A note on the blog's temporary disappearance

Hibernation or hiding. Or it was August and all civilized French flee the city, so I flew from recording or writing in this sparsely populated town. It was neither that nothing happened nor too much occurred to untangle and set down with no time to sit down and unwind. I did not want to blog. I did not want anything. What I thought I wanted. Went from "I want you to want me," a convoluted construction to describe a simple desire, to I want not to want you, to I want not to want. And August I got my wish. I wanted nothing but will. So afraid of being irredeemably incomplete, I needed to need nobody to know I was whole. Somehow not wanting seemed only way to signify I was enough on my own, even when kicked out of the garden, parted from Paris, paradise. And in this biblical parody, lost parity and patience were price of eating the apple cheese. Indigestion didn't hit till I stopped also eating the antidote, the comfort food of Paris' beauty. In cramped New York, overwhelmed by the wideness and depth of my nakedness embodied in the wish, I became Nietzsche's modern man, denying the will to want, which gives us not the right to make promises but is given by the right to existence, to take up space, take in air, take in a movie, take a class. Take and give, give and take like two neurons wired and oscillating back and forth, like the firm soil and the watery main. This moment I am the oscillator, swinging so fast between self sufficiency and want of another that it seems I am simultaneously happily myself and hopeful of possibility of melding with some one else. It might be all illusion. By a fly's sight, fed 200 images a second, experiences last longer and I might appear to alternate, stutter, and stay at each idea a fraction of a second till nostalgia for self-reliance or romance pulls me to the other pole. But by a human visual cortex only understanding 30 frames, it looks like I concurrently might want my wishes without being diminished by having them.