3:44 p.m. - March 13, 2003
I thought maintaining this journal would help me somehow because I could take chances yet remain safe in a way I couldnít with my pen-and-paper writing; in my paper journals I wrote specifically for an audience and each entry is well-crafted, just like the essays I wrote for a grade, analyses on books and politics and olla podrida more Anna Quindlen than me, designed to make me look good. The more private entries I wrote in another journal and would rip the pages out afterwards and shred them and how easy to deny thoughts when thereís no record remaining? I am not proud of my writing here at Non-Descript or Bigsky the way I was of my paper journals because I do not write here explicitly for an audience and I cherish this about me, am proud that I can disregard the temptation Ė or need Ė to write scholarly, with wit, to be literary, to demonstrate my intellectual mettle. Yet it would be disingenuous to say that I am unaware of those who read my (disorganized) thoughts here; I am all too aware and waver between the desire for complete anonymity Ė no readers, no Site Meter, no guestbook or guestmap Ė and the warming feeling of knowing there is a community of sorts who form a net and my free-fall is not permanent. People like Lori, Maya, and Twids who I keep at a certain distance, though not as far away as I keep others, people I want to know better and this desire to reach out means a great deal to me, itís my pattern Iím leaving across the sand. This photo is one Iíve had for a while now and I always intend to incorporate it into one of my site designs but I hold back, because it means a great deal to me.
You can see why.
The guestmap is a comfort to me, this journal is a comfort to me. And Ė surprise Ė I distrust comfort. I distrust people like Tim the Emailer, Andy, Kuinileti, and I push away when threatened by the knowledge that there may be people who want to know me because of all the comforts, being comfortable with people is the most threatening and difficult. Yet also the one most wanted. And the journal has facilitated this realization, though I have far to go. Lately Iíve been curt (read: Rude or A dick) to a few people and if youíre reading this, I apologize; yes, much easier to apologize anonymously than in person, I realize.
Little steps like responding to emails Ė who knew it could be so fun Ė and even talking on the phone with a facinating self-professed queen who says my voice is very masculine in a way that Iím unsure whether itís good or bad. And meeting people, though that one seems most insurmountable. And writing in this journal even if it doesnít impress Ė or better yet, because it doesnít Ė because at least that means Iím committed to being myself in at least one place and perhaps, in time, it will carry over.