I have a problem with journals.
Oh, not the type of journal that are torn and ragged from from years of the abuse and trauma their owners went through. Those are just fine.
I am particularly bitter towards self proclaimed journals and diaries, like the ones at Micheal's or any other store. The ones that have pretty covers and nice, patterned sheets with little inspirational quotes and whatnot in them. Everyone has or has had at least one.
They are deadly.
The very fact that they present themselves as a "Journal" is distressing They are not journals. All the glitter, fuzz, patterned paper and pink-tinted pages are used exclusively as bait for their trap, designed to ensnare the little hearts and minds of fragile little girls into believing that they are truly journals. If such little girls are anything like I was, then the sight of such finery is irresistibly tempting. Owning such a book; a Journal, would be the pride of their lives. they would swear that if only they could take that cheap lump of over priced glittery tree-pulp and bring it home with them, they would be the owner of a daily journal in which they would spend every day transcribing secrets, routines, stories, and their lives.
It is pitiful how many times I fell into the dark clutches of these journals. I bought them shamelessly, and each one I opened promised a new commitment and a new beginning. I bought so many - and none of them belonged to me.
I believe that self-proclaimed journals are a little self-absorbed. They seduce and ensnare only for a moment, and then leave the new-found journalist without a page of their own to write their pains and grievances. It is almost sinful. Comparable to the bread and water in The Pit and the Pendulum. The first page of a journal is always open and inviting, but the second and the third become cold and harsh. The commitment spurred on by the novelty and invitation of a journal is lost and suddenly, the "journal" is lost from ownership forever. I cannot count how many journals I have bought that have only one or two entries, written as an expected formality.
Of course, this is not true for everyone, nor is it applicable to all self-proclaimed journals. It is only my belief and experience. Had I continued this practice of an unending search for my own journal, I would not be writing this. I would have lost all faith in spontaneous and unplanned writing and given it up long ago.
Thankfully, I was saved. Saved by my first ever emotional storm and trauma that just about drove every part of my mind into madness for the need to write. Saved by a split second decision. Saved by a cheap, half-sized, beat-up Staples memo pad with odd yellow paper and absolutely nothing remarkable about it at all.
Hardly journal material. Yet it means more to me than almost anything else in the world. I can call it my journal because I made it my journal. through a blue bic pen, I forced myself into every page of that insignificant memo pad. I made it listen and accept me and because it had no fancy, fine airs, it was humble enough to accept me.
And that has made all the difference...
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Introduction
Turnip.
It is an odd sort of word to begin with, I suppose, but to me it is as good as any other. Beginnings are much too stressful So much, in fact, that I believe the desire for an adequate beginning outweighs all else in the creation of a blog. This may account for the numerous times I have tried and failed to keep a blog. After the beginning is established, the thrill that comes from the first words to impact any reader that may stumble across such a sacred thing is quickly dispersed, and I am left with endless pages to fill, but no particular desire to write down any of the mundane events in my life.
And yet here I am, typing out these words in complete defiance of my undesirable history in blogging. I find it tedious to sit down at a computer and make any sort of creativity or passion seep out of the mind-numbing sameness of Times New Roman characters. It is a formal and common font, although I fear that many people often abuse it and write as though it were a font as casual and vulgar as, say, Comic Sans MS. I do not mean that Comic Sans is a horrid font- on the contrary; I used to refuse to type in any other font, since none other would suit my purpose. I prefer to write by hand. The absence of any set font is appealing. Disorder and imperfection, in such small amounts, can reveal itself to be quite comforting to the troubled heart. And this troubled heart is what has brought me to write. For the past two years I have kept a notebook, or a diary, as some would prefer to call it, and I have learned that it is never the beginning that is ever recognized or remembered. At times I would find myself aching to take a pen in hand and make an attempt to force my ardent desires and impressions to take shape in the form of ink on a page. Tried, and often failed. Even now I cannot capture the full extent of the emotions and words that boil inside of my chest. Writing is too imperfect. Words limit and hold back true feelings. A brilliantly composed love poem can never be nearly as strong as the passions that brought it to life. Yet however much is left behind in our hearts to be blown away by everyday things and distractions, it is still better to capture a brief moment of suffering, love, or awe, so that our memories may fill in the rest. Which, of course, leaves you at a natural disadvantage. You are not me, nor will you ever be.
I want to write. I do not know how, but I assume that will come with experience and practice. Unfortunately the sudden and urgent need for me to write often comes when I am in a position that is most inconvenient When I do find myself in a position to take advantage of any ability to write, my mind is empty of the various poems, passionate speeches, and fiery sermons that occupy my mind at any other time. And so, my collection of random, yet powerful written thoughts is small and quite underdeveloped.
I would like to fix that.
I have so many thoughts that are fighting for attention that my mind is just now realizing the massive task I have taken up. It is my earnest wish that I may conquer it.
-Ariel Liddell
It is an odd sort of word to begin with, I suppose, but to me it is as good as any other. Beginnings are much too stressful So much, in fact, that I believe the desire for an adequate beginning outweighs all else in the creation of a blog. This may account for the numerous times I have tried and failed to keep a blog. After the beginning is established, the thrill that comes from the first words to impact any reader that may stumble across such a sacred thing is quickly dispersed, and I am left with endless pages to fill, but no particular desire to write down any of the mundane events in my life.
And yet here I am, typing out these words in complete defiance of my undesirable history in blogging. I find it tedious to sit down at a computer and make any sort of creativity or passion seep out of the mind-numbing sameness of Times New Roman characters. It is a formal and common font, although I fear that many people often abuse it and write as though it were a font as casual and vulgar as, say, Comic Sans MS. I do not mean that Comic Sans is a horrid font- on the contrary; I used to refuse to type in any other font, since none other would suit my purpose. I prefer to write by hand. The absence of any set font is appealing. Disorder and imperfection, in such small amounts, can reveal itself to be quite comforting to the troubled heart. And this troubled heart is what has brought me to write. For the past two years I have kept a notebook, or a diary, as some would prefer to call it, and I have learned that it is never the beginning that is ever recognized or remembered. At times I would find myself aching to take a pen in hand and make an attempt to force my ardent desires and impressions to take shape in the form of ink on a page. Tried, and often failed. Even now I cannot capture the full extent of the emotions and words that boil inside of my chest. Writing is too imperfect. Words limit and hold back true feelings. A brilliantly composed love poem can never be nearly as strong as the passions that brought it to life. Yet however much is left behind in our hearts to be blown away by everyday things and distractions, it is still better to capture a brief moment of suffering, love, or awe, so that our memories may fill in the rest. Which, of course, leaves you at a natural disadvantage. You are not me, nor will you ever be.
I want to write. I do not know how, but I assume that will come with experience and practice. Unfortunately the sudden and urgent need for me to write often comes when I am in a position that is most inconvenient When I do find myself in a position to take advantage of any ability to write, my mind is empty of the various poems, passionate speeches, and fiery sermons that occupy my mind at any other time. And so, my collection of random, yet powerful written thoughts is small and quite underdeveloped.
I would like to fix that.
I have so many thoughts that are fighting for attention that my mind is just now realizing the massive task I have taken up. It is my earnest wish that I may conquer it.
-Ariel Liddell
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