It’s been a month since I’ve written a word here, and not without good reason—for that month I converted myself from a lazily-scribbling lout into a man of action, and rarely had even those few seconds to oneself that are required if one intends to kick back and write. There hasn’t been such a lull in my own literary activity since I retreated to the icicles of my home like a disgraced, beaten dog, all the way from the Hindu totems that sprinkle the beaches and jungles and mountains of the isle of Bali on the other side of the planet, an event which inaugurated six months of the most painful and creative self-immolation and misery I have yet experienced. That was several years ago. But for these last four weeks were not quite the same as that very darkest of dark autos-da-fé.
I was so busy because I, a still-young man, got hitched. Why? The obvious explanation is love. Perhaps a little too much love, in fact. The answer to the so-called riddle of a sudden wedding is not difficult to extract from the mysterious abyss: though I think now we probably would have gotten married eventually anyway, since we’ve both been crazy about each other from the beginning, we really shackled our fingers with golden handcuffs because, to put it bluntly, we were screwing like a whole festering hole full of rabbits, and because rabbits do not screw with Korean condoms that are too small for exceedingly unremarkable American penises, and because this sensuous process, imitative in its temporal length of the millions of years of thunder and volcanism that fused the first amino acids into life-giving proteins, went on for several very pleasant months of open sin, we eventually splashed our genes together and drew a new human being out of that existential nothingness from which we all—voluntarily or involuntarily, for who can say?—originate. We were surprised, but only very young children or characters in Orwellian novels are surprised at two and two equaling four.
And, likewise, eventually (after about two hours of selfishly mortal terror on my part and plenty of tears on hers), we decided not to abort the little tadpole swimming around in her belly and instead opted to do the responsible thing and spend the rest of our lives together to experience all the various joys and ardors of forging a new person in the middle of a modern era of really spectacular upheaval and chaos.
So this is why my “blog”—blog being the ugliest word in our language, a word which sounds to me like an onomatopoetic rendering of a pile of shit dropping into a toilet bowl already brimming with a rank stew of excrement—was interrupted. I will now spend the next few days furiously (since there is no other way but the furious way) writing stories and editing photos for your delighted consumption, most of which will describe in savage detail all the unrelenting absurdity of my charmed life.