What brings us back home?
This eternal questions always comes knocking on my skull, when I feel a certain rush to go back home, see my friends, hang out at my house, escape my house (which is just my parents' house now) walk across the seconds and be at my friends in a second, protected from the crush of criticism, parental guidance, and the silence and peace, which is my protector, but also troubling in a way -- being tucked away in a peaceful, quite place is something bizarre to me, an illusion, the impossible becoming real?
I look from parents yard at half the city and more, all the way toward Redondo Beach, lands I've visited but never stayed more than a night or two at friends' houses. Nobody over there would have me anymore.
It's a long trip anywhere in the city, but its millions of residences and microneighborhoods are like a feudal retreat from the anything goes anywhere of San Francisco, where seemingly you can't escape the madness, the madmen, the visionaries, the traffic, anywhere. You're always a few steps from the grittiness of the street. LA offers little retreats where vagabonds and madmen can't get you, stalk you to your doorstep, I suppose.
Making it is getting out of the rush, but not being so isolated as to forget people or let them forget you. If I could build something that assures people can dream: musical collaboration, community, friendships, I want to make this happen. If I do, I will have come out on top, leaving the rush not to escape, but to build something great.
Write, post, publish, prophet!