Going home, going backwards

As I sit in my bedroom in Newton, MA (which is, incidentally, comparable to the size of my entire apartment in New York City), I realize how little I have to say.

This place does that to me.

I got home and did what I always do, for better or worse: I ate, I sat at the piano for 15 minutes, set up my computer, wrote a couple emails, watched some TV, and settled into my room and went right for my letters drawer.

I immediately found why I fell in love with Alyssa and why I was falling in love with Sky (I think this may break a rule of mine -- to use names of romantic interests in my blog...oopsies!) and it prompted me to write about it.

I wrote a fantastic piece of prose (well, fantastic to write, who knows if it's fantastic to read...) with anecdotes and analysis of why I fell for these girls -- having to do with the attraction I have towards those who can empathize with the feeling of creation and drive (me as a composer and both of them as writers) and my desire to hold on to childhood and anecdotes of how both of them did.

I don't feel comfortable posting these anecdotes without permission from both of them -- or at the very least Alyssa -- and I do not feel comfortable asking permission from either of them since they both have made it quite clear that they'd rather not admit that I exist.

So because of this, you're forced to read about a post rather than the post itself. And for this, I apologize.

It's just that the first few hours at home is always a shock to my psyche and a push back into a time and place I still kind of wish I were in.

I'm sure when I wake up in the morning I'll be back to (relative) normal. And then you'll read about it when you wake up on Thursday.

Oh how I don't enjoy coming home...