I have it on good authority that I’m about to be nudged because I haven’t posted anything for almost a week now. I’m not quite sure why, other than (a) my mind has been occupied with the wedding, three weeks from today, and its attendant details; before which we have to (b) reassemble the house, and (c) also before then, I want to finish the first draft of my first novel.
That being said, numerous upcoming posts are bouncing around inside my head about a variety of subjects: About my friend Elliott Murphy, the impressive singer/songwriter (and contemporary of Springsteen) who in the early Nineties packed up and went the way of his heroes Fitzgerald and Hemingway, moving to Paris, where his work receives the appreciation it deserves. About the differences between living in Brooklyn vs. Salt Lake City. About treating writing as a business. About Michelangelo Antonioni’s The Passenger, which I’d not seen in twenty years but, in retrospect, had a huge impact on my writing. About Marta Becket’s autobiography To Dance on Sands. And about Bukowski: Born into This, which we watched last night. All these and more. I just need to write them down.
But mostly what’s on my mind these days is Deborah, whom I love so much. She’s an incredible woman, who taught me more about life and living in two short years than I’d learned in the preceding 46. As well, she’s a remarkable mother in a time and in a city when simply being a good mother poses a challenge. Long story short, I’m proud to be marrying her. (Did I mention the wedding is three weeks from today?)