It's been over a year since last I wrote in these pages. Much longer, if you were looking for anything of substance.
Blogging has changed...it's certainly not the animal it was when I started doing this back in 2005. Rather than sending missives out into the ether, where they would float and languish in the brackish backwater that is this blog, occasionally snagging the odd wayward traveler, I've been availing myself of the much more immediately gratifying social interaction platforms since invented, and pretty much now regard The Mark of Kane as one would, say, a first generation iPhone; still interesting, but almost quaint in it's obsolescence.
I noticed that this wasn't only happening here. Many of the blogs I once read have changed, or disappeared. When I started, I would often devote a couple of hours a day catching up on the blogs I favored. My daily required blog-reading list has dwindled down to a mere handful of familiar names requiring perhaps a daily allotment twenty minutes, if that much. In addition, I've been excised from many of the blog rolls I was once formerly a part of. I can imagine those parties felt no need to continue checking this page, only to be confronted with the same old Shirley Jackson novel title and stolen photograph of the building in which we reside.
Which brings me to this: I really did not want to write about the past year. I didn't much feel like sharing the intimate details of how Tim and I cobbled our lives together, after 14 years of living apart. Suffice to say, we have been rather successful in that regard, and the general consensus is that we should have done it years ago.
In the process, much has changed. Tim is no longer bartending at the Dugout and the Dugout, of course, is no longer. After a dozen years of Sundays spent slinging cocktails (Tim) or leaning against one jukebox or another (Me), surrounded by many, many dear friends, we found ourselves without so much as a home base in the world at large. For a time we tried a few other options, anything to avoid the dreaded Sunday Scaries, but after a while we came to realize that there really weren't many palatable options out there for a couple of gentlemen so clearly in their fifties.
GAY is a radio frequency I find I'm having trouble receiving these days. I'm sure the transmitter is as strong as ever, but now the signal arrives full of static, broken up, or not at all. After tuning in for well over 40 years, I suppose I should be more upset than I am, but there you have it. I'm not.
A fairly recent blog purports to be a guide written for the "postfabulous" homosexual. Upon perusal, one finds that there's very little "postfabulous" about it. It's pretty much your standard up-to-date gay gazette of all the latest, greatest notions put forth for the elucidation of those denizens of a world I've left behind. For me, it might as well be written in Farsi.
I realize that I'm not post-anything.
I've turned a corner in my life which has afforded me a vastly different panorama, though no less wondrous.
I have a home and a husband now, and I enjoy them both to the such an extent that I don't often want to leave. That outside world we've both known so well is now pretty much gone. We still go out and walk among the ruins sometimes, pausing to view the new city built on the ashes of our own.
Then we head home.