It is still 14 days before the end of y2k1 and a bit premature for the writing of a year's end statement, yet perhaps no more premature than presumptuous that anyone might give a damn what I have to say about it, yet, as it is, first and foremost, myself for whom I write, it is for myself these words I write this day, December 17, 2001.

As has become a custom for Juju and I in our little home, Sunday nights are spent nestled on the couch in front of the tube, and last night's "inning" (as opposed to 'outing') seemed particualrly pastoral after a day spent preparing the house for the holidays, decorating the tree, writing Xmas cards and enjoying a hearty home cooked meal in front of a crackling fire.  Reigning supreme over the remote, I surfed for us both, two viewers in search of a show, and stumbled across the "worldwide network premiere broadcast of the film 'The Titanic'", that bombastic icon of cinematic overindulgence as likely perceived by the bohemian cynic, but also a tribute of epic proportions to all that is good and true in the human heart and spirit.  Surfing in and out of the television pipeline, we were quickly sucked into the emotional ebb-tide of the flick, as if into the eddies of a sinking ship, and when the words "end of part one" flashed onto the screen, I found myself with the feeling devoid of fulfillment as is attendant with a song half sung.  Thus, with coffee cup in trembling hands, after having ushered Juju off to her daily to-do, I fumbled through our video collection to brush the dust off the long since stowed away cassette fathfully acqured in the media-hype aftermath, and as the sun rose about my sleepy little town, I completed the journey embarked upon the night before.   And now ,  "le coq de mer" having sunk to the bottom of the sea, and Rose Dawson having risen to be reunited with her true love, I am in need of bailing out all that has welled up over the spillways and filled the coffers of my head.  For those who still read, I thank you for allowing me this extravagance.

I had come to think of 2001 as a disappointing year - one of unfulfilled promises and frustrated attempts at personal greatness.  I have toiled the year throughout at the completion of a project I thought to be short and sweet, and struggled in coming to terms with the lileklihood that I may never quite realize my expectations.  I have allowed myself to become distracted from the road to my future by the trappings of complacency, and have found myself in the tenable position of wondering whether or not I was truely meant to make my living in the manner to which I have become accustomed.  I have placed upon myself demands that I am nat sure I am capable of meeting, all the while learning more and more of my fallabilities, which, looming before me as a philosophical Everest, I am avowed to surmount. I have enjoyed the grandeur of recognition and found it's value to be fleeting.   I have, much to my chagirin, begun to accept the possibility that there are, quite simply, things in this world that I cannot do for myself.

I have shared, both publicly and privately, in the grief and anger at man's profound inhumanity to man, and can hear the echoes of wandering minstrels too soon disembodied, although many foreign, still somehow familiar. As I endeavour to weave these voices into my music, I keep coming back to the same conclusion :  We are children of a paradise yet to be known, and like children, are all guilty of the seven deadlies in our irreverence to this gift.  But, also, like children, we are privvy to it's profound and infinite nature, and, as the imagination of a child can render new spheres of existence from the simplicity of a toy, so can we all see the true possibilities as exist in this beautiful world.  This is the purview of all that is creative, and until we all find ourselves living in a perfect world, there it shall remain.  To the credit of all humanity, we continue to paint the picture into which we hope one day to step.

Linus, in the spotlight, with an approporately omminous echo on his voice, speaks the words "Peace on Earth, Good will toward men ... that's what Christmas is all about."  Like the many phrases we hear so often in our lives as to become flacid and rote, I believe that in this year 2001, we may just pay appropriate heed to their meaning. And in the final moments before the ship sinks, the truely doomed, and perhaps truely gifted, who are left aboard, look about themselves to see others of similar plight, all castes cast away, all equal, and all dead-certain of their immediate future.  Here is where true love resides.  Here the hand is held and here you never let go.   Here is where I find myself, and I am thankful for all those I find about me. And whether or not anything of import may occur in the next 14 days, it has been a good year.  Leave us never forget, and never let go.
Thanks You All.