Has Left The Building!
Chopin went to Majorca, ostensibly for his health (though really to boink George Sand for some years, the saucy tart). Louise Brooks took an exasperated respite from Hollywood during her German sojourn. And Florence Henderson started doing Wesson Oil adverts after The Brady Bunch. What do these three geniuses have in common? They all dropped out of the public eye for one reason or another, only to reappear, more glorious than ever.
Their respective Resurrections: Chopin wrote some of his best shit while spitting up blood on his tropical isle. Louise Brooks filmed her definitive Pandoras Box while in Germany. And Flo well, shit, I dont know. Is she still doing those vegetable oil adverts?
My point being, my dear, dear, dear readers, is that I find it necessary at this time to duck out of these web pages for an indeterminate time period.
Ive been writing The Intimate Diary for a year and a half now. Recently, I began reading my old entries (which are holding up very well over time, I am pleased to report). And I noted something that slow-moving evolution does not show, but stark comparisons of a years span render in only too vivid a light: That Ive burned out writing as The Marquis.
Though these pages have, of late, remained scathingly entertaining (right? right? It wouldnt kill you to lie, would it?), the Substance Level has ebbed, and Fluff, while delicious with peanut butter on toasted buttermilk bread, makes not for savoury reading alone.
This is not a literary death. Merely a hibernation. My amanuensis, The Marquis has been with me since 1993 when I met the Sepulchritude gang, and he has served me well as a nom de plume, and even as a temporary persona in RealTime when I was feeling especially ostentatious. Im not about to let him die. He is almost unbelievably sexy.
I am being called to write in other voices at this time however, and so I lay the Marquis to bed for a much-needed rest.
(Anyone else who wishes to lay the much-needed Marquis in bed, that too can be arranged. Im sure he can pencil you in.)
And so it is with some misgivings, a great, heaving sigh of relief, and a precious, solitary tear that I take my leave of you (in this guise, at least) as I trundle off to my metaphorical Majorcan paradise. Lets hope such a resort bodes better for me than it did for ole Freddy Chopin over there. Cough-cough, sputter-sputter little man.
CHOPINS DEATH NOTE
This cough may choke me. I adjure you now
to have my body opened, so that I shall not be buried alive.
For ongoing tales of New Orleans and the inside scoop from Château Bimbeaux (and hey, maybe even the occasional guest appearance by yours erstwhile truly!), do keep up with the shenanigans of my dear housemates, the incomparably acerbic Melusine and, o-happy-day, The House now plays host to the glamourous, sexy and forked-tongued Badjuju!
I know not how long this haitus will endure. Could be a month. Might be a year. But Im sure these pages will not remain inert forever.
Ive started a Notify List thingy-pooh, if you care to be apprised when Lazarus sits up from his grave and scribbles anew. Avail yourselves, you darling creatures. Say hi on ICQ (#5436967). And I will be checking my guestbook as well if you wish to jot a note. Its not Good-Bye, its Au Revoir.
Best of all things to you. Over and out,
LE MARQUIS DÉJÀ DÛ
DJ, SAVE my life!: I leave you on this happy note. King Missile: Happy Note (912K) (ARCHIVES)