the clouds. I started to take my work, my schooling, and my life astronomically more serious after this botched interview. My GPA rose by almost 0.5 over the next year, I got involved with the likes of our campus’ service commission, orientation, dance marathon, marketing club, public relations club, and a few other organizations for which I honestly forget the name of, and I spent more Friday nights at home, and more Saturday afternoons in the library. Rejection hit me like a ton of bricks, and forced me to work my ass off. The accolades and recognition I received from my school was nice, but the truest reward was the comfort of knowing that the next time I interviewed for a job I wanted, I would actually be worthy of it.

And I was. And after that internship I got my first job. And after that job, I got to work for the company I currently work for; a company I love, and a company that has blessed me with many fantastic opportunities. And my hard work there put me in a position where I now oversee our marketing efforts. And all of that worked together to bring me to the 2016 NDSU Career & Intern Expo. And that was this afternoon.

So, when I scanned the audience and saw the Target booth, I couldn’t help but walk towards it.

“So, I’m going to preface this by saying that this is going to be the most random conversation you have today...” I said to the woman who was wearing her red polo and khakis.

“Okay, let’s here it,” she said.

And then I divulged to her everything. I let her know how downtrodden I was after facing the rejection, I let her know that I refused to wear red for a few months in a minor protest, and I finished by letting her know how thankful I was to be turned away by Target. Granted, she may not have been the person I interviewed with three years ago, but she represented the company that forced me to feel the pains of rejection, and work hard enough to get to a place where I am today.

“Anyways, maybe you should tell this story to the next interviewee who doesn’t get the job.”

And perhaps the underlying reason for my hard work over the last three years was to end up at this Intern Expo some day down the road so I could tell some random lady at the Target booth this long-winded story.

----

(Note: I came home and told Kari this story and she said “it’s great, but you need to work on the ending. Your ending line sucks.” So let me add one last golden tidbit before leaving...)

-----

Although it’s natural to get angry at those who reject us, I think it’s of extreme importance to use that rejection instead as a motivating factor to excel in your future endeavors.

Counting blessings like sheep on the ceiling; mounting stress amongst deepening feelings. My place in this galaxy keeps on revealing.... already lost count, onto sleep for my healing

WTPDD - Fall 16

It’s true what they say about all work and no play.

This fall, I’m going to be working on a project that combines a variety of my skills with a variety of areas in which I wish to grow.

I plan to release a new 10-song LP which will be tastefully embedded into a short story I’m penning, collectively, on a website that I will soon begin developing. I hope that made sense.

That’s about all I have to say on the matter for now, but I’m excited to get to work and appreciate you all being patient with me.

This is a story I’ve been wanting to tell for three years.

My hero wears a cardigan, instead of a cape. She found it on one of her many trips to purchase "teacher clothes," a genre of merchandise I didn't realize existed despite my years of working in retail establishments. She stands 5'4" ('four and a half inches!' she would counter). I met my hero when we were both juniors in college. At this point, she was deeply engaged in her curriculum - studying to become an elementary school teacher. She was set to begin student teaching the next semester. "I'm nervous," she told me on one of our first dates. "I've wanted to be a teacher ever since I can remember but I'm still nervous." This evening, just short of three years later, she piped up again: "I'm nervous," she said. "I just hope I can form solid relationships with the incoming students." My hero is bashful at times, unsuspecting of her own powers. She spent the bulk of the night tidying up desks, setting containers of applesauce and plastic spoons on tabletops, and tucking salmon-colored "Facts About Ms. Johnson" sheets in her students' folders. I watched as she rested both hands on her hips, scanning the walls of her classroom, reimagining how she could change her layout to make her scholars more comfortable. On her desk were crumpled up receipts from purchases she made (out of her own pocket) to beautify her learning environment. On top of her bookcase was a framed picture of her class from last year - all 21 students goofily smiling in their Halloween costumes. Last year was when I was first introduced to this young woman's heroism. It didn't take long into the school year before she was called to action: providing a sanctuary away from home for students struggling with the realities of broken families, drug addictions, and worse. Ms. Johnson's classroom was a safe place for her students - an environment in which kids could, for eight hours a day, forget about the troubles of the outside world and engage in literature, math, science, art, and exploration. An environment in which their fearless leader would seldom raise her voice, but instead lift up her arms at the end of the day for a hug or a high five (whichever each one was most comfortable with). Despite the turmoil in her own personal life, every Monday - Friday she would be there: smiling, helping, guiding, and loving. I don't use the word "hero" lightly. She is one of the strongest people I know, and a shining example of what educators should aim to be in our ailing society. We need more Ms. Johnsons. So when she tells me she's nervous, I can't help but grin, eager to see the lives she changes again this year with her super powers.

