9.1

Slowly, he revolved through the crowd, terror-stricken. His palms were sweaty. His knees were weak. Sarah had warned him against going to the market.
"There are so many corners, Dave. There are too many people, Dave. Dave, Dave! You're stupid, Dave."
He couldn't stop breathing. He tried to calm down, breathe more slowly--to maybe gain a semblance of control--but it didn't work. His wife had been right. He hated it when Sarah was right.

He threw himself into the crowd with renewed vigor. He searched for a heart-wrenching ten minutes, and then gave up on himself.
"God, I know I've not been the most faithful man. But I've been to enough church to know that bargaining doesn't work with you. I'm here with nothing. I went to bible camp in the seventh grade, and I saved a kid in a crosswalk when I was seventeen. I told the truth and was fired from my job. Really, my list of accomplishments is nothing. No leverage. So here's what I've got, God: nothing.
"Please let it be enough for my baby girl."

He opened his eyes.
His daughter wasn't there.

8.31

Have you ever noticed that color is stronger at the edges of things? The joining of seams--the folding of metal--the twist of a leaf--all hold stronger and more intense luminescence than the flat, boring surrounding.

I noticed it when I saw where her eyes closed at the edges, and her fingers wrinkle at the knuckles, and where her ear curves through her hair.

8.27

I want to have everything the way I want it. I want my pants to fit, and the weather to be cool, and for all my friends to wear signs that clearly display their mood and disposition towards high fives. But if my life were perfect, wouldn't I get bored?

I don't think so.

8.26

[I've never seen a really stunning female character whose main conflicts weren't centered around family, childbirth, her relationships, or herself. Basically, the only conflicts are woman vs. self and woman vs. man.]

[There should be woman vs. machine, and woman vs. nature, and woman vs. anything against which a man can struggle. But there isn't. And I'm not the author to write it. Because I am about as good at writing female characters as Dickens. (Stop it. I heard you wanting to defend him. Name one well-rounded/compelling female character in a Dickens novel. I'll wait. Havisham doesn't count.)]

She looked up from the fire she was building. Thousands of beads of light flickered in the darkness beyond the glow's reach. Her pause caused the fire to gutter and die.

This was going to be a long night.

8.25

Subj: "I'm Lesia"

Knowing a friend like you would make me happy in a million ways. and if ever I have to let you go. I'm sure there are many things that will make us stick together. if you want I can send you some of my photos compose me your minds Lisa The mixture of the called him seemed forgotten in the river of tobacco was to make that descant. That diatribe has indeed discus an drudgery, so to speak, and so, though we accede collar for pudding battlements the badge, we cannot predict nozzle to exclude governess.

The fruit of my labor
soon will become clear
I'll engage with Lesia

and make her dear--

dear to my heart,

and dear to my soul

to find out what makes her

so amicable.

"An Ode upon Junk Mail"

8.20

My nose and ears are adjusted to glasses. My eyes have gotten used to the frame on my world. My brain no longer struggles to see.

I'm so afraid of change, but I couldn't tell you why. I seem to handle it remarkably well.

8.15b

He looked over at her blank. He couldn't hold it in anymore. He needed her to blank blank. To blank her blank. They were too blank for words. Slowly, his blank built to a bursting point, and he yelled "Susan, please blank your shoes!"

He looked over at her feet. He couldn't hold it in anymore. He needed her to put on shoes. To cover her toes. They were too horrendous for words. Slowly, his courage built to a bursting point, and he yelled "Susan, please wear your shoes!"

He looked over at her desk. He couldn't hold it in anymore. He needed her to dirty it. To rearrange her pens, books, and papers. They were too tidy for words. Slowly, his anger built to a bursting point, and he yelled "Susan, please throw your shoes!"

He looked over at her chin. He couldn't hold it in anymore. He needed her to start shaving. To clean her whiskers. They were too numerous for words. Slowly, his disgust built to a bursting point, and he yelled "Susan, please blank your shoes!"

As with most things, life falls apart if you try to hold the pattern together too long.
Entropy, you win.

8.15

[I have been avoiding blogging as if I'm afraid that someone will understand what I'm saying. I need to stop that. Anyway, time for more famous people. I really have to do Franz Joseph sometime.]

I still trust her.

Sadly, she doesn't trust me.

How is that fair? I've only messed up once. Once! And I gave fair warning before, too. And she decides I'm not worth having. I'm not worth her time. I'm not for cherishing or holding or wanting anymore. One mistake. And yet here I sit, trusting her because I don't know any other way.
She asked me for the truth. I trust her. You know what? I do trust her. I do. For once, I think I'll give her the truth. Because there's no way she would use it against me.

She wouldn't cut me down.

I know.

-Sampson

8.13

It is midnight, and the moon paints the fog in shades of silver. I breathe "gorgeous" as if the word is torn from my lips.

That has not happened since last I saw you.

8.6

The intricacies of social interaction are beyond reason. People write in these things and they never really listen to what they're saying. If they did, they might be worried about how they sound. So what? Are we supposed to pay attention? Are we supposed to support your angst? I, for one, will have none of it.

With this statement, I conclude my journal for all time:

Let your great deeds be your memory, not your personal life.

-William Shakespeare

8.4

What's a pledge of undying love in the face of so many years apart? We were young and unscrupulous. We made mistakes and laughed about them. We jumped in head-first. It was the best time of my life, and I make no apologies for my actions. Other men may hem and haw, but I know I loved her. I promised myself to her.

Only now has she found that loving a man is difficult when the man isn't there.

How good is her word, I wonder? How excellent is her promise? At first the letters found me rapidly, then dwindled. Now I suppose they have been called to halt. How good is the word of my woman? When she promises herself, does she know what I hear? Does she know how it shakes my heart?

I don't see as though it matters; I made a promise I intend to keep until I'm out of here, and I've atoned for my sins, and I see her again, and . . . If she's left me for another man, it will tear me apart, but at least I'll be true to my word.

God, I know I've been a bad man.

Please let me deserve a good woman.

--Johnny Cash