The Fall 2023 Tour Continues in Greensboro, North Carolina

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Awendaw Green in Awendaw, South Carolina

The past several weeks have felt like a tornado of long drives and visiting with family (in the best way possible). However, I am in Charleston, South Carolina at the moment, wishing everyone warm regards, bearing tidings of either magpies, or news. Still on tour. Tour, tour, tour. Played Awendaw Green last night (fun times). Leaving for North Carolina, shortly. Perhaps you might want to see me while I’m in town? I’m not gonna lie: I’d like that. Allow me the opportunity to provide the bat time, bat place, and bat channel for such an endeavor (Adam West would approve).

Awendaw Green in Awendaw, South Carolina

Thanks to my friend Jasmine Commerce for being a mensch and providing a warm bed to rest my bones here in Charleston. In fact, thanks to Sarah, and Mia, and Chris, and Bob, and Phil, and Brenda, and Darice and all my friends and family for opening your homes and your heart to me. I am poor as can be, yet the richest man alive. How does that work? It’s measured in my soul, by the nearest approximation: whatever the currency, I feel it in my heart. Thank you. Deeply and truly:

Oct 21 - State Street Wine Co. | Greensboro, NC @ 6pm

Oct 24 - Swan House Concert Series | New Bern, NC @ 7pm

Oct 26 - Dee’s Country Cocktail Lounge | Madison, TN @ 6pm

Oct 27 - Rootstock | Woodstock, GA @ 7:30pm

Oct 28th - 101 Steak | Atlanta, GA @ 7pm

Oct 29th - HiFi Clyde’s | Chattanooga, TN @ 11am

Nov 3rd - Cocoa Beach Show | Cocoa Beach, FL

Nov 4th - Pompano Beach House Concert | Pompano Beach, FL @ 6pm

Nov 8th - Wet Dogs Brewing | Lake Placid, FL @ 6pm

Nov 9th - New World Biergarten @ New World Music Hall | Tampa, FL @ 6:30pm

Nov 10th - Music by the Bay House Concert | Madeira Beach, FL @ 7pm

Nov 11th - Wolf Howl House Concert Series | St. Petersburg, FL @ 7pm

Nov 26th - Vine | Long Beach, CA @ 4pm

SOCIAL MEDIA

UPCOMING SHOWS

What are Dreams?

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My actual dreams. Yes, I have aspirations—and I am doing my very best to will those into existence: from thought to actuality. But I also dream, and I remember these dreams that I have at night while I sleep. I don’t always remember them, but I do quite often, especially when sleeping flat on my back, with my spine aligned.

I’ve been keeping a dream journal. I started journaling entries of my dream content sometime before the pandemic—it was around the time that I moved to Los Angeles. I think it has been one of the most profound experiences of my life trying to derive meaning from them.

I started reading a lot of Carl Gustav Jung last year, and with a bit of guidance in terms of his theories on how to interpret my own dreams, it has been incredible what I have found. Profound. It is changing my life as well as my outlook on it. I’d love to share some of these dreams with you at some point, in a one on one conversation. I have always enjoyed personal conversations with people. Perhaps I will have the privilege of getting to know you under those circumstances one of these days. In equal measure though, I am so busy with all my aspirations (ironically), that talking about my dreams one on one with a person is a rare privilege for me (should the individual have interest in such subjects) so forgive me if that never happens.

I have turned some of these dreams into art pieces. They become songs or even short works of writing that I share on my Patreon page and on my website. Here is an example of one.

As a beautiful article in Time Magazine pointed out, “Modern psychologists and neurologists, armed with imaging equipment including PET scans and MRIs, have taken things to a deeper and more technical level, speculating that dreaming is the brain’s way of dumping excess data, consolidating important information, keeping us alert to danger and more.”

This may also be true. Stranger yet still: all of these notions could be true.

Regardless of your current outlook on dreams: a vast majority of the population have the exact same type of dreams: flying, teeth falling out, being back in school taking an exam, driving a car, being chased by animals, being naked in a public space in front of people, not wearing pants, and so forth.

