It's a compulsion
FUCKER. Mother pussbucket and all that entails.
I had like a page and a half of amazingly pithy things to say, but then Putty
went nutty on me and I lost it all. Remind me to save things when I get
long-winded. Damnit, it was good, too. All about how my winamp had AI and
was anticipating my mood of exhaustion by playing all my mellow stuff. I even had an exerpt in Spanish about how my stereo was
broken and that was the only reason I let Andy kidnap my Weakerthans CDs. Grr.
So NOW what am I going to tell you?
Hrm.
Remind me to tell you about the walnuts, if I haven't already done so.
Oh yeah.
Throughout my pitifully short existence, I've started myriad journals,
diaries, logs, idea books, etc. Each entailed a daily regurgitation of the
trials and tribulations facing me as I interacted with society at large. The
entries detailed the boys I had crushes on, who said what to me, and contained
excruciatingly detailed accounts of my regular routine.
But what can an eight-, ten-, thirteen-year-old have to say about experiences
of daily life that would have any bearing on ANYTHING whatsoever? The daily
exploits of a shy, pot-bellied prepubescent are not really worthy of the space
I wasted in recounting them.
So these daily entries had a tendency to peter out after a week or two weeks,
and the notebook they contained was relegated to some corner or another as I
found something more entertaining to occupy my time. When you grow up on a
high-security military base surrounded by beach and ocean and the entirety of it is at your disposal, you
find things to do pretty quickly. Until recently, I still had a few of these
peculiar monologues hanging around. To read them again made me wince at my
presumptuously precocious arrogance and overly melodramatic accounts of truly
mundane and unimportant activities. My penmanship was pretty good, though.
Strangely enough, all these defeats did nothing to curb my literary ardour.
In addition to reading far too many supposedly enlightened novels as a child,
writing bad poetry, and making up the most peculiar plays possible (I was a
weird kid, okay -- not weird cool, just WEIRD), I began collecting notebooks.
I blame my early follies on my obsession with office supplies. There's
something so inspiring -- and intimidating -- about a crisp clean sheet of
blank paper, a new pen, and only the limits of your imagination and motor
skills to keep you in check.
So I kept going, every few months or so beginning a new book, a fresh start
with the same hackneyed ideas. I finally realized my utter naivete when I was
about fifteen or so, and stopped the senseless killing of trees by not writing
any ridiculous diary entries. I never stopped collecting notebooks, however.
Then, in my final year of high school, I started again. I was hesitant, at
first, knowing my previous attempts were nothing more than ridiculous grammar
exercises. I was (and still am) reluctant to call what I do writing in a
diary. It's different than that, and I don't want it to be associated with
the stigma that comes from doing that. I suppose there's less of a poor
connotation attached to it now with the innovation of the live journal, but
even so, keeping a hardcopy representation of an everyday life is not something you
want people to know you do.
At first, I didn't even mention names in my little book, just hes and shes and
various inferences to events involving the same. I didn't simply recap my
days, either. It was more my response to the same, like a detached critique
of my actions and reactions in the concerning circumstances. It made for a
rather cryptic read, but even now I can still determine who and what I was
talking about. I still have some of the same opinions as I did back then, and
I probably would react to them the same way now as then.
In addition to not concerning myself with the details, I don't force myself to
sit down every day and vomit nonsense onto the bound pages. I write when I
feel like it, which usually turns out to be once a week, Saturday morning,
when I wake up but don't feel like getting out of bed. Sunday mornings, when
I'm procrastinating and refusing to do homework or laundry. When I'm trying
-- like now -- to avoid accomplishing anything that needs doing. Any time,
really, but no time specifically.
I used to write more in my little book than I do now, but I have more
responsibilities than I used to. Also, with the inception of allyrxntz last
year (now sadly defunct), I found I was pouring out more of my rants onto the
internet than I was on to the paper page. I'm sure you've noticed that I do
that now, with allythebell.net. But these are more philosophical exercises
and rants than they are my private opinions about various events in my life.
My little books still remain the repository for all my secrets. I suppose I
should keep them hidden, but I really can't be bothered. And keeping it out
of sight would keep it out of mind, and I would end up bottling up a good many
things that writing helps me to keep in perspective. I mostly use my little
books as a tool, a prism to focus my insecurities, and a mirror to reflect
them back to me in a way that shows me how insignificant many of them really
are.
I take my little books with me when I travel. There's nothing so soothing as
spewing thoughts on to paper when you're waiting to make your connection in a
foreign airport. It's also helpful for recording fieldnotes when you
encounter a sociocultural phenomenon that bears recording and remembering.
I'm now on volume FIVE of my little books. Crazy. I guess I actually CAN
stick to something every once in a while. You're probably wondering why I
bothered to write this little essay. Truth is, I don't really know why I felt
I had to share this information with you. But I wanted to say something on
Wednesday about this whole deal, except that the Mary Jane and the beer
switched my priorities.
*sigh*
I guess what I'm trying to articulate here is that I started writing on 10
November 2000. Last Wednesday marked four years that I've kept this going,
and I just thought I'd tell the world.
That's all.
Posted by Ally at November 14, 2004 03:52 PM