Verse 23 | Tao Te Ching | Sincerity

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Dale Translation

Speak few words, but say them with quietude and sincerity,

and they will be long-lasting,

for a raging wind cannot blow all morning,

nor a sudden rainstorm last throughout the day.


Why is this so?

Because it is the nature of the sky and the earth to be frugal.

Even human beings can not alter this nature

without suffering the consequences.


When we sincerely follow the ethical path,

we become one with it.

When we become one with the ethical path, it embraces us.


When we completely lose our way, we become one with loss.

When we become one with loss, loss embraces us.


When we sincerely follow the great integrity, we become one with it.

When are one with the great integrity, it embraces us.


But when nothing is done sincerely,

nothing and on-one embraces us.


Walker Translation

Nature is sparing with speech

a whirlwind doesn't last all morning

a rain shower doesn't last all day


What causes these? Heaven and earth.

If heaven and earth can't make something

furious endure, how could man?


Concentrate on Tao and you'll experience Tao.

Concentrate on power, and you'll experience power.

Concentrate on loss and you'll experience loss.


If you won't trust, you won't be trusted.


Mitchell Translation

Express yourself completely,

then keep quiet.

Be like the forces of nature:

when it blows, there is only wind;

when it rains, there is only rain;

when the clouds pass, the sun shines through.


If you open yourself to the Tao,

you are one with the Tao

and you can embody it completely.

If you open yourself to insight,

you are at one with insight

and you can use it completely.

If you open yourself to loss,

you are at one with loss

and you can accept it completely.


Open yourself to the Tao,

then trust your natural response;

and everything will fall into place.


Dyer Translation

To talk little is natural:

Fierce winds do not blow all morning;

a downpour of rain does not last the day.

Who does this? Heaven and earth.


But these are exaggerated, forced effects,

and that is why they cannot be sustained.

If heaven and earth cannot sustain a forced action,

how much less is man able to do?


Those who follow the Way

become one with the Way.

Those who follow goodness

become one with goodness.

Those who stray from the Way and goodness

become one with failure.


If you conform to the Way,

its power flows through you.

Your actions become those of nature,

your ways those of heaven.


Open yourself to the Tao

and trust your natural responses . . .

then everything will fall into place.

WHO IS MIKE VITALE?

I am a storyteller, singer, songwriter, music producer, traveling musician, Jungian dream analyst, all-around curious fellow (Spiritual, Mathematical Historical, Scientific), Taoist, and much much more, based out of Los Angeles, California. I’m constantly releasing new music, in all sorts of different genres. You can listen to me below, on Spotify:

SOCIAL LINKS

UPCOMING SHOWS

Imago

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It is a very old word—with several meanings. 

In Biology, Imago is used to describe the very last stage of an insect's life cycle. It is the stage of maturity. The last phase of its ultimate development and its final metamorphosis: the imaginal phase.

In psychology, it is used to describe,

n. an unconscious mental image of another person, that influences the way in which an individual relates to others. 

Have you ever thought about that?

We create mental images of people... and despite our best efforts, we might never be operating from a place of fully formed knowledge on a person, especially when we start casting judgment.

It is a term that can be used to make differentiation between what we might perceive verses the objective reality of an individual. It is extremely subjective—personal to each of us—and is very much filtered through our unique experiences and history, growing as a human being and as an individual.

If we are to make a distinction between actuality and the way we perceive it, an image or representation of a person is the best we can do.

Perception.

Perhaps our growth, our maturity, our metaphorical metamorphosis in which we emerge from our chrysalis, lightly brushing our wings, preparing to take flight, begins with the notion that we are all completely clueless, and that we know nothing, especially in so far as it pertains to someone else.

There is plenty of inner space to explore—a lifetimes worth, and perhaps through that exploration of oneself, we may better communicate with those around us.

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

Booking Three United States Tours for 2023

Friends: I am working on booking several tours for 2023 at the moment, but the most immediate is a June 2023 tour through Nevada, Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, Montana, Washington, Oregon, and back down California. I just booked my first show for the tour:

Saturday June 17th - Targhee House of Tunes in Driggs, Idaho

I am looking for house concerts, venues, coffeeshops, shopping malls, street corners, restaurants, bars, and any valuable opportunities for me to find people that might like my music, on either side of this date. For routing purposes, a show in Salt Lake City, Utah on Friday June 16th would be delightful. Perhaps a show in St. George on Thursday June 15th, and a show in Las Vegas on Wednesday June 14th.

On the other side of this date, I would love to make a show in Montana or Wyoming happen (or both). I have never been to either of those states, which is criminal. Please, someone either arrest me or help me to change that.

I would then love to swing into Washington and Oregon before heading back down California to Los Angeles.

If there is one thing I can say with certainty at nearly 44 years old: we do great things together and I can use your help if you have any to provide.

I am releasing my new album DESERT DOGS this year, single by single. One song per month. I hope that I am able to find ears that will appreciate what soul and life experience I had to put into its contents. I worked the hardest I ever had on this album, and hope that it shows to those who listen.

I just recently added a show date in Denver, Colorado on July 15th and a show in Grand Island, Nebraska on July 16th.

