Did someone mention a rapture?

Oh, was I supposed to answer that question? Looks like the answer might be yes.

Though it looks like I'm starting to get my wits about me and be here. It's been a rough week. That new job, likes we were sayin' over a lovely beer and no doubt before or after bursting into one of the many lovely laughs we had together in your city, might ultimately end up facilitating writing. And may ultimately have already facilitated those bursts of Berlin. But this week? It's been all about catching up on things and trying to get things in place and sending emails and making phone calls and figuring out where to get lunch and finding a morning caca rhythm and when am I going to squeeze in the gym session and you certainly get the picture by now.

But? Here I am in my hideout writing to see if I can get my voice back. You know. That voice I write you with. Because there are always the bigger questions.

It was over another one of those beers that I mentioned to you. Like, I don't know how much to mourn here in public. Which is funny. Because I didn't know how much to say about my sex in public in public. I'm not being redundant. That second public means "on this blog." And with that very sentence I understand why. My sex in public was already public. In a way. But what I ended up saying here. The weeks before my father died. What was that anyway? Not exactly private. It was something that had been waiting to happen. Something I'd been waiting to live. Again. I'd been there before. But I'd never been there again before. That sounds too prettily paradoxical. But I think it's right. I'd never been there again before. That again you get when you write shit like that down. That again that you're probably already getting again in another way. When you find yourself fucking. Or looking to fuck. Writing. You know what I'm talking about.

I think, though, really, that my rapture of the moment is really due to what I mentioned to you over yet another one of our beers. (Yes, we did drink a lot). I'm still caught in the strangeness of the fact that all that got written down, with so much thanks to you, so soon before Dad died. I haven't found a way to give that strangeness shelter yet. Which means I'm not quite home. And that's sad. Or really frustrating. Because I'd just found a way to give a lot of other strangeness home. To allow it to define my home. Be its own shelter. And then he had to up and die. We do, you know. Kiki tells us ladies and gentleman that that's all we need to know. Or she used to say so before she survived her and Herb's death at Carnegie Hall. Since then, I haven't seen her harp on that too much. Which actually makes total sense. People die. And then they live on. Otherwise.

Just starting to make out how Dad lives on otherwise. It's still pretty faint. And it's complicated. Of course all the talk on the couch is pretty much about that. Or starts and ends with that. Thank goodness for that couch. There's a lot going on there. Probably why there's a little less going on here on this blog. Don't think I told you. That day I wrote through what I know of the moment of my father's death. And you told me I took your breath away. And I told you I'd already taken my own away. That caesura. That publicity I allowed myself to lend my mourning. Well. That exists because I missed my session of analysis that day. Paid for it anyway. And that all made sense. I needed to be sitting down. Up off of the couch. Writing that down. There's a lot more I need to write down. Soon. Today. Yesterday, too.

Funny story. My other web incarnation just got linked the other day. From a Frenchie sociologist's blog. He cites me on my former webworld in his bibliography. He's that kind of blogging sociologist. And you know what? That was some good shit I wrote down. It made me happy to have written it.

It hurts now how happy it was to have seen you and yours. I miss you. You're here, too. Otherwise. And that's strangeness. It needs shelter.