Battered with a good helping of butter.

Dearest whatever stranger happens upon this remote piece of cyberspace,

Well, the move happened and probably is still evolving.  I transferred myself, more than bruised from the bustle and vacant wasteland of glorified suburbia known as Los Angeles, and into my old playground known as Kansas City.   The decision to rewind back to an awkward adolescence and deal with an altered power-struggle with the parents has generally been a bit controversial.  The person who didn't make a peep through it all, however, was Kris.  In his typical, deceptively laid back style, he shrugged it off, just lamenting the fact  the distance between us is now bridged with a slightly more extensive flight and definitely not with a 6 hour car drive down the Californian coast.

Anyhow, the adjustment was a little difficult, what with a full surgery schedule and an apartment that was emptied and a mother going slightly crazy.  I didn't say goodbye to anyone as I just didn't have the time, and even today, slight PTSD dreams seep through, only for me to wake up in a panic and realize that I'm thankfully no longer cheap labor.

Gradually, with the past few weeks, everything is unfolding.  I created a makeshift study in the attic near the HD television ( yeah, real productive), but it overlooks the trees and the Bishop's house.  My former kitchen table and my old lamp now are tucked away with my brass horse and a little ledge that I've turned into a bookshelf.  Among my books, you can find Dean Young, Creasy, old moleskins, and a nice large bottle of Black Label that gathers dust as a bookend.  So do not worry, I am still relatively temperate ( though the half a bottle of moscato that I downed a month ago provided me with a memorably warm feeling that overpowered the desolation of being overworked.)

I merely have ventured back into this dusty bit of territory(the blog, the attic, the Midwest) because I hope to resurrect a part of me that eternally struggles with my growing profession, a part that enjoys ruminating about everything and nothing while strolling through a tree-lined street, that craves to spend one day of the week just painting, scribbling, typing and gradually uncovering a muddled voice that is longing to hit that one impossible, perfect note.  Loudly and unapologetically. 

So wish me luck.