a letter to myself 5 years prior

Preface: When I was in my senior year of high school, my teacher had us write letters to ourselves that would be sent four years later (during our senior years of college). I loved reading the words from my younger self, and trying to dissect what I was going through at the time I had written it. While I was driving back to Fargo this afternoon, I caught myself thinking about a new letter - a letter from my future self - and how important that may have been to my development: for me to take risks, and know that the outcomes turned out okay. Although I can’t physically travel through time, I decided that I should write a letter to my 5-year-ago self. I was 18 at the time, and preparing for my freshman year of college, going through (what I thought to be) one of the pinnacle changes of my lifetime. Here’s what I would write to myself:

———————–

Dear Jack,

The next presidential nominees are Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton. I know right?

Okay, let me start over… I’m writing to you from the year 2016; that’s right, you’ve made it this far. For me, that shouldn’t come as a surprise, but for you it just might. Over the course of the next five years of your life some amazing, heartbreaking, inconceivable things happen that will leave you irreversibly changed, and so I’d prefer to ease you into this with some of the highlights.

I know the first thing you’re wondering: am I still making music? Yeah. Despite your bout with stage freight during your first performance, you’ll go on to play two picturesque concerts including opening for your college’s spring festival one April, and then playing at Spring Jam the following spring. You passed 150,000 plays on SoundCloud… if you know what SoundCloud is? Trust me, man, it’s an accomplishment. Your most successful song - “Tryna With You” - was written about your first love.

That’s right, you fell in love. Actually, you’re still in love. She’s beautiful, kind, intelligent, and challenges you every single day to be a better person. Word of advice: don’t be too afraid to flag her down outside of the library junior year. She’ll act like she’s not that into you at first, but be persistent. This girl will literally rock your world.

Mom and Dad are well. So are Evan and Sallie. You probably don’t call enough - try not to let your busyness get the better of you. Oh, they do have a new home, though. You grapple with a few spells of nostalgia over moving out of your childhood house in Eagan, but you get over it. Fargo becomes home (I know, it’s weird - just bear with me).

You have two crucial evenings in your next five years; one comes in 3 months, the other in 3 years. For the first: remember to find solace in those flashing lights. For the second: wear the burden as much as you can. Those pieces of advice are important, and will make more sense when the moments strike.

I know you’re hellbent on seeking validation and success - both come in their own forms. You have more love in your life than you realize at the moment, and that fact becomes abundantly clearer in a few short years. Your stubbornness subsides, your anxieties dissipate, your insecurities prove feeble, but you still suffer from this non-sequitur: a blindness to your own potential. People keep reminding you; modesty has always done you favors, though. I get it.

I know what you’re waiting on: one of our infamous golden axioms. Some shining moment that suggests you’ve figured out the universe. I can’t say I’m any closer, nor any further away from you at this moment. We may never be. You find in your five additional years on this planet that even your elders have their moments of vulnerability. Reality presents her bold visage in a variety of moments, some that are so powerful they scare the living shit out of you. If there are any words of encouragement that I can offer, it’s these:

I know that you are in deep search of a grandiose opportunity to make your indelible mark on this world. Please find relief in the fact that your impact on this earth presents itself in the form of the many lives you touch throughout the next five years, some through communion, some through mentorship, and others through love. Never doubt that your contributions to the ecosystems you revolve around are meaningful. I am proud of you - and I don’t say that often enough.

There are some events that you encounter over the next 60 months that will leave you questioning just how blessed you are. Sometimes, it even takes moments like this, penning a letter to your past self, to realize how remarkable your journey has been and will be. Keep your faith in God, keep your eyes open to opportunities, and keep your nose to the grindstone. You will achieve more than I can explain in this short time we have together.

A final note: eviscerate every barrier you may perceive as standing between yourself and indubitable joy.

Graciously yours,

Jack

lightbones

Background vocals by Huckfin Written and Perfomed by Jacksun Beat by Promnite Engineered by Huckfin

#SoundCloud #Jacksun.#minneapolis #jacksun #intro #ep

Performing

An excerpt from a Creative Writing assignment on patterns...

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12-5-2013—The Dinkytown Show

Eventually, our thirst for adventure exceeds our comfort with the norm. I hopped in my rusted, 2003 silver Jetta and headed down I-94 towards Minneapolis. Deven was in my passenger seat and both of our sets of feet tapped with nervous energy. Aside from drunken solo acts amidst our friends in the dorms, neither of us had yet experienced the rush of a live rap performance before. The sky seemed brighter than normal. Neither Deven nor I offered much in the way of conversation. We were busy thinking—thinking, perhaps, of what one another were thinking. I whistled the tune of an untold song as my fingers graced imaginary keys. The roads were icy. ‘Maybe we should turn around,’ I thought, ‘maybe I should crash this rusty Jetta.’

