Building in Motion

There’s something strange about waking up in a van and realizing you’re not stuck.

For a long time, my life felt like rooms.
Small rooms. Loud rooms. Rooms I didn’t want to be in. Some I chose. Some I earned. Some I fought my way out of.

Now I wake up and I’m mobile.

The van isn’t a symbol of defeat. It’s a reset button with wheels. It’s focus. It’s simplicity. It’s stripping life down to what actually matters and cutting the rest loose.

I’m not circling the same blocks anymore. I’m moving.

Surviving the Echo — Now in Motion

If you’ve been following Surviving the Echo, you know it’s not just a series. It’s a record of what happens when you stop running from the noise in your head and finally face it.

The echo is the past.
The patterns.
The addiction.
The shame.
The almosts.

For years, I lived inside that echo.

Now I’m building outside of it.

Publishing two episodes a week isn’t just content. It’s discipline. It’s proof that I can show up consistently. It’s me documenting what rebuilding actually looks like instead of just talking about it.

The difference now?

I’m not stuck in a house waiting for life to happen.

I’m in motion.

Music Without Walls

Here’s the practical shift — and I’m excited about this.

Because I’m mobile, I can now travel directly to students’ homes for guitar lessons throughout the East Bay.

No commuting stress for you.
No rushing across town after work.
No crowded lesson studios.

I bring the lesson to you.

But more importantly, I don’t teach cookie-cutter guitar.

I teach guitarists who want their own voice — not someone else’s.

If you’re an adult or older teen who:

Wants to write your own music

Wants to break out of the “copy the tabs” cycle

Wants clarity and confidence on the instrument

Or just wants to reconnect with why you picked up the guitar in the first place

I’m here for that.

This isn’t about becoming a shred robot.

It’s about expression. Identity. Confidence. Growth.

Why This Matters

The van gives me flexibility.

Surviving the Echo gives me purpose.

Teaching gives me connection.

All three together give me momentum.

I’m not waiting for perfect circumstances anymore. I’m building with what I have. And what I have right now is mobility, experience, and a story that proves rebuilding is possible.

If you’re in the East Bay and interested in in-home guitar lessons, reach out through my website or message me directly.

If you’ve been watching Surviving the Echo — thank you. The story is still unfolding.

And if you’re rebuilding something in your own life?

Keep moving.

Motion changes everything.

— Mike

Is it a lie if you think you’re okay, but everyone else sees a shitshow?

The room was in Berkeley. It looked simple and clean in the video. I’d never even heard of an SRO before, but that didn’t matter. It was a start. After the divorce, things were divided up, and this was something I could pull off. For Berkeley, it was a good deal — probably the cheapest place in the city.

The building sat above a deli that sold more booze than food. Across the street was BART. From there, I could get into San Francisco easily, and I did. A lot. South of Market was usually where I got off.

South of Market had its own gravity. It wasn’t the Tenderloin, but it lived close enough to it to feel the spillover. Like the quieter twin — less famous, just as wired. You could disappear there without trying very hard.

At first, I thought this new chapter would be about creativity. About making money. About starting over. I bought a laptop and honestly believed that was where things were headed.

A little time later, I found myself pulled into something else.

I got a thrill out of doing illegal shit and being part of that world. Looking back, I didn’t just get a thrill — I got hooked on the movement, the access, the way the city worked underneath the version most people saw. I thought I was living a double life. Turns out, I was just living one really fast.

My using career turned into a science. I knew which BART train to take, which car to sit in, which station exit put me closest to where I needed to be. I knew when the dope man would show and when the cops wouldn’t care.

Most days, I’d score and be back on BART to the East Bay before anything had time to catch up with me. I took pride in never getting caught — until one day, I did.

And nothing happened.

I scored right in front of a cop. Then I did it again. This time, they laughed. That’s when I learned something important: the system didn’t care about junkies. Dealers got arrested and were back on the street the same day. Sometimes a few hours later.

Later on, a therapist told me something that stuck. He said I wasn’t just addicted to the drugs. I was attracted to the underbelly — the hidden systems, the routes, the rules no one explains out loud. Scoring wasn’t just about getting high. It was about knowing how to move.

I started scoring crystal on 8th Street early on, right as my addiction was being resurrected. I thought I was staying ahead of it. I wasn’t.

This blog isn’t the full story.
It’s just a glimpse into the world the book moves through.

More later.

