In the constant maelstrom of reorganization that is my bedroom, I stumbled across a pile of journals. The earliest is from 1998. It would be an admirable summer goal if I were to organize everything I'd written chronologically and translated where necessary. This is not a new idea, but every time I consider it the same fear arises: as I gaze upon the anthill of what I've produced my edges will blur into depression. And depression leads to poetry. Nobody wants that.

Besides the inevitable delusions of euphony, it'd be bliddy hard to track it all down. The journals' relationship with linear time can only be classified as blatant infidelity. I will write in one journal until I'm distracted by the bright color or page size or sultry binding or dark color of another. If arranged from most-written-in to least, the cheap, wide-ruled composition notebooks with covers that look like a dead channel on a tv screen or the world's laziest Rorschach, they would contain 98% of the handwritten writing. The beautiful leather-bound journals would contain the other 2%. Sort of the opposite ratios of the economic classes they metaphor.

Ooh, second summer goal: Fill up the nice journals. Fight the alphabetic disparity. Redistribute prose to the pages that need it most. After all, we're the most English country in the world. If anyone can do it, it's us. I mean me.

Damn, I've lost myself in analogies again. I'd better just go to bed before I hurt myself. I'll do all that stuff I said tomorrow.