I find Jung’s theory for this correlation, to be the most interesting of the lot. He speculates that the portions of the brain responsible for dreaming predate written language and deals and communicates in symbols. A portion of our cerebral cortex, called Wernicke's area and Broca’s area (slightly behind and in front of the ears, approximately), is responsible for language: the use of language and the comprehension of it. The cerebral cortex, from which these two regions are a part of, are the most recent evolutionary addition to our brain structure.

Jung’s theory continues that the older portions of the brain, such as the cerebral cortex, the hippocampus, the limbic system, the amygdala, and so forth, provide us with a symbolic and emotional compensatory monologue—a monologue without words: symbols and metaphors using memories and the rich construct of human experience that we all contain in an area called the collective unconscious. Think of the collective unconscious as something akin to—instinct—yet different and unique. It is a collection, a pool of symbols and meaning and archetypes throughout our continued development as a species.

However, his largest contribution was the idea of compensation—that our dreams are often (but not always) compensatory to our conscious waking life. He illustrates this notion, often, in many of his essays, using experiences with his clients. For the sake of brevity, I will use one such experience that can be found in this article: (https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC4217604/)

“Jung was seeing a patient, who was a highly intelligent woman. Jung’s analysis with her dream went well at first, but after a while he got stuck with the interpretation and noticed a shallowness in the dialogue with the analysand. Jung decided to communicate this to the patient. He then had a dream the night before he was to meet with her again. The dream is as follows:

I was walking down a highway through a valley in late-afternoon sunlight. To my right was a steep hill. At its top stood a castle, and on the highest tower there was a woman sitting on a kind of balustrade. In order to see her properly, I had to bend my head far back. I awoke with a crick in the back of my neck. Even in the dream I had recognized the woman as my patient.

The interpretation of the dream was immediate and crystal clear to Jung: if in the dream he had to look up at the woman, his analysand, then in waking life Jung had probably been looking down on her both intellectually and morally, as according to Jung, ‘“dreams are, after all, compensations for the conscious attitude”’. Jung shared his dream and interpretation of it with the patient and it produced an immediate positive change in the effect of her treatment thereafter.”

It is a deeply fascinating rabbit hole of curiosities. However, please, “you don’t have to take my word for it,” as Lavar Burton would say.

CATCH ME PLAYING LIVE NEAR YOU

$1,016 to the Wind & Suddenly in Charleston

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Charleston, South Carolina

Life changes in a heartbeat. On the flip of a dime. At the whim of my next lousy and trite analogy. Point that moist finger to the sky to gauge the course of the current. It only takes a single moment for opportunities to shift—for the wind to lift contents from my own hands—one’s hat and his right-handed grip on a deposit envelope—the lending towards quick decisions.

Then there’s the loss of a nearly $800 show guarantee because my car retreated into “limp mode” on a foreign Interstate freeway in the middle of Florida. Perhaps it was a problem with the transmission? Perhaps it was the car’s computer acting in self-preservation? Who’s to say these days? Not even the Honda dealership knew for certain, and they created the thing. What they did know is that the car wouldn’t move, because they couldn’t mobilize the now over-glorified-four-wheeled art piece of plastic, metal, and glass into their workspace. I ascertained that symptom as well, while driving on Interstate 75; I was in cruise control—and when I removed my chariot of fire from cruise control, the gas pedal reprioritized itself to a device meant solely to rev an engine that was not in gear. I watched the R.P.M.’s roar across a dial as if I was a little further northeast—in Daytona. Alas, I was one hour and thirty minutes shy of my house concert in Dunedin, Florida—and I never made it there to play. A nice slow goodbye wave to currency, but more importantly, to all the people who were kind enough to be there to see me.

The Animal Kingdom at Disney World Resorts

One might realize he has no road-side assistance, although he could have sworn he did. This insurance was procured during the pandemic, so it also doesn’t surprise me that I was caught with my pants down—or that my hat was lifted suddenly away by a hurricane current. One might watch $1016 be carried off in a mighty gust of wind, flopping and dancing towards the wide and hungry mouth of massive storm drains in a Houston metropolis skyscraper complex.

