Now, more than ever I think, we are at the mercy of how others make us feel. 

Think marketers forcing our compulsive purchase by stimulating fear of shame.

Think comedians encouraging us to laugh at another’s misfortune.

Think of monied interests convincing us that the politician who’s the worst for us is our favourite.

And yes, think of this year’s latest terrorist atrocity driving us to fear, hate and blind retaliation.

We are at mercy of how others make us feel.

So I say that I am at the mercy of a 9-year old declining her umpteenth chemotherapy, her incredible grace and courage.

I’m at the mercy of musicians filling this night with love.

I’m at the mercy of a dog chasing a frisbee in the dog park, for its unrestrained passion for THIS THING RIGHT NOW.

And I am at the mercy of nos freres et souers de France who, despite their open wounds, are not turning back refugees.

I reject the shame, fear and hate that others would have me feel. 

I choose to dive deep into the pool of courage, love, passion & tolerance that warms me, and gives me hope for this lump of rock we share as it hurdles through the void.

Today’s lyric that stuck

“And if my scars were tattoos
I could hide them in full view…”

Well played Ian Thornley, of Big Wreck, well played.

Eleanor Rigby’s itchy trigger finger


I’m not rewriting it – it still says what I want it to say.

Originally posted on VinceT.net:

All the lonely people
where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong?

I was reading an interesting piece in a local arts magazine earlier today

the title of which was something along the lines of: what do all teenaged mass-killers have in common?

In summary – they were male

and they were

on prescribed psychiatric medication

In fact, the piece was a thinly-veiled, single-issue opinion piece that psychiatric medication is a


The piece started with the wrong question.

It’s not what mass-killers have in common… It’s what non-mass-killers have in common.

The murders of 26 people in Newtown, CT understandably caused a shock-wave of introspection and hurt. Such a shock-wave, reinforced by our polarized, special-interest-bred social and political discourse, very quickly descends into the blame game.

Guns don’t kill people, people kill people.


People without guns kills a lot less…

View original 1,164 more words

Like Taking A Gun


[Originally published June 2nd, 2011]

[and again on December 24th, 2014]

Lots of people taking sides on who shot who, why they pulled the trigger, were they right, were they wrong…

At this time of peace, I keep getting drawn back to this meditation, written in response to an atrocity in Syria, but applicable to so much happening in our world right now


It’s like taking a gun
and pointing it
in your brother’s face
Telling them
unless they stop
you will pull the trigger
Wasting life
to make you feel better
to make you feel like
you are getting
You become those them
becoming you
face down on the ground
for the sake of scant borders
Like taking a gun
and pointing it
in your brother’s face

Words, Music – Vincent Tuckwood
Performed, recorded, mixed and mastered at Monkey68 Studios, Waterford, CT.

Vincent Tuckwood is a story-teller working in fiction, song and verse. His novels are EscalationFamily RulesKaraoke Criminals, and Do Sparrows Eat Butterflies? His records are Turquoise Cyan SapphireWriter’s Flow – Music For Writing,  Grope, and Sparse. His poetry is collected in Garbled Glittering Glamours.

Meet me in the silence

Meet me in the silence
in the stillness
in the breath

This moment
where I’m open
you of welcome made

Meet me in the melody
familiar tone
coda and twist

Meet me in the lyric
its story fickle
universally made

Meet me in the silence
where music swells
song, breath and being

Meet me in the silence
where you and I
we merge

Vincent Tuckwood is a story-teller working in fiction, song and verse. His novels are Escalation, Family Rules, Karaoke Criminals, and Do Sparrows Eat Butterflies? His records are Turquoise Cyan Sapphire, Writer’s Flow – Music For Writing,  Grope, and Sparse. His poetry is collected in Garbled Glittering Glamours.

Is there anybody out there?

The reality for most independent musicians is that each record is a commercial still-birth by any reasonable measure; people just don’t prioritize the purchase of music

[I don’t know that they ever did at the local level]

and perversely that seems even more the case with people we love and who love us – while I often give people free copies of stuff, very few of the people I know have ever purchased one of my books or records

[those that have are a blessing for sure – and have my love]

I gave away any and all expectations as to commercial success when I released Grope, and have maintained that stance with Writer’s Flow and Turquoise Cyan Sapphire. I feel better for having done so, and find I’m better able to enjoy the music I’ve released without the internal dialogue of commercial judgement.

Does that mean I’m immune to self-doubt? No way. The sense that

no-one’s listening

is ever-present, as it has been since I first started telling stories. And that voice can be very, VERY loud sometimes.

Right now though, I’m in a good space – lots of projects on the move – more beginning to emerge from the deep well of my subconscious. And I am lucky to have a day job that keeps food on the table.

I am a commitment to produce and promote great music.

Yet I have friends who are putting their heart and soul into producing GREAT music

[and, yes, #IBuyMusic]

who are suffering greatly from the manifest apathy of their audience, both known and unknown. I wish there were some way for me to change this, but aside from sharing their music and urging others’ to buy, I don’t know what else I can do to move the reality we all face.

I’m not someone who does well with intractable problems – and I wrestle with this one every day – any and all ideas welcome :)


Vince Sig 131x89


Readings that count – The Journey by Mary Oliver

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice-
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations-
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do-
determined to save
the only life you could save.

Mary Oliver (b. 1935)


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