Uploaded December 2025 | Updated September 2026, 2 days ago
I don’t get up early to brag.I get up early because creativity knocks when the world is quiet.
This is a story about fatherhood, art, discipline, and learning how to work in the dark without waking the people you love.
Written and recorded in the early morning hours.
The Ninja
I don’t get up super early to brag.But my wake-up time makes Jocko look lazy.
It didn’t always used to be this way.
Before I was a dad,bedtime was usually dawn —or dawn plus,depending on the chemical cohorts.
Wake-up time back then was noon.Sometimes two.
In winter, it was often possibleto miss daylight altogether.
Rock ’n’ roll hours.
But not just rock ’n’ roll hours —
rock ’n’ roll hours when the rules were different.
Artists thrive in hoursthat look absurd to everyone else.
These days, I’m a ninja.
Writing now at 3:15 a.m.Just getting up.Yesterday’s start was 2:30,so I’m already lagging behind.
3:15 a.m. is a lazy startfor the ninja.
Why am I the ninja?
Because I have to be stealth.Because I can’t wake my four-year-old.
I don’t set an alarm.I always wake up around this time anyway.And I don’t need motivation to get up.
Creativity is the party.The surrounding circumstances of that partyare arbitraryto the main event.
Before she was born — early 2000s —the party was bars and studios.
Work and hedonism blended together.Stuff got dumb.Legends were made.Nothing was dialed in or efficient,but it didn’t matter.
Time felt endless.It felt like it was on our side.
Not so for the ninja.
Tiptoeing out of the room at 3 a.m.,making sure not to trip over dollsor toy trucks.
If he’s lucky,he gets a four-hour windowto dance with the musein hours where no one can touch him.
He slouches in front of shadows.Creativity’s sword is drawn.
He runs up and down walls,fighting intruders that aren’t even there,sparring with resistancebefore dawn.
The party is creation, yawning,letting the light come inand outand through.
The river finds its way through the mountain.The ninja gives his light to the world.
A story that needs to be toldwill find its way.
Often my daughter wakes up,disappointed to find me in another room,carving away at the work.
She wants to put me in time out.
I tell her,“You know Daddy works in the morning,”and take her back to bed,where she starts snoring again.
I wait.
Then I become the ninja again.
Returning to creativity’s castle.To the party of the muse.
This one’s even better than back in the day.
This one leads to cartoons and cerealinstead of hangovers and regret.
The early-morning brain firesGod’s electricitythrough alert eyes.
Footsteps on the stairs of time.
Visions and voices swarm the green-tea mind.The sword of creation is raised.A backflip in the chair.
Then the voice —a cry from long ago.
“Daddy…why aren’t you sleeping?”
I don’t get up early to brag.I get up early because creativity knocks when the world is quiet.
This is a story about fatherhood, art, discipline, and learning how to work in the dark without waking the people you love.
Written and recorded in the early morning hours.
The Ninja
I don’t get up super early to brag.But my wake-up time makes Jocko look lazy.
It didn’t always used to be this way.
Before I was a dad,bedtime was usually dawn —or dawn plus,depending on the chemical cohorts.
Wake-up time back then was noon.Sometimes two.
In winter, it was often possibleto miss daylight altogether.
Rock ’n’ roll hours.
But not just rock ’n’ roll hours —
rock ’n’ roll hours when the rules were different.
Artists thrive in hoursthat look absurd to everyone else.
These days, I’m a ninja.
Writing now at 3:15 a.m.Just getting up.Yesterday’s start was 2:30,so I’m already lagging behind.
3:15 a.m. is a lazy startfor the ninja.
Why am I the ninja?
Because I have to be stealth.Because I can’t wake my four-year-old.
I don’t set an alarm.I always wake up around this time anyway.And I don’t need motivation to get up.
Creativity is the party.The surrounding circumstances of that partyare arbitraryto the main event.
Before she was born — early 2000s —the party was bars and studios.
Work and hedonism blended together.Stuff got dumb.Legends were made.Nothing was dialed in or efficient,but it didn’t matter.
Time felt endless.It felt like it was on our side.
Not so for the ninja.
Tiptoeing out of the room at 3 a.m.,making sure not to trip over dollsor toy trucks.
If he’s lucky,he gets a four-hour windowto dance with the musein hours where no one can touch him.
He slouches in front of shadows.Creativity’s sword is drawn.
He runs up and down walls,fighting intruders that aren’t even there,sparring with resistancebefore dawn.
The party is creation, yawning,letting the light come inand outand through.
The river finds its way through the mountain.The ninja gives his light to the world.
A story that needs to be toldwill find its way.
Often my daughter wakes up,disappointed to find me in another room,carving away at the work.
She wants to put me in time out.
I tell her,“You know Daddy works in the morning,”and take her back to bed,where she starts snoring again.
I wait.
Then I become the ninja again.
Returning to creativity’s castle.To the party of the muse.
This one’s even better than back in the day.
This one leads to cartoons and cerealinstead of hangovers and regret.
The early-morning brain firesGod’s electricitythrough alert eyes.
Footsteps on the stairs of time.
Visions and voices swarm the green-tea mind.The sword of creation is raised.A backflip in the chair.
Then the voice —a cry from long ago.
“Daddy…why aren’t you sleeping?”