Additionally, I added a show in Las Cruces, New Mexico on November 11th and I will be adding a Florida date to the calendar in the last week of October. My current Bandsintown show calendar has a listing of these show dates below.

Touring is quite an expense. My dream is to tour with a band. However, I think it is well within the realm of possibility to tour with a smaller ensemble—perhaps as an acoustic duo. If you are interested in helping me to accomplish this, I am trying to raise money to tour as a duo. This is not charity. Anyone who contributes will receive a copy of my newest album DESERT DOGS, which I will be releasing single by single every month. I will send both a download code that can be redeemed on BANDCAMP as well as a private streaming link that can be used on Soundcloud.

https://gofund.me/4fde555e

Chess Park Lounge Residency | Fridays in April and May of 2023

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The band and I at Chess Park Lounge in 2019. Photo courtesy of Katie Ferrara

The band and I have a residency in Glendale, California nearly every Friday night in April and May of 2023 at a place called CHESS PARK LOUNGE. The first picture is us playing there back in 2019. They have since then, built a beautiful stage for the musicians, an amazing lounge area to enjoy the music, and started bringing in top-tier talent. I was so shocked to have them invite us back out to play, considering the acts they have been booking since I have been out touring the United States.

I recently played Maui Sugar Mill in Tarzana for HONKY TONK SALOON with the band on January 11th. The audience there was so kind and beautiful and engaged. It was a lovely lovely experience. We would love to have that same energy at Chess Park Lounge as well and we will do our very best to spread the good vibes. In fact, the pictures listed after the top image, are all from Maui Sugar Mill for Honky Tonk Saloon.

We would be honored to have you there if you feel inclined. We will be playing original music, as well as choice covers from 7:30pm to 11:30pm. The evening has no cover cost. All you need to pay for is a little bit of parking (and it's not Hollywood parking rates).

One of the Fridays, April 21st: that is my birthday. I can think of no better way to celebrate another year on this beautiful planet, than to be playing music with my friends and to hopefully be surrounded by any friends that are free to attend. I would be honored to have you there.

Here are the dates we will be performing:

Friday April 7th 2023

Friday April 21st 2023

Friday April 28th 2023

Friday May 5th 2023

Friday May 12th 2023

Friday May 19th 2023

Friday May 26th 2023

As mentioned previously, we play from 7:30pm to 11:30pm. It's free. All that we ask is that you support the Lounge by purchasing drinks or food.

Englishman in New York | Sting (Mike Vitale Cover)

I originally covered this song on Youtube 13 years ago on a camera in a living room. It's my most popular video on Youtube with nearly 200,000 views—I'm also incredibly embarrassed of my performance in that video.

With that being said, I re-recorded this video today to show myself how much I've grown as a musician, recording and mixing engineer, and so forth.

I'm proud of all the work I have put into my craft in the years since recording "Englishman in New York" back in 2010. The comfort I feel in front of a camera now is amazing. 13 years ago, it was an entirely different experience than what it was today.

I am an enormous fan of Sting's work in both The Police, as well as his solo work, and this cover is me tipping my hat to his continued genius as a musician, songwriter, and performer.

Chili in Fort Mill

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Fort Mill, South Carolina (while on my walk)

If there are reasonable amounts of chili to be consumed, I know nothing on the subject. It only occurred to me after 10pm rolled around and I felt a bit drowsy. I had worked up quite the appetite on my five hour drive between Woodstock, Georgia and Fort Mill, South Carolina, which is nestled slightly below the community of Charlotte, North Carolina—right along the border of the two states: this is where my aunt hangs her hat. My aunt Ruth. It’s around 8am at the moment, the next day. She has a lovely home and I’m thankful for her being kind enough to allow me a place to sleep, for the good company, and naturally, the enormous bowl of chili that greeted me, nearly the moment I arrived. I have been fairly religious about maintaining a ketogenic diet while on this tour—however—exceptions have been made in some sort of slightly freckled fashion on my clean bill of health in that dietary department, if one were to subscribe to such beliefs. The diet seems to work for me, however, I also enjoy chili, cowboy toast, and a few slices of pie from time to time.

There was probably a 17 year stretch where the two of us did not see each other, because she moved to the east coast, along with my younger cousin Ryan. On my first United States tour last year, they both came out to see me perform while I played in one of the bedroom communities surrounding Charlotte. I drove to North Carolina on two separate occasions last year. Once this year. Three times of visiting is a gift.

My house concert in Woodstock, Georgia. Thank you brother John for having me.

It feels of fall here. It’s around 47 degrees outside at the moment. I have spent the better portion of the past several weeks in the lower south, where it still feels of summer water amusement parks, shorts, flip-flops, tank tops, koozies, BBQ, and the like. There were a few occasions of folding lawn chairs to enjoy an outdoor concert, or to dip one’s feet in the warm water of Gulf Coast. My bare feet now, are cold, as I write this. I am thinking about hunting for my socks in a moment, while I ruminate on the next several words to put in front of the other. The cold is not uninvited, unwarranted, or unwelcome to me. I can recall purchasing a jacket, mere weeks ago, while in Austin, Texas, waiting for any opportunity to wrap it around myself, should that opportunity had ever arisen in the first place; Austin had other plans, none of which involving jackets.