I was in Houston looking for a credit union co-op ATM that takes large cash deposits. The goal was to eliminate all the worry having such large amounts of cash on my person. Ironically, it was the witches brew within a cauldron of chaos that led to the contents of a deposit envelope being thrust into the open gust of a mighty breeze funneled through the endless span of tall buildings peppered about downtown Houston. I watched in shock and horror as the countless amounts of money did tiny somersaults, or sailed like a vessel, dancing macabre in the currents of air, free from their neatly ordered and cramped deposit envelope. Scattered to the wind as the old saying goes—and I was in hot pursuit, as the contents of that envelope were nearly all that I had to my name at that very moment. While there may have been curse words I didn’t have the chance to get to, I’m fairly certain none were emitted from my vocabulary in those moments, that became an hour of hunting for money I had, and then lost.

Savannah, Georgia River Walk

That is, besides the precarious stack of belongings packed into a 2015 Honda Civic—ordered in some half-hazard manner like Tetris blocks, so that the affects of my business, a touring songwriter, may all neatly fit within the confines of such a small space.

At the moment, I imagine my car, and its contents are ten feet off the ground on a hydraulic lift in a Honda dealership, while the good people of Leesburg, Florida try to ascertain its dilemma as a now stationary and non-moving vehicle (this assertion, point-in-fact, was incorrect, I regrettably inform you, dear reader—I was hopeful as I wrote those words—now, I am simply smiling and pragmatic from a coffee shop in South Carolina).

I wrote those non-parenthetical words, pockmarked as they are, within a Microtel not far from the dealership. It’s not a fancy place. I can’t afford fancy. It does however, have Internet, A/C, power, a warm bed, and enough niceties like continental breakfasts and fresh towels, that one should never complain. I deeply and truly, try not to complain.

I, in the past, have found myself complaining. Perhaps we all do from time to time. I don’t want to be that person any longer. I try not to be that person. I fail sometimes at being that person. I also, recognize, that there is nothing wrong with complaining in some reduced capacity. We, like a steam engine, need some sort of release for the welling of emotional burden percolating and brewing in its fleshy tank—albeit, a steam engine with no destination, is just wasting its steam and its reservoir of momentum.

Savannah, Georgia River Walk

My decisions have brought me to this point. There are also, perhaps machinations within the seemingly mechanical? Or perhaps I the writer and you the reader, subscribe to freewill. Things are bound to occur and do happen. Am I the type of person who feels he can control the wills of people or the outcomes of seemingly chaotic events? That is never a possibility insofar as I can tell. This thought was echoed by a gentlemen sitting on a curb, near a minimart gas station, in Leesburg, Florida, asking for me to buy him a few Swisher Sweets to roll a blunt. We talked for quite some time.

Does my fear of the unknown cause me to feel anxiety within uncomfortable situations, or is it the compulsion to control that causes me to cry when things get hard—realizing that I have no control over the current outcome of a verdict-less existence? Maybe yes, and maybe no. Consistency in action would seem to provide answers. Truth for all of us, is also moot and plural. What I can say is that I do the best I can with what I have available to me.

Anymore, difficult situations for me are treated the same as me walking a path. I put one foot in front of the other. I am putting on my jacket, one sleeve at a time. I have countless fragments of problems that arise from one problem, so I deal with each problem, one at a time, until they are accounted for.

I try to picture myself lucky. Perhaps in a manner that is not yet completely evident to my flimsy understanding of reality, The Universe, it’s concoctions, or better yet, my own for that matter.

It is also easy to say things such as, it is God’s path for me—and perhaps that is true as well? However, I move under my own will—just as the wind does, if not with my own unique purpose. Who is to say precisely that wind moves with what particular purpose? No sooner do I say that, than someone reading this mouths the words of what that purpose might be.

We don’t see the wind. We see it act itself out in the nature of that it pushes about: $1016 for example. I watched it sail and scatter and disperse itself into an economy of pavement, sidewalk, grass, flower gardens, parked cars, and moving traffic. I can feel the wind. However, I can’t see it, aside from what it motivates to move.

Charleston, South Carolina

I can’t see the future either.

I can be hopeful though. I can try not to worry.

My car payment went from being $338—to $580, now, with a used vehicle that I drove off the lot of a Honda dealership. I am in South Carolina at my friend Jasmine’s place in Charleston.

