This is the seventy sixth post. I’ve not missed a day since the new year. I’ve also not written a single one of those seventy fives posts from anywhere other than my house. 

Usually I’ll write on my couch, late at night. Or at my desk. I’ll flip between tabs or apps or games or books or music or videos. 

I didn’t realize that those glimpses of silence between the islands of noise were so important until I tried to write number seventy six somewhere I’m not totally familiar. 

I’m writing somewhere I’ve been dozens of times, somewhere I’m comfortable, totally. But something about not being able to time the moments of quiet, something about not wanting to intrude by seeking silence, well, it forced me to write late, as the last person awake. 

Tribulations of writing somewhere other than my own neurotic den aside, the fact that I haven’t left home in the new year is slightly disconcerting. 

I don’t feel obliged to, necessarily.
Though I do suspect never leaving is perhaps not great for me. I don’t feel bad, but I think I might feel better, brighter, bigger, more open, if I had the capacity to venture out. 

Which I don’t, really. Nor do I expect that to change. 

Is Bread and Puppet so exceptional, so fantastically Vermont because they stick around the Green Mountains the majority of the time?

Or is it because the other half of the year, this half of the year, they travel from city to city putting on shows?