City of Legends

I am alive.  I am writing.  I am recording.

All other considerations are secondary.  I am in a strange space, what my first wife called my "dark countenance" phase.  My second wife never really got her brain wrapped around it, one of the reasons we speak of her in the past tense.  .

There are times that being Ronin, being without love and lover, is of value.  Feels like Hell, and would like to find nice, brilliant, beautiful, earnest woman to share bend and bed with, but I am patient (the clock mocks, but I will not be pressed into stupidity by the next sweet succubus who promises me that she, not all the others who threw the term like a well-chewed Frisbee, is my one, true solumate).

Last time I counted, I recall at least six times I fell for that.  Because I wanted to believe. 

Yes, I am alive.  Not broken.  Not jaded.  Not pessimistic about the future of poetry and love and religion, as the three are one in the same to me.

Just a bit of the dark countenance, that’s all.  And it is good for my writing to be there.  I have friends in the virtual universe who sustain me so I do not fall through the worm-eaten buttresses of my sanity.  I have peers with whom I swap sweat and spit of the mind to make strange offspring.  I have my sons to keep me on my toes and to keep my ego in check.

And I have my writing.  A virtual house of mirrors that bend time.