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I'm sorry, but I consider my writing anonymous and don't care to be reminded just how wrong I am. I am keenly aware that I use pictures and real names these days - either from laziness or the profound awkwardness of reminding people that I will write about them - but my assumption is that no one reads this outside a tight circle of acquaintances. (The truth is, most of the people I write about don't bother reading this. I don't mind anymore. I don't need more than your facelessness to be satisfied.) I can ignore the comments I get on the various sites where I make myself available, as most are random and show little awareness of the content of my writing. I can likewise excuse the thousand people subscribed to my mailing list, as I don't imagine most of them read my postings. I think better of speculating about the motives of these subscribers because I might otherwise be forced to acknowledge why they might care. I am publicly noting private things, trusting the lack of explicit sex, gratuitous violence, tumultuous events, or strong opinions to insulate me from notice.You might think the point of this is to expose myself, however you wish to take that. I see it as an exercise of my literary skills (look back at the old entries to see just how effective this has been) and a method to hold myself accountable to my personal evolution and authenticity. That I do this by transcribing the heartbeats of loved ones - rendering them fiction for mass consumption - is a niggling inconsistency I try to forget and encourage you to as well. I consider my written devotion complimentary, akin to the portrait artist who uses his friends as subjects, no matter how little they may wish to be painted in that light or in the nude.What is all the worse is how subjective it all is. My memory is fallible, as I am reminded when I confuse dates and timeframes to a misleading (and wholly accidental) effect. Also, I may dote on or dislike someone for a reason I doubt I can ethically transcribe or even explain, so you can only ever know the fragment of a person on whom I lavish my description.Owing to all of this, I am half horrified when Hannahp tells me she was approached by a stranger when she was separated from us at the Renaissance Faire. This woman, wearing rennie garb and wielding a cheesecake on a stick, told Hannah that she knew her owing to what

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