type "i" for inventory
2003 was a terrible year of dashed hope. 2004 was given over to retrenchment and repair, a whittling down of expectations, some necessary growing up, and eventually cautious optimism. 2005 may not move beyond that cautious optimism, but to maintain it would be enough. I no longer want the moon—or at any rate, I don't expect it.
Last year I returned to Portland after my precipitous flight to Reno, assembled another band and made a very limited dent on the club circuit, released a very limited-edition live record, wrote about 60% of a novel far superior to anything I had previously done, went on an extended vinyl binge, developed a software application, had my first legitimate appearance in a literary publication, met a magpie, moved to California, started a doctoral program.
This year I will finish that novel and beg New York City to validate it, continue with school, get up to reading proficiency in German, fill the most glaring gaps in my knowledge of Western philosophy and literary theory, get better at the piano and cello, learn at least to make some tolerable sounds on the viola and saxophone, record and release another home-studio album, ride my bike more, buy more and better groceries, keep the house clean, be good.