We arrived to the venue at 5:45. Deven and I had picked up Ben on the way from his house in Minneapolis. We finished sound check and I turned to a girl who was changing the volumes on the amps, “how did we sound?” She paused. “Good…I liked the beats.” Cool. I was the last act of the night, which I was hoping would be a service to me as my friends would presumably be on-the-floor wasted by the time I got on stage. At 10:37 I could hear the chanting beginning. J…Yak…J…Yak. I felt two miles away. My heart pounded, my knees shook, and I could feel sweat trickling down my arms. Then, all of a sudden, there was quiet. The whole world felt muted, as though God had bestowed upon me his very own headset. The booming of the bass grew progressively louder. I ran out onto stage. I blacked out.

12-27-2013—The Mill City Show

The grossly understated truth is that one adventure is never enough; you’ll always crave that high. It was two days after Christmas, and Deven had arrived at my house around 1—eight hours before the show. I wasn’t as nervous this time. Deven and I cruised through the southern suburbs in my now rustier silver Jetta, practicing lyrics and game-planning our entrance on stage. With most of our friends being home for winter break, we expected a large turnout at this particular show. We had to give the people what they paid for.

We arrived at the venue at 6:30. We were forced to sit through the sound checks of four other artists before we got our stage time. It was a narrow stage, hardly enough room for me and Deven to move around. We brought our friend Taylor on stage this time—I remember wondering if he was suffering from the shaky knee syndrome that I had experienced a few weeks prior. I took a few glances at the crowd from backstage. The shaky knees were back. Weaving through members of the crowd, we hopped on stage around 9:45. J…Yak…J….Yak. The instrumentation began. Somewhere between “You Remind Me” and “Bounce,” I blacked out.

2-14-2014—The Concordia Show

The reality of an adventure is that you can never account for all of its variables. It was Valentine’s Day. Kari and I had been dating for about a month, during which time I had done a good job of concealing my alter ego. How would she react when she saw me out on that stage? Why had I even decided to do this performance on campus? If Andy wouldn’t have pressured me into it so much, I would have been able to conceal my alter ego even longer. F### Andy, man.

Kari had the type of smile that could light up a room. Before the show, I kissed her on the cheek. “Please don’t judge me.” She smiled in response. The vast, echoing stillness of the Centrum was interrupted by the booming instrumentation. J…Yak…J…Yak. I ran out from the side of the stage; the chants turned to ear-numbing hollers. Familiar faces were juxtaposed by my own discomfort and nerves. Please, black out. Please, black out. I performed the first song, the second, the third…it still wasn’t working. I was cognizant of everything. Every line I stumbled through, every beat change that caught me off guard, every bead of sweat that rolled down my temple. Through the circus of waving hands and flailing arms, I saw Kari’s smile. I blacked out.

Cafeteria

An excerpt written for my Creative Writing course

1-12-2015

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It’s a Monday afternoon and I wish that I would have picked a larger college; one where I could more easily get lost. As I reach inside the coat pocket covering my left breast, I pull out the ID card that has been with me for almost four years now. I quickly glance at the image of younger-Jack that occupies the upper left quadrant of the card. I miss that Jack; he existed in a state of such oblivion. As crazy as it may sound, I remember taking that picture. I hate when photographers forget to tell me to ‘say cheese.’

“Hi, Jack.”

I hand the girl sitting behind the desk my ID, puzzling over when it was that she learned my name. I feel sorry that I haven’t yet learned hers. Today’s not the day, though. Like I said, it’s a Monday afternoon and I want to get lost.

“Thank you.”

I shove my ID back into my pocket and begin my walk past all of the segmented tables. I’ve always been too jock-ish to sit at the choir tables and too choir-ish to sit with the jocks. Instead, I grab a chair at the end of a small table adjacent to the windows that let you look out into the Knutson Center parking lot. I wrestle my headphones out of the front pocket of my backpack, nervously shifting as I attempt to untangle the cord so I can feel that satisfactory squish of the ear bud lodging inside my ear canal. Squish. Finally. My mom used to tell me that it was rude to walk around with headphones in, but like I said, it’s a Monday afternoon and I’m trying to get lost.

As I approach the food section of our school’s cafeteria, I’m accompanied by Kanye West rapping the lyrics to “Bound 2.” I grab a plate, scoop out some spaghetti noodles, and pour the watery meat sauce over the noodles until all I can see is red and brown. I then go fill up my glass with some skim milk. The white liquid rapidly dislodges from the crate; I wonder if I’m the only one at this school that still drinks skim.

