It also saddens me a little. There was a time in the not so distant past, before my diving into eatern philosophical thought, before expensive therapy, that I decided that I could make it here. The previous New Year's Day I had an opening of my digital art at DeKooi Gallery in the East Village. It was the last of a series of displays that previously included Santa Barbara and Dallas.

Thoroughly disillusioned with the corporate culture of the airline industry I did a lot of soul searching and found myself here.

An energetic frenchman named Alexandre Chemla took a chance and gave me a job at his agency called Altour which I am pleased to say today is large and successful despite their error in judgement in hiring me. Really I have no idea why he kept me on, I made mistake after mistake it seems. I underestimate the power of pity perhaps.

After days of dealing with the travel demands of rock stars and young, delectible teenage models, I would walk past the shadows of the Empire State building and the WTC to St Mark's Coffeehouse where I would read my poetry. I actually had fans: all two of them.

NYC beat me mercilessly. It was the only excuse I needed to move back to Dallas to my girlfriend, who would later became my wife, who would later became my ex, and who would later now enjoy a successful life as being merely someone I used to know.

Years later, now, I sometimes wondered why I chose to be a coward and leave. It's the only city that mattered and it's always been that way.

Staring across the Hudson I felt the slight wind on my face and I smelled the salt air. I heard my friend Maren's voice ticking off the names from the polished 9/11 memorial. There were people she knew. Her steady delivery cracks occasionally with emotion and you realize that this is what post traumatic stress disorder is all about. The real deal. It leaves permanent holes that you can't fill again: not with money, drugs, religion or attempts at understanding why 19 men anointed their religious fanaticism with jet fuel and fire.

We were standing in the shadow of Exchange Place. The station here was destroyed by the force of the WTC collapse. It blew through the tunnel under the Hudson and snuffed out the station. Imagine the force that a vacuum cleaner exhaust creates and then imagine it several thousands of times larger. You'll get it.

It's true that the light pollution here is so bad that you can't see the stars but you do get the benfit of pretending to be God and naming your very own constellations within the lights of the skyline. Constellations that change every night rendering even the whims of deities only a temporary satisfaction.

Just look at those lights!!!! Are all of those people working still? This late? There are a few million stories in that naked city, but you can narrow them down to about 10 to 12 basic plotlines. After hours stock trading, drugs, illicit affairs by businessmen who should know better. Those 10 to 12 plotlines all have one thing in common: people taking refuge in something other than themselves. When did materialism murder their spirituality? Did then even have it? The American dream doesn't help, not really. It's the culture that values coveting thy neighbor's fill in the blank. Where you lie on your deathbed regretfully thinking "Gee. I sure wish I could have worked more!!"

Then I realized that so many of those people would trade places with me right now if they could. How lucky I truly am that I have friends who love and support me in this endeavor and have told me so.

NYC did not beat me mercilessly. Standing on this pier I realize how happy I am. Very happy indeed.

It is when I step back now that I truly understand how beautiful my life really turned out.