My Good-Bye to New York. The First Two Weeks.

How I've taken writing for granted, how my prose has degenerated, or at best become rather academic. It's a common saying that the best writing is done in solitude, and for better or worse, this past year I've been rarely solitary - those who know me would balk at this statement, but its true in relativity. This year, my writing suffered in its progression, because I didn't suffer, surrounded by people that I could actually say "I love you" to. Sure it had its ups and downs, but because you guys were there, instead of abroad or solo mobile. And you are probably one of the few reading this right now, so I'd like to soberly reiterate with no access to euphoric substances at the moment - I love you guys.

So, at 4 AM on father's day, unable to sleep again, i'd like to take an emotional inventory in writing. If anything, it is a search for a new type of muse, as I've realized my old one, a rose that was only beautiful when grasped, when the blood trickled from skin to thorn to stem, was not really sustainable.

I was naiive, or perhaps just stupid, to think that good-byes were a cheery affair. I thought I would say good-bye to the East Coast by going to all the events I could, and these would be my memories of New York. However, it's not the concerts, the bars, and the restaurants that I will probably remember, but the people I was with. The thing I will remember most about the beginning of this summer is how stupid some people are.

For so long I have been writing and producing work in order to impress people, to show people that I was valuable person, that I was worth their respect. It made sense that my writing was best and prolific when I felt I was inadequate in their eyes. Now that I see that most of the kids who I wanted to respect me have ended up as liberals, conservatives, alternative life-stylists, bankers, financial consultants, politicians, asia-philes, anglo-philes, obama-philes, eurocentric, ethnocentric, petty bourgeois or down-right stupid, I'm not really sure they deserve my respect, my time, my thoughts, much less my written word.

Now I write not just for the liberation of the masses (i get one revolutionary rhetoric per post) but specifically for those who keep me in their minds. They are my muse. I only wish that I had realized this sooner, had written (read: processed) this a little earlier.

I'll end this with a quote from Marx, "The ideal is nothing but the material world reflected in the minds of man, and translated into forms of thought".