the new year looms like a burnt out lightbulb, and after returning i find the dissonance of the city less and less avoidable. the days come about like spurts, and i find myself traveling from home to work to practice to work and then to home again. there are moments of enlightenment- beauty in volunteerism, peace in beauty. then there are moments of self-realization, like when an external perception of yourself suddenly becomes consciously accessible.

right now, the small town west is embellished, but ive been believing lately that there's actually something there. the silence counts for a lot, in my book, at least, right now. Eliot says we must go through what we are not, and i am most certainly not a smalltown boy. i say this now with some envy, but the direct object swings on a pendulum, and the scales always find a way to level out. the skyscrapers are next to the mountains. the ghetto is next to the ivy league.