I can't speak for Fargo, but I think I did find some new parts of myself in the last four or five days.
I'm writing this on Sunday night. It's about 11:00 here in Chicagoland, and I resisted writing all day. We got home early this afternoon, and I wanted to sit down and write about everything that happened in one huge, glowing stream of words. But I stopped.
I will go back and fill in the days we were out in the world, since the 25th, which, looking back, is the last entry I put in the diary here. But I'm not going to do it right this minute. I want to think about the week, feel it again. I don't want the effect to wear off just yet.
That happens to me. I retell stories and their effect on me wears off. It's like rubbing a coin over and over for luck, until one day you look at it, and over the years you've worn the date off, or maybe the tip of George's head, or Lincoln's head. You've affected the memory by revisiting it. That happened all during the end of 1995, after my parents died. Having to tell, or feeling as though I had to tell, the story... it became routine for me, almost a mantra. Everyone wanted to know and I didn't feel right in denying anyone their explanation, even if that meant that the sharpness, the intensity of it, the feeling, was gone for me.
So I'll keep my stories for me for a few days, and I'll gradually go back and put them in their correct places. I might mention them in the "current" entries, but don't depend on it. Stop back at the entries for the 26th through the 29th, and see what you can find. I'll try to figure out a way to make sure that the noses don't get worn away from the retelling.
I have a job to go to tomorrow, and I have a bed to go to right now. It's a new month, it's a new day, it's time to go forward.
Where in the world have 300 readers come from?