Apache Junction, Austin, Houston, Mobile, Panama City, the pan-handle, Leesburg, Dunedin, St. Petersburg: Fall almost seems to be a rumor in such places—maybe even a lie told to those with cold cold hearts. I have been reading about it in books—well, for the sake of accuracy—listening to it from narrated books. It has been a lot of driving, and a lot of listening.

Because no great story ever started with someone eating a salad.

I just devoured what could be one of my new favorite books of all time: “The Passenger” by Cormac McCarthy. This has revitalized my interest in his cornucopia of literature I have yet to read. So, after the two day consumption of this new book of his (it was recently released on October 25th 2022), I went back to the year 1992, and started to read his classic “All the Pretty Horses.” There is much talk of Fall, Winter, snow, and the many traits that are cold weather in there—so I know it exists; well, from his literature—and my cold feet. More importantly: Cormac McCarthy is a national treasure. Someone give the man a Nobel Prize. He deserves a monkey trophy. His writing is beautiful. His story telling is exquisite. His conversations are organic and deep and unbelievable, yet within the realm of possibility. I can’t stop thinking about what he writes, for days on end after consumption.

I have decided to take a long stroll around the neighborhood—if just to walk off the copious amounts of chili and pie—and, perhaps to garner a remedy for cold feet. Excuse me for a moment.

This wouldn’t have been an issue yesterday in Woodstock, Georgia. However, there is news of a hurricane in Florida; yet another, above and beyond that of which was previous and has since disappeared with a wake of destruction: Ian was its name, if memory serves me correctly.

No, this yet still, a new hurricane, the one that is brewing over the entirety of Florida at the moment, is a Category 1. It has a name from what I understand, as well: Nicole. I hope Nicole is a lady of easy demur, and that she smiles with only light tears over the coastline. Her breathiness could be to a minimum, however, reports are suggesting otherwise. No matter: I cross my fingers for those who are in its headlights as it drives up the interstate, along with myself. There is no doubt that the cold storm I am feeling on my feet, are a result of Nicole’s currents. May the weather buy a vowel using Wheel of Fortune rules, and give us all the sweet currant of fruitfulness, rather than the rags of battered sails, as we both traverse together.

Some of my extended family in Mobile, Alabama

And yet, only the day before my arrival in Woodstock, Georgia, I found myself in Mobile, Alabama—along the Gulf Coast. I could have sworn that it was swimming weather, sure as it was, also a day for Church for the residents of the area. Even the Flora-bama had a service, flanked as it may be, by the endless shelves of alcohol, to be dispersed shortly after service had concluded (maybe even during for all I know). Speaking of church services held in a bar, and subjects that straddle the line of propriety. The Flora-bama: it straddles the line of the Florida and Alabama border, right along a coastline, freckled with high-rise resorts and the whitest of fine demolished sand one will ever have the privilege to crawl between their toes while walking the beaches of a red neck riviera. I found residents apologizing to me about a place I had yet to visit, and others continued such a trend, well after I had visited the place. I rather liked the joint. There where multiple stages for music, and quite the well-spring of libations to socially lubricate even the most rusted jointed gates of good times to be had. The remnants of feminine approval to musicians world wide, hanging from clothes lines above one of the audience congregations adjacent the stage: enough bras and varieties of which to fill a department store inventory.

Me at the Flora-bama on the Florida/Alabama border.

There was a 1.9 billion dollar jackpot for Lotto, and line of folks standing in line to buy tickets at the Florida/Alabama border. Alcohol and Lotto, given equal billing on the sign outside of the establishment. A line of Alabama residents, buying tickets, as the Lotto is not a legal privilege in their state. Loop holes. Good on them.

It was a jackpot, having the opportunity to play for my friends and family in Mobile, the night before. Playing music I wrote, for cousins I didn’t know that I had, save for the past several years. My cousin Mia, is a musician herself and is very supportive of all my musical whimsies and storytelling tendencies. I love my family dearly, and between you and I: my family is not as close as we used to be. I wish it were not the case. I have tried to make it not the case, through choice phone calls to an aunt, voicing my concerns that we are not getting any younger, and are only becoming more comfortable in our own bubbles of social interaction. This rings true of not only my immediate family, but also of my extended family, much to my chagrin.

The Frog Pond. A house concert venue outside of Mobile, AL.

Were I man of more means, perhaps I could invite them all over to my place for dinner. I am hesitant to think that they would make the trek to Los Angeles, albeit being 4 hours away from my home town of Visalia. My younger brother and I both live here in southern California. My mom refused to make the journey to visit for Thanksgiving. I spoke to her yesterday, and she is open to being picked up by my brother and driven to southern California to stay with him for a week, before the Christmas holiday, something that excites me a great deal (she hasn’t been here to visit me since I moved to southern California to go to college in 2002, and when I graduated from college).