As I head back to my seat, I try not to look too far to my right or left. I hate when people stare. Instead, my irises expand and zone in on the little table by the window where kids sit when they want to get lost. As I arrive at my destination, I’m fully aware that this isn’t enough food to quench my appetite. The sauce is a little too much tomato and a lot too little meat for my liking, but I power through regardless. Near my last bite, I hear a faint yelp outside of my left ear bud. I pull out my ear bud, oscillate about 20 degrees, and see my friend grinning at me. I mirror his affection.

“YO!” he yelps again.

“Hey man, take a seat!”

Time to be social—even though it is a Monday afternoon. I pull the second ear bud out of my right ear now and look down at my phone to close my iTunes, but not before the next song has already begun loading: "Lost" by Frank Ocean.

Almost, I think to myself, almost.

palm trees

"We're under the palm trees,

thinking Heaven must be

somewhere under the palm trees.

With all the Hell we're raising,

at least we had the palm trees

to shade us from the ray beams.

But not even the palm trees

could save us from the flames.

Summer remains."

-frank

Farewell.

Dear Whomever This Matter May Concern,

Thank you. For the opportunity to write words on a page, for the opportunity to have my thoughts digested, and for the opportunity to have my life irreversibly changed—I am eternally grateful to you. For your understanding of my reason for departure, I am even further indebted.

Here I sit, on the parabolic eve of my final—yes, FINAL—album release. It's hard to not feel at least a little bit nostalgic at this time. This collection will constitute my fifth year of making music, my ninth mixtape to be released, and a scattering of other accolades. I look back on the ebbs and flows that have repositioned my life over this period of time—I feel proud. People don't say that enough: “I'm proud of myself.” A friend recently asked me what my defining moments as a musician were. I've had a few: when I debuted “Just Your Average Kid” as a 17-year-old, when I played my first show at Coffman Union, when I opened up for Hoodie Allen alongside a few of my best friends. However, I'd rather discuss the defining moments of my life, provided by my making of music. Notice the disparity. I have music to thank for my openness to new experiences, for my introduction to new friends, and for my ability to better articulate my thoughts. The most paramount blessing music has given me, however, is a voice. I've spoken, you've listened. In your vast realm of activities, in the ceaselessness of sources of entertainment, in the busyness and sporadicity of your lives, you've taken a break. You've plugged in your earphones. You've shown your friends. You've made this leisurely hobby a far greater endeavor than I ever intended, and words cannot grasp how much that has meant to me.

However, you have me confused. So many of you, even my best friends, have inadvertently referred to this as “my dream.” Have I portrayed myself so shallowly? Do you really think my dreams revolve around things. Rap is a thing. Performing on stage is a thing. You listening to me; you are hearing things. My dreams induce much greater depth. To be honest, I consider my current life as “living the dream.” I have the most remarkably supportive family I could ask for; I have a group of friends whom simply calling “friends” doesn't do them justice—I have a group of brothers. I'm dating my dream girl. These are not things. There's permanence here. The world is my canvas. Although the creativity offered by a career with music is enticing, I want to touch the world in a way that music doesn't allow. It's my time to unearth that vocation; it's time for me to decide what I truly can see myself doing for the rest of my life. I'm not giving up on a dream—you should know me better by now.

Writing music came into my life at a time in which I needed it most. I was lost—words were my safety net. I wish I could go back to the first song I ever wrote. I wish I could tell my younger self, slumped aimlessly on that couch, “be careful kid, you don't know what you're getting yourself into.” But, then again, I wouldn't. I would instead ask to trade places with that younger self. To feel that passion bursting through the floodgates. To once again be immersed in that sense of resilience, perseverance, tenacity. I was hungry then; I'm now nourished. I've had some incredible experiences—I've been places far beyond my imagination. I owe so much of my current identity to what I have accomplished musically. But, as is the transient nature of us human beings, we grow older. We move on, we aim elsewhere. We re-establish our view of what we hold near and dear in our lives; simply put, music has been sidelined.

To those of you who have stuck with me through it all, I appreciate you more than I can communicate. To those of you who have opposed me through it all, you were equally important. Thank you for teaching me how to handle adversity. To J-Yak, you wonderful alter-ego, you, I think it's time that we actually fall out. One more album. One last Valley to repel towards. The sun's still shining...

Yours,

Jack

Cyclical

Wake up. Run. Eat breakfast. Go to work. Lift. Make dinner. Go to sleep. Wake up. Repeat. Cyclical.

Wake up. Nerves set in. Don't eat. Perform show. Feel happy. Get drunk. Go to sleep. Wake up. Run. Eat breakfast. Go to work. Lift. Make dinner. Go to sleep. Wake up. Repeat. Cyclical. Cyclical.

You start to wonder if the cycle's ever been breakable...

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