Category Archives: Published

An Artist’s Life and An Expat’s View

The following is an excerpt from my memoir, “The Kid Who Got Away.”

They say that the only heart worth having is a heart that’s been broken. My heart and soul have been broken, shattered, crushed and beaten to within an inch of existence. They, like so many, have been battered to the point where thoughts of suicide begin to linger instead of passing through like a wandering salesman of death, seeking out a new opportunity to ply his wears. There have been times when my head has proven to be not such a good place to go at night. Often, it was not a safe place to hang out during the day, either. I have been taken to the edge on more than a few occasions. I have peered over the precipice and carefully weighed my options. I have always chosen life.

One of those times found me sitting alone in a strange city I knew very little about, in a single room in a huge apartment I felt unwelcome in, with a bottle of wine (and another on deck in the fridge), a single candle, my guitar and a tape recorder. All I could do was write songs reflecting my emotions in a cathartic way. From this came my CD “More Than Life Itself.”

I had written the title track before I left a number of important relationships behind in New York. My family, my friends, my band, my animals along with the woman I loved so deeply and had shared so much of my life with. She didn’t know about the song I had written specifically for the going away “celebration” planned at New World Home Cooking in Saugerties. The dance floor was full. I asked her to step forward and played it for her. We were both in tears. So was just about everyone there.

As I drove away from our house in a valley nestled in the Catskills of upstate New York, the heartbreak turned to agony. After fourteen years, I had romanticized that some day I would die in this woman’s arms. It was not to be.

As I poured my heart out onto that little tape recorder, I had no idea how many, if any,  might hear these songs someday. I just laid my soul bare, fighting through the gristle ’til I struck bone. There was blood and tears spread liberally throughout each song and on every page. The artistic life is not an easy or simple. You can hurt a lot of people along the way, none the least of whom being yourself.

Friends ask me why I never listen to my own music. My friend Teeta keeps them in regular rotation on her playlist. She knows that if I’m in her car and one of my songs pops up, she needs to hit the “skip to next” button ASAP. Last night, I played a couple of songs from “More Than Life Itself” that are online for a friend here in San Miguel. Those songs took me back to that lonely time sitting in that little room in New Orleans with a bottle of wine, a guitar, a single candle and my shattered heart. As I sat there and listened with her, it took all the strength I could muster to hold back the flood.  After saying our good nights, I watched her walk down the quiet cobble stoned street I live on in Colonia Guadalupe. She turned the corner. The flood came.


I guess it’s official now. I am an expat, a resident of the United States of Mexico, not the United States of America. I have been in San Miguel de Allende for one year now and don’t see myself leaving anytime soon. Sure, I’ll take my excursions to far away places. There’s still a lot of world to see out there. But San Miguel is now home.

It has caused me see the country of my birth in such a different light. Some of the things that were important to me back there are not so important to me now. So many of the things that seem to be so important to so many back there that they are willing to hate and spit their bile at each other, seem so trivial to me. The people of the USA are very willing to jump into the “divide and conquer” trap set for them long ago. There don’t seem to be any Americans left. It’s either “us” or “them.” You’re either on the right or the left, religious or secular, conservative or liberal, black or white, gay or straight.

Moderation, debate and the consideration of new or different ideas is frowned upon. Social media has become a place where you can preach to your choir and hate the “idiots” on the other side. The other side has no intention of ever listening. Meanwhile, the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. Each day, America devolves faster and faster into a nation of haves and have nots. Meanwhile, the most import issue of our lives, climate change, threatens their very existence but gets short shrift from those with the ability to make meaningful change.


Be excellent to each other and remember: Think twice before hitting “Send.”




Yogis and the Yucatan

The following is an excerpt from my memoir, “The Kid Who Got Away.”

While in therapy at the Transpersonal Psychology Institute in Menlo Park, California, my therapist felt that I would be a great candidate for past life regressions. Past life regression is a technique that uses hypnosis to recover any memories of past lives or incarnations that a patient might have retained.

In my most vivid regression, indicating that it might have been my most recent, I remembered being a young boy studying with a teacher in India. A group of us would gather each day to listen to his teachings of yoga and meditation. He called me to the side and asked me why I kept coming. He said I was way beyond his being able to teach me anything. He implied that I should be teaching him.

I left and trekked high into the Himalayas, seeking a cave of my own to be alone with my thoughts and increasingly lengthy meditations. The next thing I recalled was feeling warm and safe in a cave. I had a huge snake of some sort there with me. I believe he was providing most of the heat.

One day, I came out of my cave to find a group of people shivering in the cold outside my cave. Surprised, I asked what they were doing there. They told me they were waiting for my teachings. I made it clear I had nothing to teach them, that I was honored but that they should go home and find a suitable teacher. I left them there, returning to the solace of my warm cave and large friend.

The next time I came out of my cave the group had grown in size. There they stood, shivering in the cold, waiting for me to share some of my “wisdom” with them. I told them I knew nothing and asked them to leave. They wouldn’t. I told them some stories from the Ramayana and what they seemed to be teaching. Each time I exited my cave, the group had grown. I had no desire to be responsible for teaching them anything. I felt sorry for them and told them more stories each time I came out.

I awakened from a particularly long meditation realizing it was time to leave my body. “Death” was coming and coming soon. As I left my body, there was this exhilarating feeling of expansion. The cave lit up with a bright, pervasive light. I could feel myself being freed from the confines of this tiny, limited physical body. It was the most wonderful feeling of my life.

Walking alone through the back streets of my little Colonia Guadalupe, the air smells of fresh, ripe peaches. There’s a fiesta on the corner and I hear the laughter of screaming children breaking holiday pinatas. The night is cool. I pass several lovely senoritas with long hair and olive skin. As I reach my house, I stop dead in my tracks and realize, “I’ve just bought a ticket to Havana. I’m going home.”

This is what greeted me as I hit the Cancun Airport


The Yucatan was wonderful. The cool offshore breeze in Tulum, the turtles in Akumal, that was all wonderful; but the Yucatan will always mean one thing to me. I’m going home.

I headed for the border to reconnect with my Latin roots. I am all too aware of how significant a milestone my return to the home of my ancestors is on this journey. My angels have gotten me here at just the right time. Let’s hope all goes well and that on February 6, 2015 I step off a plane into the arms of those who came before me. I’m comin’ home, Mama. ¡Viva Cuba!