and speaking of beauty

on the East Coast, this is already fact; on the West Coast, there is still about forty min­utes… so I sit on the cusp of my two month anniver­sary, hap­pily wed­ded [though too often sep­a­rated] to Iryna Clark, born Kotl­yarova, and for­merly Zinchenko. It is with plea­sure that I over­lay my name on these for­mer ones.

This pic­ture, shot by my mother, is first offi­cial [by paper­work, though not by vow] por­trait of Iryna and I as a mar­ried cou­ple. It was cold. I had been ner­vous (refer to the water in hand). But while pin­ning the flow­ers on my lapel, and see­ing Iryna with the much-coveted nosegay (oh there is a story there), my heart sang; deeply into the din­ner in Lit­tle Italy and on into an elated drive up north. I can see with stark clar­ity the dark umbers and cold-browns of the cor­ner of Man­hat­tan, on into the Bronx, as I sat in back with my new wife; it reminded me of so many bus-rides I had taken through­out the north­east– always alone, book or sketch­book in hand, look­ing out the win­dow, mus­ing, wrap­ping my thoughts into the clouds. How strange, how far the dis­tance from those times, and what a mile­stone of mem­ory. I am too tired and screen-struck to explain the fine nuances of it, but the core of it is fairly easy: I was rippled-through with poten­tial, with the strik­ing open of new vis­tas, with a new panorama lay­ing itself out before me in the soft pur­ple and crushed-leaf shadow of dusk. I loved being mar­ried, which is one of those things I always expected to be sur­prised at and was only sur­prised that I wasn’t; that is, I loved it thor­oughly with­out cling­ing to any remainder.

The length of this two months has been mea­sured in hard­ships not related to being mar­ried– in fact, it is this mar­riage that enables some san­ity whilst the rest of the envi­ron­ment con­torts with ambi­gu­ity and flux. And I promise you, all you peo­ple of the world, that I will bring such joy and hap­pi­ness into my wife’s life, bring such light to her days that all the days before will seem in shadow.

So good­night; or, if you’re read­ing this Iryna– good morn­ing. And Happy Anniver­sary. I love you

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