I was just looking at the guestbook and it occurs to me that I've written just about enough of these now for a person who came across this diary to say something about my "stuff" --meaning my writing-- (especially since after a 2 year gap, it hasn't changed much) -- you know -- either they like my "stuff," or they don't; or it's "stuff" they've seen before, or not. Granted, it's a certain kind of person who actually uses the word "stuff" in that sense, but I'm just talking about the idea. I'm talking about the idea and I'm talking about not liking it.

���� I guess I could handle it if a person characterized another person's "stuff" as somehow really impressive, like tricky or huge or really, really evil. I could appreciate that but it'd still be embarrassing. And I'd still be against the whole proposition.

���� If a person absolutely must comment on my "stuff" --and I'd insist there's no such thing-- that person should say "it's really, really evil" and we'll both come away unscathed (and probably laughing). What's a better outcome than that?

���� The only characterization I've ever really been able to accept is what's known as "Derek." I've accepted it because it comes up again and again. "Derek" obsesses over the details and recites all the rules. "Derek" loves the arcane and hates cheaters. He writes the first three paragraphs of this entry, while others write something interesting.

���� Here's something interesting:

���� It's another dream.

���� On a local bus, winding into a valley reminiscent of densely shrubbed areas in temperate Africa and Asia, I ran into a tall Chinese girl. She spoke to me like an old friend; she said "come over we'll play some tuba, we'll hang. It's been a long time."
���� "You've got a tuba?!" I asked excitedly, and that was my first mistake.
���� "Sure," she answered, shanks of her black hair vaulting her shoulders. "You must know that."
���� "Who are you?" I asked, and this wasn't a mistake per se, but it clearly hurt her.

���� The bus let us off, motored away; left us on the road with the sumac in the sun. A blob of pink, white, brown and blue, slowly resolving.
���� A warm wind crossed us. Thick at first like a dust-brush and then stiff and wild like a corn broom, it whooshed off into the distance leaving the hairs on our necks and arms waving.
���� I saw she had on a nice shirt. Little buttons, little flowers.

���� She touched my hand and said, "Homo sapiens."


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