I would not have come to Portland on my own. I was visiting some friends in 2002, and while I was there, one of them said, “you look really happy here. You should look for a job.” So I did. The disconnect was that those friends weren’t really my friends. They weren’t very good at communicating it in words, but they were great at calling me family and being the last ones to respond if I needed them in that way. The disillusionment set in almost immediately, and the family I thought I was going toward sent me emotionally backward… with just enough connection to confuse me. In fact, for me, the entire time I lived in Portland can be summed up in that one word- confusion. I didn’t know which way was true north, couldn’t get my bearings, lived in survival mode like a cat backed into a corner- claws extended- for way too long. It wasn’t that I didn’t have a life there; I met Dana and that made Portland worth every single sacrifice I ever made. Outside of that, though, I was an emotional wreck, and in a lot of cases, inflicted damage that way.
In many ways, coming home to Houston has made me remember who I was before living in Portland was a thing. I am a musician, and a damn good one. I listen to jazz. When I am listening to jazz, I am jazz. It is in me around me beating living sensing… In Portland, I forgot that about me, and last night, I rediscovered it.
Every day, I discover a different part of myself that I left behind… as if it was being stored in my parents’ garage. Old and musty, but once you get the dust off, priceless.
Stories That Are All True 
If this were an independent film I’d definitely go see it. I’m glad you’re finding the pieces again!
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