it's not you, it's me.

i'm at one of those junctures where i realize that i'm the problem. my roommate is sensitive to strong smells, i have a penchant for cooking with garlic and olive oil, but we keep similar sleep schedules and basically coinhabit the space. i am going to have to learn to actually be clean and keep clean. for some reason this was left out of my childhood, this tendency to keep things clean. maybe i resisted it. my parents are pack rats. i am cleaner than sam sharp or colin marsh, but that isn't saying much.

148 n. main was a memorable house, but not for good reasons. charmaine was a good part. so was my invite-only wine&cheese birthday party. with eben lichtman, jazz piano and supporting musicians. steve menotti showed up sheepishly to crash the party. candlelight, good people, laughter, friends. cary cody, kat cohn, there from the beginning. alice teyssier, alex conway, darcy gervasio, my girls. kevin lubrano stopped by. john shaw showed his amazing face.

here at purchase, i feel like someone stole the snow from my snowglobe. suddenly, magically, rug from under my feet, no people. not something that is cured by a late-night stiff drink.

with that, i am going to walk to the dam in these last hours of sunlight and read a little fux.
that's right, the oh-so-seductive chapter on second-species counterpoint.