2001-08-05 - 9:21 a.m.

....This isn�t a diary entry, because I don�t think that I could fill these pages with anything similar to a tale. A stale record would be possible. But how stale is regularity? The regularity of one � an insult, perhaps, to some preconceived notions of community. A slice of life.

If I write, and am published, and subsequently read, what is accomplished? Of all that is within me what I most consistently identify is a sense of inevitability concerning myself. I shall die by my own hand. I shall disfigure myself externally in the process. Suicide is no longer so distant. I am not afraid of Death, but I don�t think that I�ve fully exhausted all my possibilities on this globe.

To write. To create - once - my very own Ars Poetica.

I want to write. If I have misery inside me, and if it can be adequately expressed, is it anything other than my own identifiable truth? Is Art Truth? Truth Beauty? These are equations doomed to imprecision. Lofty ideals are exacting precisely because of the lack of definition. One is pulled in a direction without knowing who or what is the counterweight to those cheapening natural impulses. I would eat and grow fat knowing that fitness is preferable. But who deems it such? The eyes? Reason? And why? Bereft of reason there is only �Tis so.

How do you write about the world when you have not explored it yourself? The sum of my own experiences is so acutely meagre � but I can only recognize my mediocrity, and not revel in it.

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