Towers of Babel

I haven't been blogging much because

• my job now resembles the backstage chaos right before the big runway show in Milan (except no one's interviewing me for W or dumping Glad bags of Euros on me)
• so I seem to be working feverishly every waking second
• [but you're not working now, you're blogging]
• yeah, because stuff has slowed down a bit--but all the same--
• [what's the real reason?]
• the real reason is, I'm avoiding talking about my plans to move the Temple of Doom because the idea of moving out of Teresa's house when her disease is getting worse and when it's about to be our 10th anniversary is enough to make me want to die, flip, or go to India.
• [but, Christ on a pony--I've had all the [indirect] [passive [/aggressive]] abuse I can take...
• [every relationship is a narrative--
• --and thus a fiction--
• so today I sat by the lake at Fiorenza's house, with the water and the sun and the blossoms and the jet-skis...and told my friend my troubles and marveled at her calm, sane answers...and marveled as she encouraged my most playful, irrational tendencies--
• and fictions aren't lies--
• like giving the URL for this blog to an exquisitely beautiful woman I barely know, as
• necessarily, but their structure is artificial, agreed on by the participants
• some kind of invitation, and Fauré's Requiem played softly, adamantly all the while [did you plan that, Fiorenza??]...
• and Fiorenza told me about her dead angelic cousin who still visits--"He shows you beauty, beauty where you can't see any: you 'll be walking along and you'll see something ugly or distasteful and a voice will whisper--no, look at it from beside, below--do you see the perfection now?"
• and when one participant in the narrative refuses her or his role, of hearing or telling, then the narrative suspends and
• and Fiorenza pointed to her wall and said, "See this painting? It's Orpheus and his lover escaping Hell--a prisoner of war painted it, using ash for paint, a screwdriver for a brush."]
  
• anything can happen.]