Dear readers. I have been remiss again in communicating the circumstances of my absence. Endor is a ghost town; the dirt roads sweep through it on a ledge below the bluffs and above a narrow, ragged plain. But every now and then the spectre of a woman is glimpsed in a darkened thoroughfare. She dons her usual black; so out of place in daylight, so very appropriate at night. The colour of secrets and stealth. The colour of conquest. She casts dusky ribbons of light across the landscape labyrinth, and disappears into the misty mind of its creator. And its creator is mightily busy.
In Part I I shared recollections of my short-lived career as a DJ. I’m delighted that so many of you enjoyed my intrepid sojourn into unfamiliar waters. Writing my memoirs catapults me out of my comfort zone; they are relics of a life that almost was. The culmination of years spent in hot pursuit of a chimera. It almost was. And to this day, it feels like harbouring an angry fugitive within me that gnaws at the nib of every joy and every accomplishment. The hurt is ever present, ever persistent, no matter how successful I am in other areas of my life. But there is no greater heartache than bearing an untold story inside you, so I write. What good is it baring one side of my soul and leaving the other to waste and lamentation? Maybe it is a coping mechanism borne out of survival. Much as I love to write, sometimes it feels like battling a faceless tyranny. You on one side and a blank screen on the other, staring each other down, hard and unremitting, until blood and guts mist over the monitor in a surge of torpid emissions. This expulsion can be as laborious as the toils of a spasmodic Hercules. But the release is worth a lifetime of therapy.
But before the blood, the guts and the gallows, there was Izzy. This is where I left off.