I was telling her about a dream I had, shortly after this debacle:

It had to do with deodorant. I was searching for deodorant, and I found it. I swiped copious amounts of it under my armpits. I can’t remember precisely, whether I felt relief over its application to my person. However, my dear friend Josh, appeared in my dream next, telling me “You see? It’s too much.” On his hand, was a copious spread of deodorant, in a rich-red-colored hue, that he was exemplifying his statement with.

House Concert in St. Petersburg, Florida

Perhaps my unconscious mind was trying to express something to me. Maybe the car is too much? I had little choice in the matter though, and little time to work within. I was hemorrhaging money. I had already lost $800 in donations, and who knows how much in merchandise sales, from my car breaking down the night before. My hotel room that night costed $115, and the tow to Leesburg was $167. I had yet another house show to get to in St. Petersburg, Florida, two hours away from Leesburg and its Honda dealership. There was money to be made and one month of touring still ahead of me. I acted in the best capacity I could, with what little time and option I had before me.

We wear deodorant trying to cover up the natural fragrance of our person and its perspiration—perhaps because we worry as to how our body odor would come across to others. Worry is the optimal word. Perhaps I am full of worry. As I write these words, I feel calm and collected.

I don’t feel worry or anxiety at the moment. This may change later as my responsibilities, my fiscal obligations, rear their burden more closely in my face.

I have a beautiful new-to-me car. I suddenly care about its shiny nature. It being clean all the time. It’s interior.

I also care whether I am living outside my means.

Oddly enough, my friend Taylor told me, as I was purchasing the car that just took a dump on me: “The Universe doesn’t throw anything at you that you can’t handle.”

And so I put one foot in front of the other, and then another, and then another.

Janice and I in Panama City, Florida. She was kind enough to host me and have me pay her backyard the night before my car broke down.

It’s starting to get a bit chilly from the wind outside, rustling the leaves and the trees. I put on my jacket, one sleeve at a time, and continue my journey forward into the unknown.

Perhaps my dreams are like that breeze. As I sleep at night, I collect my unconscious mind’s observations. It is always there: watching and observing. Perhaps it has insight into my behavior. After all, it is me, and I am it.

But perhaps most of all, it is like the wind. You can’t see the wind without its interaction with the world around us, and likewise, we can’t see our unconscious mind, without its interaction with the world within us.

I only lost $22 to the wind, out of $1,016 being carried off by it. I found all the rest of it.

I lost my old car to who knows what, but it was replaced by yet another.

I am trying my best not to worry, and to just be. To smile. To have gratitude. To appreciate the wealth of everyone around me, both friend and stranger alike. I work to not have any strangers in my life. I fail at that sometimes as well.

I’m in Charleston, South Carolina at the moment. I am writing this now, from Jasmine’s dining room table. She’ll be moving with her husband to Ireland, shortly. This opportunity may never happen again. I stare outside, through her dining room window at the leaves on all the tall trees, moving with the breeze. Tears roll down my face as I write this.

It’s a good life, and Bob Marley was probably right.

Don’t worry about a thing… because every little thing, is gonna be alright.

FIND ME ON YOUR FAVORITE SOCIAL MEDIA

COME SEE ME WHILE I TOUR THE UNITED STATES

Santa Fe, New Mexico | Santa Fe Brewing Co. & Desert Dogs Brewery

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When in Rome—or Santa Fe, New Mexico for that matter. I had the pleasure of visiting with my friends Brenda and Dave here in Eldorado Santa Fe, New Mexico for the past several days, while playing a few shows at the local breweries Santa Fe Brewing Co. and Desert Dogs Brewery—the later of which shares the title of my newest album, being released July 11th 2023.

I met both Brenda and Dave while living in Long Beach, CA. They recently relocated here to Santa Fe, New Mexico after having visited here on several occasions. They have been making their dream home in a rural suburb of the greater Santa Fe area, nestled within the rolling hills of high desert, 7,000 feet above sea level. A future full of four seasons: sunshine, snow, the color of leaves changing—an atmosphere somewhat far removed from the daily life of those from Southern California. It’s own unique history and culture.

