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It seems I’m always moving East, against all odds, jetting like moth to flame into the rising sun, to then migrate West; this has been a reoccurring theme. Back to the land of my birth, this reentry. The first trek I recall was from my beloved wild west: the bad lands of New Mexico to the deep antebellum South, the heart, the heart of Dixie. While I spent those formative years in the Dismal Gardens, the eighth wonder of the world, I began to feel the need for retreat, feeling choked by a subtly uncomfortable social climate like Kudzo constricting my chest and throat. I fled via many highway and byway. I zigzagged my way back west, the long road home? This was the first cycle, although I think differently now. Over and over I gravitate East, and again retreat for the sake of renewing old friendships, rekindling old loves, reinventing myself…for music! … For music!! … For music? And yet there’s a light that has always flickered to draw me towards the trail, to keep me moving towards the path. Something stronger than all of my previous thoughts of what I wanted or needed--even music, music which is my life, my language. There is a primordial pull that keeps me moving East, towards a dim recollection of home, a purer state, a primordial reckoning if you will.

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