It's been several years (or nearly four years, which does not actually add up to several, but is more than a few) since I updated this journal. I've had other blogs, and Facebook updates, and marble notebooks, and letters to myself on Gmail. But I haven't had much in the way of public diary entries. Perhaps I'll enjoy it again, or perhaps it'll be short-lived. Time (however measured) will tell. I don't know; neither do you.
But I'm going to start by telling you a story. And it will unfold over several entries. Here we go. Are you ready?
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I'm sitting in my New York apartment, with a bottle of Sam Adams next to me. I'm in my pajamas with a soft lamp on. I have a paperback copy of Tom Stoppard's translation of "The Cherry Orchard" (which is currently my favorite play) open on my desk. I have a one-week vacation ahead of me. We have nothing but time.
I want to tell you a story, but first I want you to close your eyes and imagine a small tropical island somewhere south of Florida. It's well-populated. It's diverse and progressive and gay-friendly. People like to travel there. It has a few colleges, and a booming economy based on tourism and business. It's paradise.
That's where we meet our guy. He's gonna be my alter ego. "Alter," because I've never lived on a tropical island south of Florida. This guy has just moved there. His name is Kelvin, like the guy who invented the temperature scale that includes absolute zero. We're gonna follow him for some time now, so get used to him. I think you'll like him. He's 25, about to turn 26.
Kelvin just moved to the island, because he wanted to find a job, and because other cities weren't working out (he'd lived in a few of the major ones), and because he'd ended a relationship (though he remained good friends with the ex), and because if you can't move to a tropical island and start anew when you're 25, you probably won't ever do it.