To whom shall I address my journal? The choices are myself, an imaginary friend, God, or random internet surfers who stumble into this lonely corner of the interuniverse. I think in the long run, at least at this point in time, I will get the most out of this journal if I address it to an imaginary friend. This way I can write about concrete things peppered with philosophical thoughts and such while still maintaing the same discretion I would use as if I were writing to a friend whose opinion of myself I do not wish to damage. Yes, that is what I will do. So today, I finally got in touch with the Dean's office in England that is coordinating my overseas elective next month and thank god, they did receive my forms and I will have accomodations there. I was worried that I would have to find a place to live on my own which could be difficult especially since there is supposed to be some kind of national snooker tournament while I am there. Anyway, I spoke with the lady in charge and everything is clear so I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. In the afternoon I went to school and got copies of my transcript and a letter of good standing. I also got a chance to look at the match list for my medical school this year. I only know I few people from my class because I took that year off, but it seems that all of the people I know did very well. Everyone who was going for competitive fields like dermatology and otolaryngology was successful. Good for them. On the way back I was thinking about how nice the lady in the registrar's office was to me. Usually they are very mean. But today the woman actually did me a favor by printing up the letter of good standing immediately so that I would not have to return tomorrow or next week to pick it up. That little charm will save me at least 2 hours of transit/preparation time. So I was thinking when I came back that that little favor the registrar lady did me will probably be my last contact with the medical school as a student. I will probably never go back. So I was happy that I could leave the school on a good note and when I become rich and famous I will donate 20 million dollars to the school and in my speech I will say it was because of the registrar lady who was so nice to me on my last day, even though the registrar's office is usually very mean. Hehe. I am writing liking a child, probably because I also think like a child. Oh well, what else... I received this neat little tiny itty bitty Sony digital camera yesterday which I carried around in my pocket while I went to the city as I always wanted to do so I could take random pictures of city life with the camera hidden in my palm. Anyway, I didn't have the confidence to take it out and look like a tourist but I did get one street shot which was kinda neat because the background is blurred as I was walking across the street as I took it. Hehe. Thats it for now folks. Signing off. Duke just lost to Kansas. Poor Duke. Maybe I should have ranked them higher. I think the Southern programs are underrated. They really should be on par with the Northeast programs. UVA, Emory and Duke are all amazing places for pathology. Oh well, Mayo clinic is pretty good too and probably has a better international reputation so it may be helpful if I want to try to nudge myself into the international forensic pathology community, although forensics in southeast Minnesota isn't exactly bigtime. Signing off again for real this time.

I want to write to write
in the language I share
with the likes of
Shakespeare

James Joyce,
Emily Dickinson,
Ernest Hemingway,

but my imperfect facility with English
prevents me from reaching
those heights
even for the sake of
pure imitation.

I fumble
when I try to use phrases like
"starving hysterical naked" or
"My cries heave - herd-long"
feeling ashamed
at myself for misrepresenting
depth of or deft language
behind a deliberately contrived
meatloaf of words.

English does not belong to me
as it did to Joyce. My inner
voice simply does not say
things like
"Signs on you, hairy arse.
More power the Cavan girl."
What does it mean
to say "Signs on you"?
and what is or where
is Cavan? No, my inner
voice speaks in strict gram-
matical syntax with
a built-in spell check.

And when I read
what I have written,
as I often do 2 or 3 times
before I even finish
a sentence, I become annoyed
if I cannot understand what
I had only moments
ago meant to say.

And so I change what
I say to make it more clear
to the reader, which is
sadly, only myself.

This paradoxical, obsessively
compulsive attention to meaning
distills my writing making
it colorless
and tasteless.

I wish I had the courage to move on,
to proceed into the desert night
without heed of the trail I leave behind
me.

Is it not paranoia
that convinces me
there is someone
looking for me?

I am alone walking
in the desert night.
Who cares if my
foot steps are too
regular, too predictable,
too same?

Who cares if I should meet someone
along the way who might ask "Why
do you walk alone in the desert,
for so long in a straight line
with no destination in sight or mind?"

I should have the fortitude
to continue walking, even
if I should fall into
a
hypnotic
step
from which
I may
never
emerge,

for I am ultimately alone.

And so I allow myself,
as I have just done,
to slip into a regular step,
perhaps hoping
that someone is following.

But why do I not
just stop
and greet my shadow?

Because there is
no time to pause.

The meaning of my message
is in my regular footsteps
and I promise not to deceive.
Still I have hope even if I
know not where we are going.

My hope arises from the rhythm
in my inner voice, the same rhythm
I feel in Dostoevsky
and Conrad,
whose translated works I can read
without the burden of pausing
over words like Cavan
and phrases like "Signs on you"
because in their translation
to English I am sure the fine
subtelties of individual words are lost.

The kind of words that
allow one to play with language
as we might play with a lifesaver
in our mouth, probing its central
cavity and the smoothness of its
contour with our tongue, are lost.

Aha, I have awoken
and now
I must pause.

I apologize
for the delay
and I do not
mean to
deceive as
I have said

but I must rest now.

Please will you also rest
so that we do not bump in the night.

Thank you.

I want to write, to write in the language I share with the likes of Shakespeare, James Joyce, Emily Dickinson, Ernest Hemingway, but my imperfect facility with English prevents me from reaching those heights even for the sake of pure imitation. I fumble when I try to use phrases like "starving hysterical naked" or "My cries heave - herd-long" feeling ashamed at myself for misrepresenting depth of or deft language behind a deliberately contrived meatloaf of words. English does not belong to me as it did to Joyce. My inner voice simply does not say things like "Signs on you, hairy arse. More power the Cavan girl." What does it mean to say "Signs on you"? and what is or where is Cavan? No, my inner voice speaks in strict grammatical syntax with a built-in spell check. And when I read what I have written, as I often do 2 or 3 times before I even finish a sentence, I become annoyed if I cannot understand what I had only moments ago meant to say. And so I change what I say to make it more clear to the reader, which is sadly, only myself. This paradoxical, obsessively compulsive attention to meaning distills my writing making it colorless and tasteless. I wish I had the courage to move on, to proceed into the desert night without heed of the trail I leave behind me. Is it not paranoia that convinces me there is someone looking for me? I am alone walking in the desert night. Who cares if my foot steps are too regular, too predictable, too same? Who cares if I should meet someone along the way who might ask "Why do you walk alone in the desert, for so long in a straight line with no destination in sight or mind?" I should have the fortitude to continue walking, even if I should fall into a hypnotic step from which I may never emerge, for I am ultimately alone. And so I allow myself, as I have just done, to slip into a regular step, perhaps hoping that someone is following. But why do I not just stop and greet my shadow? Because there is no time to pause. The meaning of my message is in my regular footsteps and I promise not to deceive. Still I have hope even if I know not where we are going. My hope arises from the rhythm in my inner voice, the same rhythm I feel in Dostoevsky and Conrad, whose translated works I can read without the burden of pausing over words like Cavan and phrases like "Signs on you" because in their translation to English I am sure the fine subtelties of individual words are lost. The kind of words that allow one to play with language as we might play with a lifesaver in our mouth, probing its central cavity and the smoothness of its contour with our tongue, are lost. Aha, I have awoken and now I must pause. I apologize for the delay and I do not mean to deceive as I have said but I must rest now. Please will you also rest so that we do not bump in the night. Thank you.