I know, I know, I haven’t written anything new in over a week. I’ve been on the road, visiting friends and taking care of business, and some other projects have taken precedence over this here blog. It doesn’t help matters that I haven’t eaten much worth writing about. Actually, that’s not true: the Carolina shrimp boiled in beer at a beach house with friends last weekend were awfully good, and dinner at Babbo the other night was far from shabby. But in neither case was I tempted to take out my camera or notebook.
It doesn’t help that New York City, resplendent in early spring sunshine, has not exactly fostered any writerly discipline in me. I don’t know if it’s the angled late afternoon sun streaming down on the city, making every color clearer and brighter, or if it’s because I know that when I leave next week I won’t be back for a while (I always want the ones I can’t have), but NYC is looking better to me than it has in a long time.
About a year ago it seemed clear to me that a few different plot lines in my life had reached their dènouement. Paramount of course was the loss of my mother in the late part of 2008, but there was also what felt distinctly (and gratifyingly) like the final resolution of a years-long on again off again (mostly off) thing, and the realization that it was time to break up with New York.
It’s worth noting that dénouement, which means something like “final outcome” in English, is a French word that comes from “noue” — knot — and so actually means “unknotting”. This is funny, I think. In English we talk about “tying up loose ends” or “wrapping things up” to signify conclusion, but this French that English has adopted actually employs the opposite metaphor. This may shed light on why so many French films seem to finish without what American audiences consider a proper ending.
Everything ends, of course, but everything keeps going too. The knots are untangled but like the necklaces in my jewelry case or the Wolfords in my drawer things have a way of getting messy all over again. I shouldn’t be surprised by this. Past is prelude, after all.
But I digress.
Or regress. I really don’t know any more.