Perhaps the key to this discussion between family, is to truly try to understand the schism between all of us—or that we were never really that close to begin with… I am uncertain. I do know that the cost of being close, is our time and our energy. While I may not be very rich, I do have time and energy to provide to anything that fills my heart with joy.

I am not here to complain either, or to point fingers. I take responsibility for myself, and also wish to make as much effort as possible towards accomplishing whatever I can. I am not afraid to work hard. I am not fearful of being the first to reach out. I do that often, whether it is in friendship or insofar as family is concerned. It does get a little tiresome feeling like no one meets me halfway, but I suppose that is relative—if not also my responsibility to recognize when I am overexerting effort on the wrong people, or that my love is not being put in good places.

Parallel lives. It was something that someone said to me once when I apologized for not reaching out more often. He simply said: no worries my friend; parallel lives.

I can dig that also.

There are numerous ways to look at life. I do my best to choose the methods that feel good, and do not create suffering, where it is unnecessary in the first place. Believe you me: we create our own suffering.

Perhaps we should simply be thankful to be greeted by a bowl of chili and to hug our aunt and our cousin when we can. Be thankful when our mother comes to visit. Be thankful when we discover we have cousins we never knew about. Try our best to get to know our family—and be accepting of parallel lives as well.

I am not a perfect specimen. But then again, neither is anyone else around me, either.

Upcoming Show Dates

$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

Austin, Texas

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S. Congress in Austin, Texas

Austin. Austin City Limits. Being within Austin City limits—literally, not so much the hit musical phenomena that encompasses and personifies the great city in which I speak. It’s magic. The city is pure spectral spectacle.

I would live here. I have a feeling I will live here.

Growing up playing music, I was entranced by stories of Stevie Ray Vaughan, and his brother Jimmie. Willie Nelson. Johnny Winter.

These days, you can find murals and statues that celebrate the music of Stevie Ray Vaughan. He died young, but he made a lasting impression on his adopted home of Austin, Texas—who lifted him on their shoulders in celebration of his music and his passion for the blues.

An acquaintance of mine in Long Beach (another musician), once shit all over the name Stevie Ray Vaughan, saying that he couldn’t stand that white horse shit that passes as blues. It bummed me out hearing him rant on a guy whom he never met… nor have I for that matter—however, I carry his spirit in reverence, much as I do Eric Clapton as well, for they helped to introduce me to wide variety of African American talent that contributed to years of truly authentic American Culture and American History. Yes, they were white: but, they loved black music and carried it in the deepest reverence and respect, which showed in their craft. Furthermore, they brought black music to me, a kid in Visalia, CA, who passionately researched who Stevie Ray Vaughan’s influences were, and then listened to them, hearing all the riffs he lifted from their repertoire: Albert King for example. You can listen to Albert King and hear his inarguable influence on the playing of Stevie’s.

Then again, what does a guy in Long Beach, CA know about Austin, Texas? What do I know about Austin, Texas for that matter? Nothing. That’s why I’m here. That’s why I keep coming back. I keep returning because the place is pure imagination and sorcery on my senses.

There are more music venues here than I have ever seen in my entire life. There is talent of such a caliber, that it constantly has me questioning not only my own merit as a musician, but also my sanity in continuing to create music as a songwriter—that is until I meet said musicians after they have proceeded in tearing my face of with their talent, and politely handing my facial features back to me at the end of the night: feeling their genuine sense of connection and intolerance for being overly vain insofar as it is concerned with themselves—their curiosity of my own music, their kindness in listening to it, and in showering me with compliments.

I was connected with a local musician and guitar player in the area named Phil Hurley. He is a Los Angeles transplant as well, who has been living in Austin Texas now for around 14 years. He has lived all over the place. He has played guitar for countless people of merit and distinction, and has operated within bands and musical acts who were signed to major labels, from an early age. We became quick friends and I am astounded by his talent and generosity.

He was kind enough to make time to meet with me, and to show me around a bit, to take me to some of the coolest hangs in town such as Donn’s Depot on a Monday night. There is a weekly residency that has been happening at this old venue, constructed from the remnants of 5 old train cars, nestled politely and sheltered within the entrance of tall tall buildings and sky scrapers. Chris Gage has been playing piano and singing there on Monday nights for nearly 27 years. Phil brought me down to Donn’s Depot, and shared me with the all of the wonderful folks who are a community. They haunt that establishment every week, and listen, in deep love, of what Chris Gage provides as a musician and pianist.

As we walked around these 5 train cars, everyone greeted Phil Hurley, as he was acquainted to nearly every individual in that place. Chris Gage recorded and produced his latest record, which is available to listen to right now on all the streaming services. Phil and Chris quickly began catching up with one another on one of Chris’ breaks from playing, and Phil asked if we both could come up and play a few songs, to which Chris was beyond receptive.


I met more beautiful and wonderful people in Donn’s Depot in one night, then can possibly be expressed in words—or good intentions for that matter. There are good people here in Austin, and Donn’s Depot is just a small subset of the greater whole that is this beautiful city. Don Emmons for example. A photographer and gentleman, and scholar. Or, the videographer Jay Curlee, who was a Hawaiian transplant—him and his wife both, who have been living in Austin now for 7 years. Don Emmons came from New Jersey, if memory serves me correctly (we were having drinks—quite a few of them).

