What We Talk About When We Talk About Love

Okay, while the title is still Raymond Carver, this won’t be another extended paragraph from one of my favorite writers. But I guess it’s an apology of sorts. My silence was abrupt and complete these last few months, and I owe all three of you an apology.

Dear readers, I fell. And I fell hard. I fell willingly, I knew it was doomed, saw it coming and I accepted it. And while my navel gazing on these web pages was becoming increasingly banal, I wrote odes and constructed eidolons in my personal journals. I will not parcel out those solipsistic writings for public consumption. Suffice to say I am not J. Alfred Prufrock. A more apt analog is Jake Barnes. And that is all I have to say about that.