Opening: Back in 1995, I picked up two John Coltrane albums that would end up changing my entire approach to music: Giant Steps and A Love Supreme: Live. I didn’t fully realize it at the time, but these albums would awaken something deeper than musical inspiration. They introduced me to the idea that music wasn’t just sound. It could be spirit.

The Shift: I had always been drawn to intense, heavy music. But the moment A Love Supreme started, I felt something entirely different. Coltrane’s tone wasn’t just articulate—it was sacred. Patient. It felt like he was saying a prayer with every breath he blew into that sax. It didn’t hit me in the head or the ears first. It hit me straight in the soul.

And that was just Part I.

The Breakthrough: By the time Part II kicked in, I was floored. McCoy Tyner, Elvin Jones, and Jimmy Garrison created this space that felt completely outside of time. I remember literally crying the first time I heard it. And not just once. That piece has brought tears many times since.

What they played wasn’t just jazz. It was testimony. It was worship. It was divine.

Coltrane’s Journey: Coltrane wasn’t just composing music. He was healing. According to his wife, Alice, he spent as much time meditating and writing spiritual reflections as he did composing. After years of addiction and struggle, Coltrane had found something bigger than himself. And through that discovery, he created a body of work that still ripples through people’s lives today.

He didn’t just recover. He transcended. And he brought others along for the ride.

What It Taught Me: Coltrane taught me that music could carry spirit. That you could worship with a melody. That you could praise without words. That recovery, surrender, and divine connection could all be captured in tone, in rhythm, in silence between notes.

A Love Supreme wasn’t just a jazz record. It was an altar.

Closing: You don’t need to be religious to understand what Coltrane did. You just need to listen with your soul open. Because when someone plays with that kind of depth, it calls something out of you. 

"Wake up and get out," said the voice.

Of all the years I’ve done stupid shit, that one caught me off guard. I was surprised — but deep down, it still felt like another new low. “Give me a few minutes to get my shit,” I told him. What hurt the most, looking back, is that this guy and I were on good terms. That couldn’t have been easy for him to do.

I grabbed my guitar and three bags filled with whatever was left of my life.

I don’t remember leaving the hotel I was staying at. What I do remember is standing at the top of the brick staircase, losing my balance, and putting my hand out to catch myself. Instead, I broke my left wrist in three places.

My head hit the pavement. I blacked out. Then I came to.

There was a guy standing over me — thick accent, real presence. “You okay? I saw everything.” I rolled to my back. “Can you call for help?” I asked. “I did,” he said, “but they ain't coming.”

He stuck around anyway. We talked about a bunch of things I don’t even remember. He offered me a Vicodin. I gave him ten bucks and said, “Yeah, man. Thanks.” That’s where I was at.

Eventually, the ambulance showed up. I was wiggling to help them move me to the stretcher when one of the paramedics looked into my eyes and froze. “Don’t move,” he said. “Your pupils aren’t matching. Looks like you’ve got a concussion.”

Next thing I know, they’re in the ambulance telling me they need to cut my clothes off. I begged them not to — my favorite t-shirt, a thin hoodie that my close friends got me for Christmas. “We don’t have a choice,” one of them said. “We don’t know what else is wrong with you.”

They cut them off.

I woke up in Highland Hospital — Oakland’s battlefield ER. It's the kind of place that police and firefighters specify in their contracts: “If I get shot, take me to Highland.” These doctors know trauma. They’ve seen more bullet wounds than textbooks.

While I was there, a nurse came in to stick a needle in my hand. I begged her not to. I hate needles — especially in the top of my hand. She told me there was no other way. It brought back memories of childhood surgeries, of begging doctors not to poke me there.

They gave me fentanyl.

I didn’t enjoy it, but it was bizarre. Not what I expected. Just… strange.

Then Barbara came in.

“Hi, I’m Barbara, and I’m here to reset your arm.”

At that point, she could’ve shoved a gorilla up my ass and I wouldn’t have cared. I was so high. They hoisted my broken arm onto some contraption above my bed. “Okay,” Barbara and her assistant said, “here we go.”

They moved it three or four times. I screamed. Even on fentanyl, I was losing it. The pain was inhuman. When it was done, I felt a little better — physically.

The doctor came in. “You smashed your wrist in three places,” he said.

I wasn’t even thinking about guitar.

All I could think was: Where the fuck am I going to live now?

They didn’t operate. They stitched me up and sent me to a place in Oakland that used to be a hotel. Now it was low-income housing for people with medical conditions.

I stayed there three weeks. Then I went to rehab……………again.