Performing with Chris Gage at Donn’s Depot in October of 2022. Photo courtesy of the winker with an eye, Don Emmons.

A place is always the people who live there. Austin is exceptionally lovely.

Truth be told: most places I have the privilege to visit in order to play music, are exquisite and lovely—because they are full of good people who let a ragamuffin such as myself, stay and play some tunes he wrote about life. They listen to my stories. I am the luckiest man alive—and my brood (artists and musicians most specifically) are thankful for the love, gratitude, kindness, and open hearts being displayed by individuals who understand that we just travel around trying to spread some love. Sure, now and then, we all get a little lost sometimes—but love is most certainly the answer to nearly every quandary asked… and gratitude is the doorway to happiness… and happiness is work. It does not come easy to us. We work for it and we work at it.

A deep and special thanks to my friend Scott Spencer. He is an Austin native. I met him through my brother from another mother, Frank Reina. Both of these gentlemen are Texas natives. Scott, has shown me more kindness and support than I could ever hope to repay to an individual in a lifetime. Nonetheless, I hope to one day. I suppose the first step in that endeavor would be success at what I am trying to achieve. I will focus on that notion with all my might—and swing back to previous when I have more to offer this world than the love in my heart, the songs that I write, and the stories I tell. In the meanwhile, may those suffice my friend.

FIND ME ON SOCIAL MEDIA

Come see me live on my 2022 FALL TOUR around 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

Apache Junction, Arizona | Desert Valley House Concerts

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Superstition Mountain

Where to begin? The question most of us might ask—then again, perhaps I am being presumptuous: some of us may not ask. Some may lack the interest. Others of us might just do, and forgo the asking aspect of things. Whatever the case may be, the beginning seems like a good place to start, so let’s arbitrarily work with that. After all, it’s the beginning of my Fall 2022 tour, so it seems the most logical place to begin.

In the beginning: I found myself in Apache Junction, Arizona. I’ve been here once before, however, it wasn’t a thorough affair. It wasn’t even a one night stand. It was one step away from a drive-by encounter—such as my experience with Phoenix, Arizona: a city I have only truly appreciated from a Freeway (which does not count for anything by anyone’s account). I played a show for the DESERT VALLEY HOUSE CONCERT series, and was immediately on my way home the next morning. I had been on the road for two months, and Apache Junction, was the last function of my multi-city-trans-state adjunction. I was on tour. That’s what I mean.

This time, as the fates would have it (not to mention my own insatiable curiosity) my kind hosts Darice and Lance offered to have me stay a few days to see Apache Junction and its natural splendor. Its Ghost Town: Goldfield.

Its Mountain Ranges, as barren and jagged and dangerous and unforgiving as its surrounding valley. History as seen through the eyes of various Native American tribes who inhabited this region. Superstition Mountain, observing from on high, the people of Apache Junction in their air-conditioned homes.

Goldfield Ghost Town was a wealth of photos. It was also 100 degrees outside. I met it somewhere in the middle and tried to give it a few hours of my time, as I was concerned that further investments might result in me melting, or spontaneous combustion: whichever comes first.

It felt as if I was spread, butt-naked on the hood of Goldfield’s automobile on a hot summer’s day—running on the assumption that it has an automobile. They for sure had a tractor. And a train for that matter. The later wasn’t functioning as they were waiting on a part to fix it. We’ll settle with me naked on a tractor. Fair enough? (And on that note, I bid ado to my male audience). I kid and promise to not hold your imagination hostage with naked insinuations that lead to mental perturbations over hot surfaces.

I am avid fan of all things old, and an even bigger fan of daydreaming about what it would be like to live in an era such as this. I can only imagine what people smelled like. The advent of a daily shower was not quite a staple of the residents of this centennial plus legacy. The occasional bath perhaps? That might even be an exaggeration. I let my mind wonder, along with my senses. I can always plug my nose while I do.

What I can say is that there were no shortage of air-conditioners in this ghost town.

… and I appreciate that. I was sunburned either way, but the cool air felt nice across my scorched person. Let’s not mince words: that was my fault. An intelligent-forward-thinking individual wears sunscreen. As I am none of those things, I wore my sunburn like a badge of ignorance, in the remnants of a ghosty village. People pointing and stating, “Look at the visiting village idiot.” I waved and kept that stupid smile across my face, nose plugged, thinking about bygones well past, absently. It’s easy to be happy on occasion, and this made me happy—that is until I felt the overwhelming urge to retreat back to Darice and Lance’s air-conditioned home for a nap. Am I the only one who feels as if the heat is a vampire of energy when the temperature is well near the surface of the sun? I would share a picture of me napping, but I haven’t the foresight for that either. The photograph is resting comfortably next to my sunscreen: unused and under-appreciated.