Red and Green Sauce, lovingly referred to as Christmas style Pozole. A spicy and delightful soup: pork, verde, hominy; a side of finely shredded cabbage, cilantro, diced red onions, and tortilla chips.. A perfect dish for cold, rainy, and dreary weather, which apparently swooped in with me, as I visited Santa Fe for my first (and hopefully not my last). Local residents assured me that the amount of rain they were experiencing currently was very much out of the ordinary, however, to me, a visitor, it felt nice and complimented my soup, my desire to wear a poncho, and my brand new hat.

Brenda and I shopped in the downtown area in which I found that perfect hat and poncho, almost immediately. It was a mission that I chose to accept, arbitrarily, as if it were necessary—and for all intensive purposes as far as I was concerned: it was.

Insofar as the gigs were concerned: bars are always hard. People are not necessarily there to see me specifically, so it’s an effort to find new ears and minds that enjoy what I do: to find new friends and to connect with them in a capacity in which we will see each other again in the future, whether that be through a mailing list or through a social networking service. This might mean that I need to warm people up with a few familiar covers, before politely asking if I might play a few of my own songs. I find that this works nicely. I also find the conversations after my set to be the most important part: this is when we have the opportunity to connect on a level that is meaningful.

I am up for the challenge and I welcome the opportunity for friendship. I am so immensely thankful for anyone who finds anything to like in my music.

I play Desert Dogs Brewery this evening from 8:30pm to 11:30pm.

Perhaps in some ways, I am a burro with a load of wood, waiting in the alley. In other ways, ways which are far more abundant: I am a free spirit, traveling where he pleases, making friends along the way, and enjoying every damn minute of it. I have been ruminating on the idea of purchasing an RV and getting rid of my apartment in Los Angeles. I am thinking about touring year round, seeing as much of the United States as possible and to play as many places as I possibly can. It sounds like a spicy proposition. It sounds like the life of a steamboat pilot, who as Mark Twain pointed out, were the freest people on the planet. I like being free. I like rowing my boat gently down the stream.

Merrily, merrily, merrily…

- Mike

PS

I met Brenda at 4th Street Vine in Long Beach, CA. She is a lovely lovely human being and I am thankful to know you. Congratulations to you and Dave on your dream home. May the blessing you desire be found in your new home. It’s a gorgeous and stunning place to live and I am so thankful to have had you open your home to me for a few days and to offer me the comforts of your place and your company in the future. My heart is full of gratitude.

Come see me live in the United States while I play out in October and November of 2022

"Fool For You" has 18,000 plays on TikTok

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Fool For You (Live at Studio 333) could go viral! What??

I have never had anything like this happen to me before. I recently joined TikTok, and a few days ago, I uploaded a brand new mix of a song that I wrote called "Fool For You (Live at Studio 333)". I had this really beautiful video footage that Damian Apunte filmed years ago, of the band and I playing the song live at my friend's recording studio.

I didn't have a lot of money at the time of filming that video, and so I decided to try and mix the audio myself. Long story short, the audio didn't turn out all that great. Fast forward five or six years later. I sent the audio off to my friend Ryan Lipman, to mix. This was during the pandemic. I had lots of time on my hands, and it had always bugged me, that the audio wasn't as good as the video footage. Well, let me tell you: Ryan fixed that problem. He sent me a gorgeous mix for the song.

I then proceeded to forget about that mix.

That bring us to three days ago. 

I was looking through my hard drive, and I found this mix that Ryan Lipman did. I took the existing video footage I have, threw that into Adobe Premiere Pro (a video editing program), and added Ryan's audio mix to this footage. It looks (and now it sounds) beautiful.

Instilled with this new confidence in the song, I posted it on TikTok. Two days later, it has 18,000 plus views. My follower count suddenly explodes. People are asking where they can listen to the song. It's been incredible.

I decided to re-release the song. It's now live on Spotify and Apple Music: the new mix of the song. I also re-uploaded it to Youtube:

These are small victories.

The song hasn't gone viral. It's just received more attention than I am used to—from a younger demographic. I am not accustomed to that, I suppose? It most certainly isn't unwelcome. It warms my heart and lends to me feeling the furthest from being antiquated: relevant. Special even?

