On How Things Change

It must have seemed odd, as a reader, to see the change that came over this weblog when I moved to New York last year. From talking about my impatience, my confidence in our future, my love for this fabulous woman who was about to become my wife, I stopped blogging about Krissa, it seems, almost immediately.
And of course there was a reason.

All our lives we are bombarded with stories; we learn to read with simple cardboard tales of dogs running for balls and graduate to epic celluloid sagas of blooming red explosions and passionate sex and deadly drugs and ironic humour. All our lives we learn the stories, we tell stories, listen, take in and develop a sense of how stories work, and "happily ever after." is story-speak for "and nothing exciting or interesting happened after that."
But when you're living the story of your life, there isn't a cut-off until the very end. So when something wonderful happens, say, you fall madly in love with the girl of your dreams and move in with her in The Big City with fantastic friends and a lifestyle so hectic that even the paper itinerary of a random month would give your past self a headache if he didn't have one already, well, your long-acquired narrative sense starts to ring-a-ding-ding at the back of your mind pealing and screaming that it is all happening to counterpoint, in a Hollywood stylee, the forthcoming fall from heaven.

To begin with, I think that was part of it. It was so perfect that I didn't want to talk about it to anyone.

But maybe it was because I had the sense of walking off the set into that happy ending, and that maybe the story, told as it had been, should be left there.

But screw that.

Krissa, I love you, I love you, I love you.