one photo, six ways.
13 march 2015
"It was warm last night, light breeze and stars and we sat on the concrete porch outside, minus one Marlbaro, 3 am cough and a black cat that was either possessed or really infatuated by us. "
I've been very fascinated- addicted even, to reading people's unfiltered thoughts. It's very hard to find this on blogs these days, especially when for many, blogging has become more lucrative than personal. But I'm in no place to point fingers, because it's difficult for me too.
My bookmarked blogs- the ones I visit each week are visually inspiring, informative, or both, but the blogs I return to when I get this unmet desire to feel more full, are the ones with words of daily documentation, unfiltered like a diary, written as if no one is listening.
Yesterday afternoon, I sat in my favorite spot at Profeta, next to the big windows with stained glass and plant stains, and finally started reading Didion's "On keeping a notebook". It was kind of an event. This quote really stood out to me:
"Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old, I doubt my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up. Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss."
Actually her words do more than stand out. I almost feel like she's recognized a part of me that I never thought of articulating myself. My mom, like her daughter- unquestioning and content, myself, questioning everything to a fault until 1 am on a good night. Have I ever read words that resonate so well?
I write in journals, but never consistently. Usually to document memories that stand out, weird observations, overly-intense feelings. Hardly ever conversations, as I don't carry my notebook everywhere (I've tried, and it's just unnecessary weight as I seldom start recording thoughts in the middle of doing things- if you carry a notebook everywhere and actually draw and write anywhere, I want to be you). I wish I posted more consistently about unfiltered life and everyday encounters on this blog, which is a funny mix between intimate and public space, but then again, maybe I'm too private of a person to validate my daily thoughts in a blog form when I write it in a journal already.
This is my last entry in my notebook:
13 march 2015
It was warm last night, light breeze and stars and we sat on the concrete porch outside, minus one Marlbaro, 3 am cough and a black cat that was either possessed or really infatuated by us.
"It's a tradition, not an addiction", repeated twice outside, and once after goodnight.
Usually my journal entries tend towards emotion-fueled passages that are written either in extremely high spirits- lot's of (!!!) and I'm going to move to New York, no Europe, no Iceland, or deep in self-wooes + some doodles and terrible french grammar, but I was probably a little inspired by Didion when I wrote on that brief bit two nights ago. I think I'll read "On Keeping a Notebook" three maybe four more times before I have to return it.