words, words, words
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If I begin to detail myself here, will you understand?
P. I am me
Q. I don't always know exactly who that is
R. I am Quaker
S. I like words and playing with them
T. I like genmaicha tea
U. I like the word napkin more than most others
V. I spend time walking my neighborhood
W. I cook rice often
X. I sleep well most every night
Y. I eat large amounts of fruit and vegetables
Z. I munch, sleep, write, create, cook, bike, watch, walk, listen, hope, learn, drink, live, breathe, touch, know, question, taste, copy, read, stare, carry, talk, dance, finger, try.
raisin@gmail.com
albums:
Magnetic Fields: 69 Love Songs
Erasure: I Say, I Say, I Say
Depeche Mode: Black Celebration
The Beach Boys: Pet Sounds
Marvin Gaye: What's Going On?
David Bowie: Hunky Dory
George Michael: Listen without Prejudice
George Gershwin: Porgy and Bess
Yo La Tengo: And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out
songs:
Wild is the Wind: Nina Simone
Come Undone: Duran Duran
Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini: Rachmaninov
My Funny Valentine: Chet Baker
Feeling Yourself Disintegrate: The Flaming Lips
This Must Be the Place: The Talking Heads
Hyperballad: Bjork
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Wednesday, December 10, 2003
I finished another notebook this week, filled up the last page with my words. I've filled up five or six now, but this most recent (the picture on the right side of the blog is of this notebook), was the largest. more than that, I finished the notebook the fastest i've ever finished a notebook, just over a year, not counting the two months i left it in storage while i travelled around and used a different book. I've had a lot to say this past year, especially since I kept this weblog also, double writing, i've probably written more in the past year than in several years combined. does this mean anything, that I should pursue writing as a career, that i should collect words i've written and try to publish them, or just that it's a strong part of my life, one i'm very proud of? i don't know that yet, but i know that writing has been my therapy, a way to explain myself to myself, all the troubles of growing up, of seeing the world differently than it used to be, of conflicting emotions. Writing has been something to do, and as boredom is the enemy, a faithful partner in self-entertainment.
I didn't anticipate this. i've kept fitful notebooks in the past, a journal i wrote in while visiting Australia at ten, a small black book i kept while in college, documenting my struggle with christianity and the academy, even the mostly sexual journal i kept to keep track of my coming out stories. It wasn't until I bought a beautiful blue leather-bound book in new orleans that I started writing ideas, leaving the stories behind, but instead trying to document the contents of my mind. i wanted to write more often than i had something to say, and i know it helped me to think, to examine my motives, my ideas, my questions. soon, when i had bought a second notebook, the writing became a friend of mine, something to do when i wanted to go sit in a cofeeshop. i probably would have rather talked to a friend, but i had no friends, only unavailable acquaintances. once again, for the third time in my life, i hid in myself, not sure how to meeet the world.
who am i now? i've asked myself that at almost every turn in my life. i thought it was because i was changing, ultimately, a different person all the time. but i'm not so different, i'm just a bit wider; i have a bit more perspective on myself and my life, and my mind has grown to understand the world and myself in it. by all rights, i should have spent years in therapy with someone asking me questions. but i'm not sure i trust such professionals, and am sure i don't want to spend the money. so i'm happy to have found something else, quite by accident, that would let me question myself, that would force me to open up, and to examine hidden parts.
paper and ink, with thoughts enough to fill the rest of my life.
11:53 AM
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