This small town had to be the constellation of a gold mine, and sure enough, there was a gold mine present. For $7 you can take a guided tour of this gold mine, but believe it or not, it was so hot outside, and I was so depleted of energy, that I couldn’t picture myself going down there on this occasion. I will probably regret that decision—more likely, I will probably revisit it in the future, as I have quite the fond fascination with the gold rush of the 1800’s, especially as it was recounted by Samuel Langhorne Clemens in “Roughing It.” Words will suffice where our eyes fail us, or more closer to the point as it pertains to me, where my drowsy eyes outweigh my curiosity. Which is not often, mind you.

A day of recovery was in order, so I spent most of the next day reading. My friend Darice with Desert Valley House Concerts told me, “You should read this book.” I have been gobbling it up like a hungry hungry hippo.

At the moment, it’s all I find myself wanting to talk about. So, what is the book about? It’s about Quantum Physics and reality. All of the discoveries made by the Quantum Physicists of the 1900’s and 2000’s. Tangible reality. Is this reality objective? Older sciences before Quantum Physics have never taken into account the role of consciousness into this equation.

We are not inactive observers of reality. We are simultaneously observing it and creating it. An analogy that is accurate, is reality being like a dream. As we sleep and experience the dream, we feel like merely a participant—however we are also simultaneously creating the dream we are experiencing subjectively.

Quantum Physics for the past 100 years has been finding this exists in our observation/creation of reality (The Universe).

An example: “The Double-Slit Experiment”

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Double-slit_experiment

This and many subsequent experiments points to the direction that we are not and never will be independent entities in the Universe. We, in fact, live in a participatory Universe, whether we particpate or not. What does this mean?

Everything we do, or don’t do, alters that which is around us. Everything is probability, much like the second law of thermodynamics. A quantum computer, is a direct reflection of this notion.

It's a direct reflection of reality. It's more powerful as a computer because we are designing something that is closer to the function of nature. Probability. It takes into account as many possibilities as possible, and runs on this very notion.

It's like the second law of thermodynamics. Just because we have never seen a shattered glass move backwards into a solid form of un-shattered existence, does not mean that it can't happen. Quite the contrary. Mathematical probability shows us that it CAN exist, even if the probability of it is low.

A quantum computer is taking all possibilities into account, much as reality does, apparently. Probability wave.

I don't completely understand all of this—but this book is helping me to get a general sense of what quantum physics is.

It's both freedom and probability. That we are an active part of the Universe, whether we try to be or not. If you find this alarming to read. It’s okay. Einstein did too. He saw that is was real and how experiments such as the double-slit experiment verified these notions, and this is why he found it so hard to accept, as its very notion contradicted classical concepts of sciences. The very notion of science is to maintain a detached observation of reality around us, at least, in a traditional sense maintained over the corse of pre-existing efforts in understanding reality (The Universe).

It's like a dream. We feel like a participant in the dream while we sleep, but we are actually making the dream that we feel like we are along in the ride for! It's magic, in a sense. And reality: it functions the same way.

Nature only appears to be objective, to those who want to see it that way. If we realize that we are the active imagination of all probability, we realize we are actually not outside of the Universe, but helping it to become what it is at every moment, regardless of whether we try to or not. We simultaneously are spectator and creator, creating as we spectate, and spectating as we create.

The craziest thing, is that nature seems to reinforce whatever we “want” to see, speaking outside of the boundaries of quantifiable experimentation. If a group of persons wants to believe that they are outside The Universe, observing it in a cold and detached manner in a subjective stupor, feeling that their actions/inaction play no role in the constant creation, nature does not argue. It’s simply reinforces that possibility like a warm blanket.

If however, people take the time to really try to see that reality (The Universe) is probability, than they collectively realize that everything is a possibility, no matter the small nature of the number describing the probability of the action: i.e. a shattered glass becoming whole again before your eyes. That is real statistical analysis of a shattered glass. There exists the minute possibility of it becoming whole again.

In the words of the standup comedian Bill Hicks: “Young men on acid realize that all matter is merely energy condensed to a slow vibration—that we are all one consciousness experiencing our self subjectively. There is no such thing as death. Life is a dream, and we are the imagination of ourselves. Here’s Tom with the weather.”

And let there be no doubt, the weather didn’t disappoint. It’s the tail-end of monsoon season in Arizona. Micro-bursts are abound. They pickup patio furniture to great heights, only to drop them in places the owners of which might not agree with. I quickly helped Darice to collect her patio belongings under the confines of cover, to prevent mother nature’s exterior decorating options.

Chili was had. Conversation was abound. Discussions of a hike the next morning were agreed upon in the Usery Mountains above Mesa, Arizona.

Joe, one of Lance and Darice’s friends chose the location: Wind Caves. We made a morning of it.

It was a conjoined effort to remove my own naiveté in regards to Wind Cave, this Mountain Range, and it’s trail, in general. Specifically, I’m still pretty absent in so far as most other things are concerned—and it’s always great to know that Wind Cave was named aptly: plenty of wind and plenty of cave to go around (they both were very generous and we shared). Listening to these fellas both brainstorm a painting company in which the painters put the F.U. in Fun Home Renovation was my personal highlight to an already stunning view (not pictured).

