I moved back to my apartment in Oxford, Ohio about six weeks ago. My own little oasis in this decaying economic corpse we call the Midwest.

In May, I will have fulfilled my cultural contract with the American paradigm known as "higher education". Maybe it's the caffeine, or maybe it's the sugar raging through my blood from the pounds of candy corn serving as my sustenance, but at least for the moment, the world seems to have lost its urgency.

From time to time, I'll get a message from someone: "What's going on with Lunavelis?" or "why does it seem like you haven't been playing shows lately?" or, if you're from anywhere other than this atrophying agricultural fiefdom, "When are you going to play near me?". Many apologies to my friends and fans in Australia, Japan, Mexico, China, Louisiana, Missouri, California, and wherever else I might have, in haste and contemplation, neglected.

I apologise if my responses maybe have seemed evasive, indirect, or simply unsatisfactory. I swear to god that I am not a fucking politician. I'm not yet some corrupt demagogue reading a cue card, propped up by a corporation or lobbyist or megalomaniacal vision of the world. I've not yet been alive long enough to stop caring about the world enough to sell it out for the delusion that my existence signifies the acme of mankind, the acropolis of creation.

And that's exactly my answer to you.

Lunavelis is and always has been an extension of my personality; its music constantly evolves, changing with my moods and whims, a parallax and metaphor. Sometimes healthy. Sometimes diseased. Sometimes whimsical, and less and less often, I hope, enraged. And as an independent musician, and not a politician, I can say exactly what I want to say, and divest as little or much time, energy, and money as I can afford at a given moment.

And you're right to observe that we haven't been playing much lately. And, my friends--you truly are my friends--I apologise.

I spent three months this summer in D.C., watching the world in isolation, bound by N.D.A.s and sequestered by geography and mere circumstance. Since I've gotten back, away from corruption, away from the engine of collapse, I've spent a lot of time sitting alone but more present than ever in my apartment, counting the trains as they pass by my window.

Sitting. Counting.

The fact that I don't know where they've come from or when friction will stop their inertia never bothers me. Reasons, for just this brief interval, don't matter to me. I sit and count and resist the urge to jump the train as it rumbles, rumbles, rumbles past my window. And again I am restored with the sense that the world needs urgency.

Urgency.

I need to go somewhere, to do something with my life.

I think we all do.

I met Kyle Napierkowski in the sixth grade. Our interests in music and technology--to me, a holy dichotomy of rockstar and geek--quickly made us friends. Inevitably made us friends. Kyle learned guitar so that he could join the first band I ever played in. In one way or another, at one time or another, he has been involved with every musical project I've ever been involved with. He's been my ally and business partner, helping me fund and promote Airplane, my first official release as 'Lunavelis', and encouraging me all the while to never stop, to keep my inertia like the trains constantly passing my window, even as our lives diverged because of work, college, and simply time itself...

I've found my train, and he's found his. We both have to ride them to wherever they take us. And if they take us to the end of the fucking world, we'll drive off and fall into the gravity of another star. And I'll be a graviton.

If not for Kyle, Lunavelis would never have existed as more than an imprint on an album, recorded in the confines, security, and vacuum of my own little world. On my own little planet, in my own little star, in my own little constellation, in my own little galaxy, in my own little universe. He encouraged me to put together a band and perform live. And he's been there for every failure, every mistake, and every success, every bleeding moment of complete ecstatic triumph.

Dave Koen, who many of you know 'member 3 1/2 of Lunavelis' and met at any of the shows, or open mics, or dozens of coffee shops we frequent, will soon be joining me onstage as the new live bassist for Lunavelis. I have a galaxy of notes and strings and chords to create. And Kyle has his own universe to build. And so, we follow our trains. Wherever they go. His departure is in no way filled with acrimony or bitterness.

I'll be auditioning keyboard players--soon--in anticipation of heavy touring following my graduation in May.

I have a new record, The Rest of the World EP, that I finished while living in D.C. this summer. As of this moment, I don't have the money to release it...as a gesture of appreciation, I've uploaded it, in its entirety, to the Lunavelis Myspace. Please, enjoy it.

Hopefully, as we start playing again, once the new band is ready, finances will be less of a burden. But until I can run my car with water and not gasoline--and pay for my car in chocolate, and not dollars--I'm suffering the combined fate of an independent musician, a college student, and the victim of an utterly incompetent presidential administration hellbent on class warfare.

In the meantime, until I can release the new record: stay in touch. I'm constantly writing new music...so, please, don't worry about the future of Lunavelis. As long as I'm alive, Lunavelis will always exist. Just because I'm not onstage somewhere, not in some coffee shop, not anywhere you can see me, doesn't mean that there need be cause for concern. Just drop me a message. Say hello. I may be invisible, but it's just a mask I wear.

Share your thoughts with me. And I'll hang on every word. The reason Lunavelis exists--the reason Kyle insisted Lunavelis exist--is because of you. And nothing can or will change that.

And so I'll sit, with a guitar and my Powerbook, and count the trains as they pass. As far as they go.

Love,
Christopher