*well, i managed to write a thoughtful entry about my lack of thoughtful entries. 2002-07-24 12:05 a.m.*

i really don't think that constantly reiterating how dissatisfied i am with my diary-ing existence will make me any more satisfied with it. you know, i'm splintered into 6 different writing outlets, and lately this one has seemed the least inspiring. i read what other people have to say and i love it and i want to reply in kind, but my brain just fizzles out when i come to this cornflower blue page with the white box in the middle.

the little rectangular box that always sits in the middle of my screen, behind the rest of my windows, that sends my thoughts immediately to livejournal, is far too tempting for its own good. i think i post over there more than anyone i know, just because it's so convenient to have a spot for all my little witticisms and thoughts and stuff. i always feel like i'm cheating if i fill up more than the 3 lines immediately available there.

then there are my venting emails to people, about the status of my brain and my life. i feel obligated to share my news with these people (melinda who worked with me, dykessent, this girl i knew in england, my friend corrie in wisconsin, other people), but then somehow, it always turns into thinky rants about the whole world... and i tell these thoughts to an audience that will definitely reply, and that i don't have to censor certain bits with (but i do have to censor other bits), and it just seems so much more satisfactory than writing it all here, lately. i feel obligated to share my news with you here, but paralyzed with a strange amount of self-censorship. there are people i don't want to hear certain things. there are people who i'm afraid will laugh at me, both my writing ability and the juvenility of my thoughts.

and then there's the other box on my computer that i open up from time to time, and it's replaced much of my thoughtful diarying anywhere, and that's my word processor, where i'm currently composing issue #2 of the special people's club. this is where the thoughts that flit through my head that i'm too afraid to put down here get put. when i have the energy. which comes and goes. i think, even though i have a list of over 20 specific people who i know in person who i will be giving a copy to, for some reason, it just feels so much more cleansingly anonymous. and i feel on the same page as a lot of the zinesters i've been reading, and there's this feeling of support that i don't have so much, writing here. maybe it's because it just seems too easy to write my rants here and press click and post them. maybe they can only be validated if i have to print and copy and collate and staple and stuff into envelopes and peddle them to distros.

then there's the snail mail letters. there's one main person i've been writing to lately, and we've been bashing around gender theory like crazy. except she hasn't done the reading i have, and is completely baffled, and i have this interesting challenge of explaining myself to a very literate, very accepting, but very inquisitive person, who asks all the right questions to make my brain buzz. and then there are other people who i hear from less frequently, and i get to curl up with tea and stickers and gel pens and go through the letterwriting process which is such a different one from this, and which i just get a whole different thing out of.

and my paper journal. but this one i just started writing in, when i was in wisconsin, and we aren't so close yet, and my paper diaries have just held a very strange place in my life for the past few years anyway. particularly the past year when they were really only used for anything deep dark secret, a rarity, really. there's always someone i can tell most things to. but i guess lately there have been more things that i can't tell just everyone, and so all this splintering.

*listening to: *
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