For a short period of time, it feels special. I feel special (just a little bit—forgive me for that if it is an ugly thing).

Who knows what the future holds? Perhaps the song will continue this upward trajectory. Then again, perhaps it won't, and perhaps it will fall into obscurity once again.

Regardless, I am thankful for the new ears and new hearts and new brains that have found this song.

I make music to connect with people, and it feels really lovely to connect with new people. People who I have never met in person.

In all honesty, I hope and dream that it continues to gain momentum. I texted my aunt Doreen yesterday, to share with her that it was exploding on this platform. I told her that I had my fingers crossed that it goes viral. She said, "I'll pray for it. It's more reliable." I used to tell Doreen that I wanted to be an astronaut when I was a little kid—or a professional baseball player. And whatever it was, she always supported me. She is supporting right now in prayers. Prayers that it will go viral.

I hope that it does this because it's a good song. I truly believe in this song. I always have—seeing the reaction I receive from people when I play it live.

Here is a link to check it out on TikTok:

Click this image to find “Fool For You (Live at Studio 333)” on your favorite streaming service. The new mix by Ryan Lipman is now available on Spotify, Apple Music, Youtube Music, and every other streaming service you can think of.

You can also click this link below to find it on your favorite platform of choice to listen to good vibes:

https://songwhip.com/mikevitale/fool-for-you-live-at-studio-333



Additionally, here is a link to my latest release from 2021. It is a Country and Americana inspired collection of songs. The album is called Φ. It is available on all the major streaming services by either clicking the album cover to the right, or the link below:

https://songwhip.com/mikevitale/phi

I am thankful to have you all in my lives.

I am thankful to be touring in October and November of this year.
(You can see all my show dates here: https://www.bandsintown.com/mikevitale

I am thankful for all the people who have been contributing to this tour on my GoFundMe. Every little bit helps, and I hope you have been enjoying my newest album, DESERT DOGS (which I send when you contribute to it), before it gets released next year on July 11th 2023: https://gofund.me/7876a2cd

May you all cross your fingers for me, or pray, or carry me in your thoughts. Whatever suits your demeanor and life outlook. May this song soar, even if just for a little while, over small mountain ranges. May it see a small bit of what the world has to offer, and connect me with more folks than my wildest imagination could ever fathom.

- Mike

FALL 2022 United States Tour

A Peculiar Growth... and a Mouse

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A Peculiar Growth… and a Mouse

By Michael Patrick Vitale

I was in my quaint living room in Los Angeles, California. I have a beautiful fiddle leaf fig that occupies a space directly to the right of my work desk. However, its appearance was different than I normally remember it. It has been carefully manicured to have its main branch subdivide into several different shoots of branches, each with their own constellation of leaves. It is quite beautiful. It differers from the predominate majority of their variety that has a lone shoot, or trunk, which will continue to grow to the heavens, until it either buckles under its own weight, and begins to curve, or if a ceiling or otherwise, inhibits its upward expansion.

While I have tried to maintain the relative size of this tree by restricting its new growth, on this curious occasion, I noticed a peculiar new growth, that I had never noticed before. It resembled an oblong organic pod or tray running horizontal along the top. I had never noticed this before. It appeared to have a lid. I was curious beyond belief. I slowly began removing the organic lid. There was an overwhelmingly sticky bond between the lid and the organic tray; it resembled an adhesive viscous secretion of sort, as I pulled the lid away and back from the tray; this viscous material remained attached to both ends, the tray top and its constituent container, for lack of better words. Rather than remove the lid, I pushed it away, as one might do with the heavy top on a sarcophagus. While it was not a heavy lid, the secretions and absolute queerness of the entire growth on a fiddle leaf fig, creeped me out. So, I do not think I was eager to touch it a lot. I do not feel like that I was full of fear, but I most certainly felt on edge, as if, to be prepared for the unexpected.

What I found inside were two distinct things. It appeared to be a spiders nest as there were two or three sprawls of spiderwebs inside. Instantaneously, I felt as if this might be the home of the spider I was observing the other night. In addition to this, I also saw what looked to be a new miniature version of a fiddle leaf fig on the inside of this organic container.

