The last time I wrote I was in the middle of mourning my mother who had passed two weeks prior. I thought I was in a space to move on. I wasn’t.

It’s been almost two weeks since I have written on this site. The break wasn’t intentional. My mother passed two weeks ago and understandably (I hope) I haven’t been feeling particularly inspirational or philosophical.

I recently bumped into a man in one of my local parks, my camera in hand. He approached and told me he was a photographer as well. We did as all photography nerds do and began talking about camera brands, specs and preferred focal lengths.

Mourning isn’t for the dead. It’s for the living. Whether you believe in an afterlife or that death is a full-stop, the loved ones we lost are free of worry and pain. Our mourning is the acceptance of our own worry, our own pain. But at some point, we must shed the weight of sorrow and transition back to joy.

My mother, Cynthia Rose Neil, died this weekend at the age of 77, two days before I planned a surprise visit. That visit would have ended nearly a dozen years of having not seen her or my father in person. A self-induced exile resulting from childhood trauma and a myriad of unresolved issues. In lieu of getting to see her one last time, I wrote this letter.

If given a chance, ideas can resonate around the world but, some requirements have to be met before that resonance is possible.

The dog behind the blog.

There is no medium that perfectly encapsulates a moment of your existence. Expression is plagued with layers that subtly (or not so subtly) alter the representation of what you see and feel.

There is a saying that I have lived by. You are as relevant as you are useful. Your opportunities are directly tied to the utility you can provide others.

It’s an easy exercise to create the habit of putting words on paper (or screen) while being corny enough that you aren’t hung up on crafting the perfect verse (until you are).

It is easy to think that your creative endeavors are in insignificant in the midst of this chaos. Nothing could be further from the truth.

I'm not much of a spiritual person at this point in my life. My belief in a higher power is proportional to how dire my circumstances are.

For many, the core of the artificial intelligence debate comes down to who or what is doing the actual creation.

Viral moments are a helluva drug. And like any drug, we’ll make bad choices to get another hit of that dopamine.

It’s thrilling, it’s scary, but it’s also the safest I can remember being in a relationship because, instead of pushing for an impossible steadiness, we dive headlong into the inevitable rise and fall of a well-lived life.

Sometimes I wonder about creations that we will never see. The creations that either eroded over time or the ones hidden in basements and attics. There are likely more Vivian Maiers in the world than Gordon Parks.

I like long songs. I grew up in a time when an artist could make a song as long as one side of an LP. I especially like long songs with distinct movements. Think “Freebird“ by Lynyrd Skynyrd or “Green Eyes” by Erykah Badu. They feel like expressions of complete thought. I like to listen to these songs when I”m drifting off and thinking of ideas for projects.

One evening, my father was heading to the bodega and asked me if I wanted anything. “Pick me up a six-pack,” I said, straight-faced. My father, just as straight-faced, “Go get your money.”

For years I thought that being creative required poor mental health. I embraced my depression because I produced good work. But, I’m learning how that is a false equivalency. If I’m talented, it’s not because I’m in pain. It’s because I have a bit of natural talent that a massive amount of repetition has nurtured.

I was what I call fresh homeless. I slept on the train wearing a leather bomber with a lovely cable knit cardigan with another heavy sweater underneath, boots that were more fashion than function, all paired with matching wool gloves and scarf. I carried a two-thousand-dollar laptop, a thousand-dollar cellphone, and three-hundred-dollar headphones in my faux-military backpack. If I ever needed to beg for money, I wouldn’t have gotten a dime.