However, the main reason I am here in Apache Junction is to play music—which was done. I done did that for Desert Valley House Concerts. We had a wonderful time. Exhibit A (good time):

As with most places, it’s not the place, its the people that make the place, and Apache Junction is no exception. Thank you Darice and Lance for making this such a lovely experience.

WHO IS MIKE VITALE?

I am a storyteller, singer, songwriter, music producer, traveling musician, Jungian dream analyst, all-around curious fellow (Spiritual, Mathematical Historical, Scientific), Taoist, and much much more, based out of Los Angeles, California. I’m constantly releasing new music, in all sorts of different genres. You can listen to me below, on Spotify:

SOCIAL LINKS

Come on out and see me play live in a city near you:

UPCOMING SHOWS

"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

Booking Southern United States Tour for October and November 2022

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Some of the lovely folks who attended last year's Houston, TX performance.

Yes. I am booking a tour. A tour is being booked. I did it last year too. I did it before the pandemic. I’m gonna keep doing it because its fun.

I’m working on bringing my friend Chris out to play as a duo with me as well. Fingers crossed.

There is still a lot of booking to be done. My friend John in Houston has been helping me with the Houston, Texas area. That man is my spirit animal.

If you or anyone you know would like to help. By all means, please. I could use it. I am juggling a lot and anything and everything that pertains to booking would be of immense assistance.

I am looking to tour Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Louisiana, Arkansas, Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee, Georgia, Florida, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia, and perhaps some of the other peripheral states in the immediate vicinity of these listed.

Here are my current bookings as of today.

FALL 2022 U.S. TOUR DATES

As you can see, I still have a lot of booking work ahead of me. Small beginnings. I am making out with my laptop and home computer for most of the day; its got cold lips. We get a lot of face time these days.

Talk to me Goose.

My Americana Album Φ Available on All Major Streaming Services →

My 2021 album Φ is now available on all major streaming services including Spotify, Apple Music, and Deezer.

I created this link to help you find the album on your favorite streaming service, quickly:

Φ (PHI) - ON ALL MAJOR STREAMING PLATFORMS

You can also click the artwork for the album, pictured to the left, and it will take you to the same page.

FALL 2022 U.S. TOUR DATES

Singles Release Show at Hotel Cafe Main Stage on Friday August 26th

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The Hotel Cafe Main Stage

Hey Everyone,

I’m proud to announce that the band and I will be playing our first big show of 2022 at the Hotel Cafe main stage on Friday August 26th in celebration of three new singles I will releasing here shortly.

I would be deeply deeply honored to be surrounded by friends to ring in these new songs, before I leave to tour the United States again throughout October and November of this year. The tour booking is coming along nicely by the way. Here the dates I have scheduled thus far:

I would be honored to have you at Hotel Cafe to celebrate all the hard work I have been pouring into my music and its production, but also all the touring, promotion, management and booking I have been doing. I would be so thrilled to be surrounded by the people I love, hopefully with love in their hearts for me as well.

-Mike

Plan Bee?

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Plan Bee?

by Michael Patrick VItale

I am currently sitting outside and writing this on the patio in front of the rented space that I call my home. I was working on writing something else, but now I'm writing this. I was enjoying a cup of coffee as I often do every morning.

I just went to reach for my coffee mug, but stopped mid-reach; a bee has just landed on the table right next to the handle of my coffee mug. I'm starring at it right now. It sits there motionless, with what appears to be no immediate intentions of moving. I wonder what it is thinking.  

It does not appear to have any ill-will towards me, and I too, have no ill-will towards it. I imagine that it has no desire to cause me any harm, nor do I to it. So, here we both sit, while I, continuing to write and express myself, it lightly brushes its wings and does the secret beautiful things that bees do when you have the opportunity watch one up close like this. After all, for whatever reason, it flew to this table where I am sitting and decided to land by my enormous green Rainforest Cafe coffee mug. However, I do not want to be stung simply because I desire another sip of coffee, so I'm waiting and continuing to type away on my iPad.  

Well, no intention of leaving still, so I begin to appreciate it for its subtle parallels to life and just as I do that, it flies away to continue its busy day full of bee things.  

I take a big rewarding sip of my coffee and I can't help but think back to a few weeks ago when something remotely similar happened, with the glaring exception of us both reacting to each other in a completely different manner: the results however were just the same; the bee flew away.  

I was sitting outside and writing just as I am now, and a bee landed on the table next to my drink, however, on this occasion, it took flight and decided instead to fly around me cyclically, repeatedly, and eventually landed right on my shirt. I remained motionless and let it do its bee things that only bees know, for about 5 or 10 minutes. I could feel myself growing impatient. I had things to do, but I didn't feel comfortable returning to them with a bee on my shirt.  

I started feeling resentment towards the bee for taking its sweet-ass time doing whatever the hell it was doing. It eventually launched into the air again, only to continue to fly around me. I sat there trying to remain calm, but this time, it was flying closer to my face and I could hear its buzzing wings as it continued to make its rounds.

