sometimes i wander around the journals of so many others. looking and reading, sometimes stopping to leave a word. often times i think that i don't like what i see and change pages and with each page a life. i must remind myself that a journal is not intended for entertainment, but rather as an outlet or a testament of days. these public writings on the wall are somewhat different from small hidden books of innermost scribblings. they allow themselves to be seen. this changes the nature a bit, for the document becomes public, no longer private. this, however, does not change the fundamental nature or essence of a diary. this diary is for me. i write, not to entertain, although i would enjoy if my words were to please, but to testify. i bear witness to my dilapidated soul with my ones and zeroes.

"Your words will never be published." followed by mean-spirited remarks meant for nothing but needles. prick prick tick stab. reading the message in my guestbook reminds me of a small restaurant in nice. the charmingly old woman served us her guestbooks before a pot of oysters rice and other fruits of the sea. remarks ranged from english to french to japanese and hebrew. they spanned the topics of "good food, order x;" "if you haven't already ordered - leave, this place sucks;" to "my father is gay." the mean remarks were sometimes witty and i laughed out loud. she couldn't read many of them, but had an idea that some were less than glaring reviews.

now my own guestbook has been breached. and with the gratuitous spite of seventh grade venom. i pondered not writing about this at all, just to show the anonymous "Ms. Flint" how little i cared. but in fact, what is important to me, is that this remain for me. this journal, public or private, is mine. i write for myself. in ignoring the message, and not giving it validity upon the screen, i admit that this jounral is hers and not mine. i do care. the message is petty and uncalled for. and it beckons the unwelcomed and destructive siren's call of self deprication. and i leave it up to remind myself just exactly who owns this journal.

post script: (for "Ms Flint") meat packaging plants are a part of northern industry; one should really at least be consistent with one's insults. also, one resigns a position. one resigns oneself to an idea or a fact. even english has its reflexive verbs...