A New Relationship with Recovery
by Mike Glendinning

I feel like I have a new relationship with recovery.

I’ve spent the last 20 years going in and out of rehab centers. I’ve had long stretches of sobriety, and I’ve had blackout moments that could fill a book. For a long time, when I wasn’t drinking, I missed it. I missed the parties. I missed the bar talk, the laughter, the chaos that felt like connection. But what I never remembered was the craving—the desperation that came before that first drink.

And once I started drinking again?

I missed being sober.

It took me all these years to realize I don’t drink like a normal person. I’ve seen normal people have half a beer, put it down, and not touch another one for two years. Me? I get one sip, and I’m already on the edge of the next run.

Some people waste a weekend. I’ll waste a whole damn month… if I’m lucky.

Alcohol to me is like being in a relationship with a crazy ex you know is bad for you. Yeah, you remember the wild nights, the good laughs, the stories. But you also start to remember the screaming, the manipulation, the blackout calls that had nothing to do with you but made you feel like shit anyway. That’s alcohol. It seduces, then destroys.

And when I really think about it—drinking never gave me anything good. Not a thing.
Sober? I’ve got music. Connection. Sanity. Faith. Purpose.
There’s no contest.

Right now, I’m in a room in Oakland, in a sober living house. The window’s open. Outside, people are partying—or at least trying to. Smoking weed, meth, drinking all day like it’s freedom. From up here, it looks like they’re having the time of their lives. But I know what that illusion really costs.

I look down and see the Store Club—a place I used to play. A place I have memories in. Oakland is full of those for me. The fake beauty of addiction, and the hard truth of where it always ends up.

And still… I love this city.
Because this is where I found out who I really fucking am.

Looking back, I don’t think I wasted my life.
I think this was all part of God’s plan.
The drinking. The losing. The trying.
The falling again.
The praying.
The surrender.

Will I drink again?

I sure the fuck hope not.

The dim room swam into focus, a stark canvas of concrete floors and sterile white walls. Then, the jarring reality: a man just feet away, convulsing, his body slamming against the unforgiving glass. The scene unfolded like a nightmare, a chaotic dance of desperation and fear. I screamed for help, and a flurry of figures rushed in, their voices a frantic chorus against the backdrop of a life in peril.
As paramedics arrived, a chilling realization washed over me. I was back. Back in the cold, unforgiving grip of detox. Cherry Hill. The name echoed in my mind, a stark reminder of my own shattered control.
The fragments of memory surfaced: the blur of a late-night drive, the terror etched on my friend's face as headlights sliced through the darkness. Then, nothing. A blank space where check-in and phone calls should have been. Just an empty void, a testament to the devastating power of addiction.
"He would have died if you hadn't called," a fellow patient's voice cut through the haze. I simply stared, the weight of my own situation pressing down. This was my second descent into this stark, clinical hell.
The room, a grim testament to human vulnerability, held eight threadbare beds. The concrete walls, the stainless-steel toilet—a grotesque blend of functionality and despair—all spoke to the harsh reality of withdrawal. The entire facility was a place that could be cleaned with a pressure washer. I walked to the lobby and saw more of the same.
Stripped of my phone, devoid of books, I was left with only the echoes of my own despair and the faces of fellow sufferers. Seeking a human connection, I attempted conversation in the smoking area, but the weight of shared trauma hung heavy in the air.
Twenty-four hours. That's all the reprieve I was granted. Still shaking, still battling the acute throes of alcohol withdrawal, I was told to leave. The fear was real: the risk of stroke, a constant, looming threat.
The Urgent Reality of Alcohol Withdrawal
For those battling chronic alcohol dependence, a week is often the minimum time needed to reach a semblance of safety. This experience was a brutal reminder of the potentially fatal consequences of sudden alcohol cessation.

 * Alcohol Withdrawal Symptoms: Understand the severity of alcohol withdrawal symptoms, including seizures, tremors, and the risk of stroke.

 * Detox Centers: Information about detox centers, and what to expect.

 * Seeking Professional Help: The crucial importance of seeking medical advice before quitting alcohol, even if you believe you drink moderately.

 * Alcohol Addiction: A raw look at the realities of alcohol addiction and the struggle for recovery.

 * Mental Health: The connection between addiction and mental health, including depression.

 * Recovery Journey: The start of a recovery journey, and the importance of support.

If you or someone you know is struggling with alcohol addiction, please seek professional help immediately. Don't let fear or shame prevent you from taking the first step towards recovery. Your life is worth fighting for.