eidolon

[Thursday, May 13, 2004]

"Because you know its the only place where you can do all sorts of wrong but they still have to keep you in the house." - yelofngr

I'm going home on Saturday!!!! I just bought my plane tickets courtesy of USAirways E-Savers. Why is it that no matter how much you fight with your parents, going home still has that sweetness to it that can't be replaced by anything else? I'm so excited it's pathetic. I feel like a puppy that's just gotten a long-awaited treat.

Posted by ink | 10:12 PM

[Friday, May 07, 2004]

Lost.

Now that finals are over and I have a week before I kill myself for the month of June, I have all the time in the world in which to do anything I want! This morning was the first time I woke up and didn't have a million things to take care of. It feels very strange. I don't know what to do with myself. So I went to the hospital to volunteer, came home, half-heartedly packed a few boxes, and then laid on the couch and watched tv.

It's 2:30 pm, the weather outside is 75 degrees and breezy. The sun is out, and I have nothing to do. I think I'm going to nap on the couch. I've overdosed on sour peach gummies and I'm getting sleepy. When I wake up.... shopping.

Posted by ink | 2:38 PM

[Wednesday, May 05, 2004]

Penmanship - A+.

With my finals ending and my Verizon DSL constantly on the blitz, I've found myself spending more and more time off the internet. By force of course, not by choice, but oddly enough - after experiencing the initial withdrawal period, I'm making do quite well without it. I've replaced it with television. Not carrying my laptop around all the time has been great for my shoulders, and instead of whipping up a txt file in Notepad when I have thoughts I want to put down, I now actually write in my journal that I carry around with me everywhere - but really only write in at night when I'm in bed and can't be bothered to drag my laptop up from the floor.

Being off the internet has brought my attention to the pleasures in doing the little things. I physically enjoy the act of writing. The feel of pen gliding over paper, the color left behind by the gleaming metal tip... lines of indelible permanent ink etched onto the smooth paper, evidence of that very moment of thought. I always thought of journal writing (as opposed to journal-typing) as the "live" version of an entry as opposed to one that has been recorded, then cut and edited, polished, and published. My journal is where I am at my rawest. When I can't bring myself to joke about something terrible, when I don't feel like sharing, when all I can think about is pouring out onto paper so I can organize it a bit better. And maybe joke about it later digitally.

Like every art, writing is not exempt from the wave of technology that has spread, making it possible for every form of personal expression to be premeditated and carefully considered before release. Stories were the first to undergo this revolution. They evolved from the words of a hunter as he returned, to the words of a shaman, to an enacted play - perhaps improv'ed, to rehearsed theatre plays where an element of spontaneity existed only in the most superficial sense, to movies - where there is no moment that isn't prescripted or cut or edited or enhanced before release in a shiny prepackaged form. Music was only a few decades behind. After theatres and plays, technology began to hit musicians. Now they too, can record, enhance, and mix. Conversation is the most recent to fall under the spell as Instant Messenger started to gain in popularity. Now, you can say, erase, re-say it, before clicking "send" to the other person. Blogging was what did it for journal-writing. The very act of writing in its most literal sense was done in by the computer. Pre-computer typewriters at least forced you to hand-write rough copies first, editing as you went, before going through the trouble of typing it. Computers allow you to leave no traces of a first draft, or a second, or a third. It's so easy to go back and "fix" your original thoughts. It's almost irresistible.

I miss the originality of things. The rough homemade-ness. The feel of "straight out of the brain-oven", the taste of fresh baked with no additives, preservatives, ornamentation, processing, or post-production modification. I miss rawness. Not diluted for mass appeal. Or carefully censored so as to offend no one. Physical journals will forever have an advantage over blogs in the sense that it is utterly and selfishly yours. It sits on your shelf. And you don't have to share. Sharing itself carries a double edged blade, as it invites other opinion - spoken or thought. None of your words need to be chosen thoughtfully or an entry polished up, because no eyes will ever see it but your own. That allows an individual magnificent power among the leaves of a journal - to speak one's mind truly and plainly with no risk of retribution or rebuke or even silent judgement. To record one's words as they come to mind instead of the auto-pause-and-consider that's become so habitual to all of us now. A journal written is more than a record of events in one's life. It is a record of yourself in your rawest form. A record of your mind and what it spews out of its own accord without you as the relentless filter. It is pure. Pure you. Pure me. With all its struggles. It is a snapshot of a moment. Even if you can't find words to accurately describe the moment, even that itself is a snapshot of your struggle to speak plainly.

Posted by ink | 11:54 PM