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I read Cixous, and she talks of the writing process. How the drafts are more beautiful than the finished product, suspended sketches overwritten with edits, the failures making it real, language, words falling from pen to page, the process and immediacy of writing. I try to emulate her, but it is already lost. I have changed some words, rearranged the beginning, and this is a different suffusion of letters than the one in my mind. The now is history, and my attempt to grasp truth only scoops out fictions. But she makes me think, about creating. And about creating the self.

This is my old journal. It was my first journal, and while I left it briefly for sojourns to other lands, it remaind here. Sometimes I log in just to scroll through my memories of existence, and sometimes I want to fly away and leave all my history on the ground. I should create a consistent, coherent online presence, market myself to the world and its wives, but I am still in the shifting stage and perhaps not too marketable. I think I would like to prune my online life, and splice the surviving bush together, create coherency from the shards of myself scattered across the internet. I could pluck away the pieces of me that are too ugly, that feel too young, too needy, too naive.

I could. And sometimes I wonder if I should, but then I think of Cixous and her love of notebooks, and know I am drafting my life as I grow through it, splashing thoughts onto pages and scrawling notes on my reality in the margains. I don't think that I will ever grow up fully, that I will ever outgrow this growing, so I doubt my ability to produce and present a finished article, a perfectly polished word-picture of myself.

But then, what do I do? The tempation is to create a duality of self: one for the finished article and one the work in progress, though I doubt I will update the first that much. I could chase a real presentation of myself somewhere else, perhaps on twitter, and condense my failings to a small corner of the world wide web....

Or I could sit, and dither, as the world turns. Medieval society revolved around the spheres of public and private. Perhaps it should again?