#ongoingness

Nothing's gone, not really. Everything that's ever happened has left its little wound.

To write a diary is to make a series of choices about what to omit, what to forget.

Often I believe I’m working toward a result, but always, once I reach the result, I realize all the pleasure was in planning and executing the path to that result. It comforts me that endings are thus formally unappealing to me—that more than beginning or ending, I enjoy continuing.

Perhaps all anxiety might derive from a fixation on moments—an inability to accept life as ongoing.

Left alone in time, memories harden into summaries. The originals become almost irretrievable.

I started keeping the diary in earnest when I started finding myself in moments that were too full.
 At an art opening in the late eighties, I held a plastic cup of wine and stood in front of a painting next to a friend I loved. It was all too much.