Second Pass

This is a guided space for Second Pass, not every blog post I’ve written. You will find a glimpse into the monthly edition, followed by a reverse chronological archive of each drop. Second Pass is a monthly release of refined thought. The drop consists of an essay, writing prompts, what I’m reading, and notes about my process.

Start Here

Why I Didn’t Vlog My Travels

You would think that owning a video production business would mean always vlogging! For a while, it did. I used to vlog at least weekly. Looking back, I put together eight vlogs in 2021. They weren’t all that exciting, but they detailed the life I lived at the time. Nick was quite content then and passionate about video. He had formed his own business, had a loving girlfriend, and he felt success around the corner. That’s the part where it went wrong: thinking about the money. During my biggest journeys yet (a road trip through the American South and three months in Europe), I didn’t film a thing. Not really. Why not? Because I needed the trip to heal, not to hustle.

My business is still around, technically. And I hope to do enough business to cover insurance costs, but it’s not my priority now. For three years, it was all I thought about and engaged in. I was obsessed and stepping into a world with so much to learn about. I spent hours studying color correcting, log profiles, and how to find clients. With profits from selling my first house in the bank, I felt comfortable. And that money provided me three years of time to get a business going. Boy, am I grateful for that! I met some pretty neat people along the way and learned many lessons.

Lead Up

In 2023, my girlfriend and I broke up. I had already come to the realization that a video production business in central Maine was not a match-up. I moved into my parents for a couple of weeks. My ex-girlfriend and I continued talking. When my uncle passed away, she was there for me. We decided to try again. Note to anyone: when you break up, don’t go back!
We sold the house we lived in and moved to an apartment. I worked a construction job for a time. It was great experience. I liked the work, for the most part, but I was bored half the time while the others got high. Smoking hash and climbing a forty-foot ladder worried me. Sure enough, one of my foremen tweaked his back (again), and another foreman had a heart attack on site. I worked there for about two months.

Things fell apart, though. I didn’t know what I wanted in life, and I really had lost direction. I searched for jobs all over in the trades, government, and marketing. I had a dream of a cabin in the woods – a retreat from everything and everyone. I had made enemies, I felt, with my family when I moved back in with the ex. That wasn’t the case in reality, but I hit near rock bottom. I left the construction job right before I hit the road for a reenactment. The rocks smashed into me when I returned from the 160th Gettysburg reenactment. Or, I should say, I was in a van heading back to Maine when she broke it off again.

I returned to the apartment, dreading the moment I’d open the door and see her. Most of me was crushed, but a small portion was relieved. She wanted answers and choices I couldn’t offer. I really wasn’t sure what direction life was taking me. I entered what felt like a new apartment, one that scared the shit out of me. She had two kids, I should add, a young girl and an adult boy. My ex had moved all my stuff to her daughter’s room, and that’s where I stayed for a time.

I considered moving back in with my parents. There, I would be safe and in less emotional danger. I never felt fear in a physical sense; we were both beaten and hurting. We both felt betrayed and wondered if we could have worked in another universe. People question why I stayed, and I don’t have a great answer. But I had some amount of privacy and personal space that I wouldn’t have with the folks. I still loved my ex, despite everything. She still encouraged: buy the land I wanted, go on a trip, do something. I knew I needed to give myself space from a life that seemed to be falling apart. It was time to hit the road.

A Break From the Camera

In July, I decided to take a road trip. My obsession with video had dwindled, and now I was hyperfixated on traveling. I researched camper vans, checked a few out, and nearly started converting a Ford Transit so I could travel the country. Travel videography was a consideration. But I was drained from video. Focusing on the money had ruined my love for creating films. I decided to put a halt to the business.

After considering the financial draw of converting a van, I realized I could adapt my current vehicle. I took out the back seats of my Kia, cut a mold for my bed, and added a small unit of drawers. My plan was to visit as many Civil War sites as possible in the South. I brought along my camera and drone to vlog the whole journey. The only time I touched my camera bag was to move it out of the way.

The trip from Maine to Virginia, the Carolinas, Georgia, Tennessee, New York, and back was my first substantial solo journey. The voyage was partly spiritual, too, but I surprised myself by not filming anything. At most, I took pictures of camp set ups and the places I visited. My documentation was written here on the blog. As I drove, sat in camp, or roamed the battlefields of Petersburg or Spotsylvania, there was plenty of time to contemplate.

One thing I discovered is a new enjoyment of being alone. I felt at peace, usually. Sometimes I craved human interaction, but it’s honestly easy to find at cafes or in campgrounds. I journaled a lot. I considered filming and uploading bits to YouTube. However, I didn’t want to lose focus of my purpose. I took the trip to escape the depression of the shared apartment. I also left to hopefully find a few answers for myself. Vlogging would distract me, requiring many hours of editing that I could spend on other tasks.

I returned from my southern sojourn in early September. When I came back, my ex’s son decided to move in. It was a blessing that gave me the opportunity to leave. I took everything I owned and brought it to a storage unit. My first goal was to book a long-awaited trip to Europe. I bought a one-way ticket to Paris, letting the winds and my future self guide me along the way. In between my departure in October and returning to Maine, I attended one more reenactment with my good friend, Dalton. The 160th Chickamauga is a road trip to be remembered! With three weeks left, I finished the last of my video projects: two weddings and a non-profit promo piece.

This essay appears in full in the July 2025 edition of Second Pass.

A Few Other Snippets

From On Dating, a study of why I act the way I do :

She leans close—then closer—until her voice is just yours, trying to cut through the harmonica solo and a dozen competing conversations. Your hand instinctively touches her hip, as if drawn there by evolution itself. You wish her even closer. “Can you hear me?” She teases. Her smile, big and bright, ceases any concern that she’s seriously asking you. Perhaps an excuse to see if you wore deodorant and cologne. You scan for signs of interest in her eyes. They sparkle with amusement, flicker with a flash of caution, and settle into curiosity. You know she’s interested, but you hesitate to make any first moves, fearful of pushing too hard like the tough guys. Her hand touches your arm, sending sensations of warm, velvety arousal; her confidence is encouraging. Act chill, you think. She giggles at her own wit, playing on a previous text where she chided you on your hearing. You only encourage it by heartily laughing. You can sense a connection, a yearning.

From Two Weeks, where I personified a period of time that continues to haunt me:

So, he sits, watching time pass before him without fully acknowledging the concept. To him, the college students hurrying off to their classes – having woken up five minutes prior to the lecture beginning – never age. His environment remains the same. Even he refuses to age, as if the scene never ends. Seasons change, but Two Weeks only notices briefly before his memory resets. The fall breeze tugs at his rebellious tuft of milky white hair sitting on the apex of his forehead. In winter, he suddenly has a black, nondescript beanie. And in summer, a black ballcap protects his scalp. Always, a thick, plaid flannel covers his frail frame.

From How to Measure a Year, which reads more like a script than an essay. It’s an essay nevertheless:

Moderator: Okay, there are a lot of metrics I’m hearing. Can we agree on any?

Teacher: Well, my role was pretty substantial this year. Perhaps we focus on the lessons created.

Health Nut: Your role was more important than mine? Dude! You’d be dead without me.

And now…every published edition of Second Pass to date: