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Journal

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I journal now.

I have attempted this for going on decades now.  In various forms, under different descriptions, and for uncountable reasons why, I have tried to spend a little time with a notebook and a pen, and tell the invisible just how I was feeling.

And failed.

Every time.

Until now.

I don’t succeed every day.  Just like, with life, I don’t succeed every day.  But now, I try.  I am doing this on the advice of a friend.  Not a close friend, because the advice of close friends, for me, has a way of becoming a message that falls on deaf ears.  Deaf ears that don’t read lips all that well, so the well-meaning of others, just as often, falls.  So, where were we?  Oh yeah, forms, descriptions, and reasons. 

Forms: affirmations, observations, gratitude, grief, self-talk, listening, healing, prayer… just to name a few more than a few.     

Descriptions: meditative, stream of consciousness, automatic writing, biographical, dear fucking diary, poetry and prose.  If I left something out, I’m sorry.  If it meant more, I’m sure I’d still remember it.

Reasons: to get in touch with my feelings, to separate myself from my feelings, to find my true path, to stay off the wrong path, to find myself, to lose myself, to know myself, to find God, to know God, to have God know me.

Yeah, I used to journal to God.  But a long time ago I stopped wanting God to hear what I had to say.  So I stopped journaling to God.

I journal now.

When I used to journal, the many MANY times I tried to journal, I couldn’t write freely, always editing the thoughts in my mind before the words scratched themselves into the page.  I’ve always been a stickler for the way words feel as they lay on your tongue, as you silently read them to yourself, like a whisper with no breath to carry the sound.

C’mon, admit it with me, we ALL do that.  It’s the real reason why people move their lips when they read.  Some people just hide it better, or care much more, than others.  You don’t want to be thought of as simple minded, so you keep your lips pressed together when you read, but your tongue still moves between your teeth and the roof of your mouth, because we ALL love how words FEEL in our mouths.

Anyway, in those days, the words had to read perfect to feel perfect.  So I quit, because the prose ended up being prosaic, and prosaic is just another way of saying “droning self-importance”, and the whole point of journaling was to get past self-importance and discover something more than self, right?

But, bright side, I did become a bloody awful poet, so there’s that.

I journal now.

I don’t know what I will discover, this time.  Will it end up being just another one-man circle jerk of overly-edited thoughts?  So far, no.  I have an actual editor for that now.  One thing I know, so far, is that, where the words used to come out like sawdust, now they come out like blood.  No cuts required.  I even doodle now.  Also in blood.

The world is a different place than it was the last time I tried this, just as my place in it is different.  Recently, my walls came down with a crash, and instead of trying to rebuild walls, I think it’s better if I just write what I find in the rubble and move on.

And no, you will never read my journal.  No one will.  Except maybe God, and then, mostly over my shoulder.

Besides, some of it might be about you.

 

© Copyright 2017 William S. Friday

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You Can’t Say Bad Things about the Good Things

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Some people keep a journal.  I keep notes.  No, literally, I keep things I’ve written… short things, sometimes super short things… on my phone, in the notes app.  Things like the title of this post,

“You can’t say bad things about the good things.”

Well, you could.  But that would make you a real dick. 

At least that’s what I tell the voices in my head, when I’m mocking them.  The voices can be, and often are, real dicks.  Which is why, as I said in my previous post, I mock them.  Because, while these voices deserve to be heard, when they’re done, they deserve to be put in their place.  Most often, that place is in a roaring dumpster fire of mockery and ridicule.

But sometimes, the voices find their way into the notes.

About a third or so of the poems I’ve written for publication began in the notes.  Like I’ve told many people on multiple occasions, I write my poetry NOT on paper with a pencil or a pen, but from beginning to end on my laptop.  I have no idea why.  I just remember the first… okay, probably not the first, but the most memorable… time it happened.  A flash of really shitty emotions, and the worst burst of lying voices I ever heard, and the moment those 15 seconds of hell had passed, I opened my laptop, and wrote.

 

“Brains on the bathroom floor,

gloating

Consciousness above me,

Floating.

Despair at life,

Unlived.

Responsibility,

Relieved.

Bucket made of bone,

a sieve.

Whispers of all doubt,

believed.”

 

In the time it took me to say, “fuck you” to the lying voices, a poem was born in the place of sorrow.  And from then on, at the very moment the voices, good or bad, speak, a note gets made.  And yeah, maybe an angel gets his wings.  I’m really not completely clear on that.  But the point is, whether bad things or good, for this reason, I make a note of it.

It’s these notes, including that almost ten-year-old poem, which became a book.  Notes that are about to become a second.  And so, whether or not the beginning of these notes began as a bad thing, they turned into a very good thing.  And that was the point of all this history.  To remember the good, and make notes.  Lots of them.  Because you can’t say bad things about the good things.

Well, you could.  But that would make you a real dick.

 

© Copyright 2016 William S. Friday

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