Unpublished entry round-up
Posted Tuesday, September 26, 2006 @ 03:03 PM

Every now and then I start writing something here and am interrupted for one reason or another. Sometimes I come back to unpublished entries, but more frequently I don't. Here are some of the more recent fragments that have been lying around.

2006-04-17 20:29:00

I've noticed in recent trips to the library that I rarely check out novels, fiction, or volumes of poetry. Rather, most of my library reading is nonfiction, which I find both very surprising and very unremarkable. Surprising because good novels and good poetry have punctuated my life; sometimes a good book can serve as a kind of mile-marker in thinking or growth. Unremarkable because I feel like nonfiction is more touch and go, an easier way to pass the time. Poetry, for me, requires more quiet and focus, and when it comes to novels I prefer to read large chunks at a time, as opposed small bits which I'm terrible at piecing together. So it only makes sense that I read more nonfiction, especially when during the school year, we read cumbersome novels and pithy plays.

Nonfiction currently checked out from the library: On Bullshit, Airplane Yoga, The Cult of Mac, Nerds 2.0.1, We've Got Blog, The Elements of Typographic Style, Assassination Vacation.

2006-06-17 03:38:17

I go through these stages of wanting to write about absolutely everything. Nothing much happens, but every two seconds I'm composing something in my head to come tell you about here.

Sometimes I feel really safe here, like I can tell you anything and it won't matter. Other times all I can think about is who will read what and how long it will rot on the internet where everyone can see.

2006-06-21 23:57:28

I have holed up in my room for the past few days, hiding from the sweltering heat and decompressing. I can't remember the last time I was able to spend such deep pockets of time looking at my ceiling, reading, writing, thinking, and just lying here doing nothing. My bed has become like a ship in a children's game, sailing through the settings of books or letters, transporting me through time zones and across oceans. When I gingerly place a toe on the wood floor to venture downstairs for food, things begin to vanish; once I clear the threshold of the door I'm aware of time, the date. My room is the quietest of sanctuaries, buzzing only with the muted wavelengths of my

Every night before I curl to sleep I must clear the maps of the day: books, poems, movies, the phone, my journal, mail, my computer.

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