Having inspected the contents, I pushed the lid back over the top of this organic tray of sorts, so as not to disturb the creatures or spiders living inside this peculiar organic case. I was overcome with a feeling of bewilderment by this whole ordeal, if not a bit of fear, perhaps as I appeared to be dealing with something previously unknown—in my home no less.

I look down on my floor, in front of the desk, to see a cute white mouse, with a rather elegant and appropriate tail. I am ashamed to admit that my initial feeling was that I needed to eradicate this rodent. It began to scurry off towards my bedroom. I had a reassured feeling that my cat would take care of the mouse.

Art as Seen From a Bed

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I feel as if I am in a food court of a shopping mall, however, to be completely honest: I have no idea where I am, aside from sitting at a table, across from another human being. This human is a friend; I am visiting with a friend. He is a very talented guitar player. On a spectrum of deep friendship to acquaintance, I suppose we are closer to the later. We have never been typically close, however I certainly do not think of him as an enemy or someone that I hate—so he would best be described as a friend. I only mention this to help qualify my relationship with him.

He is a rather gifted musician—meant mainly in the sense that he has strived, and continuously worked to reach towards the stratosphere of excellence as an electric guitar player and performer. I do not recall our conversation in depth. I do know that it had to do with guitar and him taking a playful jab at himself, feeling as if he is using chorus all the time, as if it were by request or not a choice of his own doing. He sort of made a comparison to him feeling like Andy Summers from the rock band The Police. Chorus is an audio affect, a guitar effect that doubles a signal and offsets that second signal; in other words, it is a very quick delay, perceived by the human brain as a swirling and churning sound, thick and delightful. He said that he felt like he plays every song with his chorus pedal on.

This friend and I are not particularly close, as mentioned previously, so I ask if he would like to hang out for a longer duration; perhaps we can get to know one another better—become closer friends. I do not recall whether this was something that he found agreeable and enjoyable. I do however feel that he invited me over to one of his friend’s houses to hangout.

We found ourselves in a room. A room that looked unfamiliar to me, yet somewhat familiar.. It felt like a drug dealer’s room. But to be honest, I do not recall any discernible evidence of this notion within the room, aside from the general feeling of that association. Besides, what does a typical drug dealer room look like, anyway? At any rate, all three of us were sitting on the floor. Two friendly dogs arrived at some point in time. The other two people in the room sort of took a backseat in my mind; they became part of the peripheral. My attention was very focused on the dogs. They were quite playful and enjoyable to be around. I played with both of them on the floor. Wrestling around in good horseplay for a period of time. They were big dogs. They could be aggressive, but they weren’t. They very much enjoyed my company, and I enjoyed theirs.

Having tired of this activity, I retreated back to sitting position on the floor close to the bed, and noticed that my host’s bed had a beautiful piece of artwork that started directly above his bed’s headboard, and sprawled upwards, in a secondary and third canvas, onto his ceiling. It was one continuous piece of art. I remember swirls of oranges and yellows. Very atmospheric, brush strokes that swirled and collided and coincided with one another as if it were currents of color—not a portrait of an image as far as I could tell. More abstract in that sense. There were words on it, or something that appeared to be words—but in all honesty, it was indiscernible to me as a language with any meaning behind it. It came across as a beautiful piece of art and if it spoke, it said something beautiful that my eyes appreciated. I thought it were clever that it was something my host, and myself by extension, could appreciate from say, where I sat, but also as something he could appreciate while lying in bed.

There were thoughts of Chicago and wondering when it begins to snow there.

A Hotel Room Inside My Head

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Painting by Edward Hopper

A Hotel Room Inside My Head

By Michael Patrick Vitale

There is a hotel room inside my head. It does not demand attention of its own adornments. It is not flashy, and because of this, its occupants might not spare their attention towards whether or not there is a mini bar, or a large television with multiple channels, a well-upholstered couch, the finest of wallpaper, or the most elegant of lighting apparatus and lamps and other assorted furniture. None of these things are the focal point for me, at the very least. I can’t speak for everyone else present—well, I suppose I could, but I will not out of my own misguided principle. I am there for music.

