Portland, Oregon

I've moved.

No longer a Vermonster misplaced in the desert outside Hollywood, now I'm in the town I always thought I'd never move to. For the simple reason that everyone always compares it to the town I call home, only bigger. And everyone from Burlington ends up in Portland.

I'd rather be unusual.

Or would I? Times past, I contemplated the irony of my existence, the strangeness of my instinct. Nothing made sense.

Lately, all I can think about is teacups and curtains. The lure of the underground is fading. I want to make tables and chairs. I want to sew place mats and napkins.

I remember the advice of someone I admire greatly when I told him I was moving to Southern California: he said, "L.A. is a wonderful place, if you know who you are."

I felt it very easy to define myself in an environment that did not produce me, did not support or validate me, and viewed me as an oddity. There was never anything closely related to who I am that I saw. I never questioned who I am.

But now, after a year and a half of creative rest and relative inaction, I find myself asking that question. Who are you? Are you the result of your work? Are you a mirror that reflects how you've affected the people you've chanced to meet? Are you still a vessel of unrealised potential, perpetually distracted from practice and discipline? Are you a sponge that drinks from it's surroundings, thriving on the excitement of others?

I do know that I'm specifically tired.

Tired of doing nothing, and tired from moving.

And I do know that music still moves me, perpetually and religiously.

So, let's make some music.