What do I do when I'm not working? An innocuous question, to which my only feasible reply is invariably: Not a lot. I stress feasible rather than honest, because the truth is a little more complicated. It's true enough that a lot of my time is spent in pursuit of admittedly juvenile thrills, which have historical roots in my seeking to bleach out the once painful act of everyday living. But whatever little of it is spent productively - and there is a little of it, not none entirely - is in devotion to something immensely private. These writings for example have seen sufficient attention that by any reasonable definition, they would constitute something approaching a hobby. Yet there's precious little here that I can reasonably share with anyone I know in any personal capacity: the edges are too sharp, the references too oblique.

Where, I wonder, did those figs go? Once I had the thought of writing beautiful, universal words that would make up a rich tapestry of an inner life. I seem unable however to put my experiences in a language that anyone else can understand, or even cared to listen to. If I were forced to guess, I'd wager it's a simple consequence of my perennial sin of elevating my own consciousness above everyone else's. I can curse the words for ending up the way they have done; but at the same time, I can't quite conclude what I could have done differently. If the aim was to chronicle my true self, I think I've done a pretty good job.