2001-11-20 - 11:48 a.m.

Every once in a while, it's good to go back to the beginning. Ask Inigo, he knows. Writing diaries is like walking in, not through, a forest. There's nowhere you're trying to get to, there's just territory you're trying to explore. So you take different paths, choosing as they fork off which way you'll go, missing turnoffs in favors of other turnoffs. Sometimes you have to go back.

Writing a diary is wolfish: you see as much as you can in this forest, leaving your mark every once in a while so you can look back and say, yes, I've been here before, this is my territory. Slowly, the forest becomes your own. But sometimes you have to go back to the beginning.

I started this diary with the stated purpose of collecting myself. Like an anthology of faces: collected and stored, and set next to one another to make sense of them. I started with the idea of revealing myself to myself. Throwing dust on lined paper, scattershot pencil shavings on thoughts thunk before. I started with the hope of recording myself. Tracks in the sand, plastered in cyberspace and hung on a wall.

That's my beginning. Sometimes you have to see the end. All good things have one, so it follows that nothing unending can be good. Like Sitcoms and Soapoperas. No end, just a hopeless profusion of problems and relationships, building on themselves, going on past the point of no ideas, until they end, as they have to, without having said anything, without having seen it coming. My diary will end sometime, at least because I will, and I'd like it to have some shape. A meaning. I'd like to define my forest.

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