At this point, I freaked out and jumped from my chair and tried to distance myself from the bee as I had no clue as to what its intentions were and I didn't want to be stung. I ended up running over to the opposite side of the patio and it followed me there, continuing to find interest in me and fly around me half-hazard. I didn't want to hurt the bee so I had no choice but to once again remain perfectly still and let the bee do its bee stuff. It flew over to the opposite end of the patio and buzzed around something else for a little while. It landed. It flew away. It came back and flew around me some more.  

I remained motionless and watched. No sooner did I decide to return to a state of calm, than it decided to fly away. I wonder what it was thinking? Did I look like a flower? Was I a layover from its busy day of work, doing bee stuff? What attracted it to me in the first place? How often do we play energy ping pong with each other? How often do we mistake each others intentions, yet act nonetheless? How much of our interactions with one another resides within the domain of cause and effect?

I will never know for sure. Perhaps you may not either. However, why should that ever stop curiosity from chasing its own tail, in favor of that which is not wagging, politely.

Bronco II

in

Bronco II

by Michael Patrick Vitale

I remember. You remember too. That one time. The memory you might be embarrassed by. The memory that could very well make you smile—if not blush as well, in the fraught of youthful naïveté—there might be a bit of shame mixed in there as well. A concoction of emotions that could very well string a few tears down a cheek, while recollecting—however, I do not think this is the intention of the memory. If anything, it was a deep lesson in a well of wisdom through mistakes hopefully never made again. I only had a few bruises—a few scratches on my back, and arms, and torso. I walked away with my life. I should be grateful. I should be on my hands and knees.

And I was that night, as I crawled from the indiscernible mangled confines of the cracked and destroyed windshield of a Bronco II that was totaled in the shape of a taco, along the side of a rural country road on the outskirts of my hometown of Visalia, California. I was just a kid. A kid who thought he knew it all, yet also had some small inkling that he was a fool—especially while on his hands in knees, crawling, in utter shock, through shattered glass, and dusty horizon of loose dirt sent arial by the bouncing spin, side-over-side of this Bronco II into an old oak tree, going Lord knows how fast. It made contact with that tree, so far up, it makes my stomach churn. The tree bark scrapped off, where the truck slid down the side of its wise and old trunk. It stood proudly, in the face of the ignorance of youth.

I was in the backseat. I didn’t have a seatbelt on. I was drunk. My friends were both intoxicated too. Coincidentally, both of those factors saved my life: being drunk, and having no seatbelt on. As the Bronco flipped side-over-side, I could feel myself bouncing from ceiling to seat, ceiling to seat, ceiling to seat… and I remained loose and an unconstricted bag of fleshy blood and water, from the alcohol, as if my friend did not just flip his car, swerving wildly and out of control, down this rural road that led away from his house—in pursuit of a pack of cigarettes no less. We were all out of cigarettes. We wanted cigarettes; we wanted to suck on the teat of nicotine like a bunch of stupid fucking infants.

My two friends who occupied the front seats, driving and as co-pilot—they had just dropped acid before we left. I opted out on that adventure on this occasion. I had done enough acid and mushrooms at that time in my life, albeit, in the humble pursuit of awareness in the spiritual. I did not require a spiritual journey that night. I had one well-enough without the assistance of psychedelics. That spiritual journey began with me rhythmically bouncing from seat to ceiling, for what seemed like an eternity. No seat belt. I survived.

We all survived. We all crawled out of the windshield, calling out for one another. Disoriented. Coughing from the dirt and debris. We all groggily walked back to his rural house, surrounded by orchards and farm land, to the driver’s parents’ house. They were out of town. We took advantage of this fact by sharing a fifth of Jack Daniels, and our thoughts and good company with one another, if I remember correctly. We might have smoked a few joints too. Loosened up our attitude. Became the warm campfire of friendship, providing heat for one another.

We got back to his house, and examined ourselves in the mirror of his lower bathroom in the downstairs quarter of his huge country house. I was in shock. My friends were in shock as well. There was some laughing and jubilee in the realization that we survived, with few things to remind us, aside from the damages inflicted on our persons. We showed each other these bruises and scratches. There was laughing involved, yes—but please take into account: we were all in shock—and that shock makes it difficult for me to remember much after this examination in the mirror of a downstairs bathroom.

What I do remember is being upstairs in his bedroom, trying to fall asleep on his cushioned bamboo chair, contorted into the shape of a question mark, listening to my two friends on acid, as they concocted a story to tell my friends’ parents. To explain how things came to pass. To explain how three youths nearly died that night, by the hand of their own ignorance—while also omitting those pertinent facts, in favor of some judicious half-truths and lies—if not to both help me, but to also help themselves. I slowly began to sober up, and become annoyed by the chatter of their acid-peaked thoughts, and to feel the full and fool weight of my own decisions—and to forgo my fingers, for counting the many blessings that appendages would never account for, because I will never have enough of them.

I remember waking up at one point, and seeing my friend through my drowsy and sleep starved eyes; he was languidly and contemplatively staring out the window, as his Bronco II was lifted onto a flatbed truck—it was during the sunrise of the next day. The light of the new day reflected across his face. I think his mind was also, where my mind was, while I tried to sleep. What have I done?