There is a concert to be had by everyone present at this event, in a hotel room, inside my head. A very intimate concert. In fact, I am one of the artists scheduled to perform on this very lovely day, in a hotel room, inside my head. I never do perform though. Nor does the headliner. The very first artist, a duo, is scheduled to perform. They are the only people who actually play any music, and they do so, criss-cross applesauce from the humble elevation of carpeted floor, adjacent and in front of a King-sized bed. They play music that is inspired and unique and quirky and endearing. It speaks of their heart and soul, and everyone present can feel this. I recognize and admire all of these traits from my perch on top of the bed, in the hotel room inside my head.

The person next to me on the bed, is the headliner. She was not pleased to find out that this act was playing. She was unfamiliar with them. I assured her of their talent and merit, yet she remained skeptical—that is, until they began to play their music. They changed her mind. She told me so, sitting next me, on a King-sized bed, in a hotel room, inside my head.

To be completely honest, I am surprised that she agreed to play—let alone that she is even present, in this hotel room inside my head. She is quite talented. She also can’t stand my presence. Under normal circumstances—let us say, outside of a hotel room inside my head—she would avoid all contact with me. It is not my place to say that such feelings are unwarranted, either.

Once upon a time, I sent her a song I wrote, thinking that it might belong to her. I was mistaken, apparently. Perhaps she misunderstood the lyrics. Perhaps I misunderstood the song. I remain open to the idea that sharing the song, with her, was a complete mistake. Things probably would have been better left unsaid, and unsent. Thinking about it in some sort of equal measure of pragmatism and ——————————, what is a human being aside from a collection of choices? Regardless, here we are now, on a King-sized bed, watching a concert, in a hotel room, inside my head.

The musical act who was playing their original music, concludes, and they are no longer in the room. However, this notion did not become apparent to me immediately. I was startled to find that my father turned on the television, in the hotel room inside my head. I had no idea there was a television. I had no idea that my father was present. What an entrance! It was an impressive use of show me don’t tell me (bravo!). I politely insist that there is a concert in progress, and that perhaps he should turn the television off. He complies to my request without a word of disagreement or disgust.

While my attention was diverted on father’s insistence to find suitable entertainment in the realm of the two-dimensional, my headlining act, disappeared as well. She was nowhere to be seen. In her stead, two dear and talented friends arrive, and begin unpacking their guitars in order to play. I am thrilled to see both of them, although, admittedly, I am closer to one of the musicians—more so than the other—and frankly, I am surprised to see the more familiar of the two, as he no longer lives anywhere near to me. But then again, what do I know of time and distance and possibility, when it comes to an intimate folk concert in a hotel room, inside my head.

Nonetheless, I greet him with a long and sincere hug to display my deep gratitude for his company. As he unpacks his guitar from its case, I stand from the bed, and walk towards the adjacent area, the stage, if you will, where the previous performers had sat and expressed themselves. I suddenly notice that the arrival of my two performer friends were accompanied in more than equal measure by a large group of strangers, scattered across the space that could be described as the hotel room inside my head. Their presence is not unwelcome. An audience is always appreciated, especially for a concert, regardless of whether or not it is, within a hotel room, inside my head.

I reorient myself towards my friend, who is attending to his instrument, with his back facing me. His hair has greyed substantially since I last saw him several years ago; it would be best described as a distinguished look of salt and pepper coloring, at ear’s length. I mention that “I am so surprised to see you,” to which he replies, “I am moving back here. My house has turned into quite the money pit.” I am pleased to hear of his return, but saddened by his housing woes. I am also just beginning to realize that he is setting up to perform—this is slightly troubling, as I was not expecting his presence to begin with. After all, we have a full bill of performers for the evening, and furthermore: I have no clue where the headliner is. She has all but vanished.

A quick perusing of the hotel room inside my head shows no sign of her presence. I check outside for her, within the confines of the rear and empty parking lot adjacent to the hotel room inside my head. The parking lot is surrounded and secluded within the perimeter of several tall and some yet even taller still buildings and cityscape; and the parking lot, adjacent to the hotel room? It too is inside my head. It is the parking lot inside my head. It is empty, if we do not count me, as I am standing there. Alone. Alone with my uncertainty.