I wonder how eloquent others may be when they are genuinely writing for the drawer, to a locked diary. Here, we're either on non-personal stuff or making the personal stuff so ambiguous. or so opaque, that it can't get us into trouble. But these are arbitrary additions, adulterations - they interfere with the process - pure writing must be for oneself alone. Unless we are willing to be as naked in real life as we find ourselves in dreams.

You would think that beneath the surface of any poker game there is naked testosterone, the desire to crush the other players, but I don't see it. In fact I see a bunch of guys sitting around enjoying the challenge of the game and each other's company. It is, in a word, civilized.

More so, I suppose, because it's low-stakes. Last night was my best ever, winning 29 bucks. The money is about equal to my worst, and many nights I just about break even. Cheap dates, we are. Of course because we're in the middle of hunting season we consume a lot of venison, not cheap on the market but free, sort of, to the guy who shot it.

Out in the shed where the deer are slaughtered, it's Lord of the Flies Lite, with deer heads, and even the old grizzlies with plenty of points look scared after life on the run. There is an element of civilization here, with the rationale for killing so well-developed and so far from the original rationale: survival of the hunter. We are way past survival. Now it's wildlife management.

Another day among the earthlings.

The cold weather comes in and it's like a sudden brake, passengers get nervous and everything in the car gets thrown around. You have to go around fixing things. Downed leaves, storm windows, different clothes, and rooms that used to be too hot are too cold. For us fixers, none of this is entirely bad. Also I like the snap, the brace, the crispness, and would find it hard to live somewhere where the seasons weren't there to demonstrate the passage of time.

Wait. Is is the passage of time? Or is it the recurrence of the seasons? Maybe it's both a mile marker and a brake. Slow down, we've been here, it's a little different, but a revisit of many times before, not just a mindless drive into the future.

Looking back over the blog, suspended in May 2003. One thing's clear, discussions of politics sure have a half-life. Poetry and pieces about mounds in Cahokia seem to hold up better. Not that it really matters - this is for me, no one else, and in the act of writing, not for posterity. Why put it on the Internet? Because once in a while you find someone you want to explain yourself to, in a way that is candid but still publishable. Because it's published, for god's sake. And to any stranger who reads this dreck: hey. Happy to have you.

Well it's certainly time to get back to this.

The biggest question is how close to the edge this kind of diarist can go - how much of the heart goes out on the internet sleeve. This is the opposite of anonymous - pronominous? - and lordy there must be a limit. But Ill try to scout the edges, and report back.