Halloween.

Bookends. The first and the last day of the night.

The month has been dominated by difference, difference in attitude, experience, process. This post will be subject to the restrictions in information that my life entails. This is a good thing as most of the hurt that I have produced has been as a result of my honesty. A trait I share with my mother and mother in law. I commented to my wife that I was without doubt the mother in the relationship. I love the doggy even when he makes me miserable.

I have been sober for about three weeks this month, through a combination of gout, free will, arrogance and circumstances. The general result was six hours of sleep a night, an increase of musical ability, a surprisingly low interest in alcohol, blisters on my feet, a fascination with romance, unharnessed rage, inadequacy. But that was subjective, I was an excellent servant. I felt very young, an absolute teenager. This is not a good thing. But I did learn that I have learned to be that very earnest nature and still be kind. I am good at caring. But I am very bad at submitting.

I have not posted during this time, because I censor myself. I think that's a shame, but it's an act of love. I have, however thought of novels and essays, and short stories, and pieces of art, and shadows, and science and beauty and loss, and culture. I have written a thousand posts and several novels, I wish I could connect you directly with my brain. It's the sort of thing that frightens other people but I embrace.

I would like people to e-mail me. I feel a little lonely. But I am happy as I post that.