All the things I think of putting in UFS I keep in a Word document called qua. Some of those things never evolve beyond fragments, and in qua they are abandoned.

Now the file is filled with fragments and it is too crowded to write anything else there. (I like a blank page.) I’ve got children of qua running around the desktop, which I’ve now got to corral into separate entries.

I can’t seem to delete the fragmented thoughts stored in the main file, though, so I’ll put them here. In no important order, of course. (I don’t even remember what some were about.)

Later, after dinner, we walked back to The Sylvia in the moraine left by the exodus. Paper, plastic, and human detritus deposited there. One wasted man flitted around us like a gnat, and we saw one woman passed out. One of her three male campanions held her by the arms to keep her head from the pavement. Her face was obscured by her hair. Somehow her shirt had been pulled up around her neck and her breasts fell listlessly over her ribs. The men were calling for a taxi, and people waiting for the bus across the street yelled back at them words I couldn't understand.

Anger moves.

Do the math: 9 + 3envy = 4

It’s true, whatever you say tells the story of your subconscious. Whatever your agenda, it’s a front for the crusade inside.

../../1999/jun/jun28.html

The hinge that rubs between the earth and that sun, which is black ivory and bleeding tendrils of light onto my breast as it sets and sets and sets ....

Familiar is familiar because of the illusion of unity.

In the last year or so, I’ve spent increasing time reading online journals. Something happened this last week, whether finally reaching my limit for childish need or sickened by all the pretense and the contradictions, I wanted to retreat to the real people in my life. And so I’ve stopped reading, mostly, and reading less, and now entertain the growing ambivalence about keeping my own online journal.

All this self-publication will only confirm the rareness of talent and genius.

A panel discussion I would like to see at any organized journal gathering: "Pitiful endeavors: The symbolic markup of online journals."

Zarth has a mom. I walked up on them sitting on the stoop, smoking together. I knew it was his mother before he introduced me because of the way his voice inflected while he talked to her. It was child’s prosody.