for the love of all things unattainable
I'm trying to decide whether or not it's completely futile for me to even have a paper journal. I feel rather inconsistent jotting down my random thoughts or thoughtlessnesses all over the place. It turns out my paper journal has become a place where I scribble my thoughts only when desperate. Consequently it's a terribly depressing book of emotional ouches and tragic childhood tales. This is the kind of journal I wouldn't let my friends (if I had any) read.
I've always been open about that. My journal was always open to the people I cared about, or even those I just pretended to care about, or even those I didn't care enough to make a decision on.
I've been doing a lot of reading late.
I'm always doing a lot of reading.
I find that every time I read a book, I want to talk about it to everyone I know, but in fear of sounding like an idiot, I just pretend to not know what the hell I was talking about and not even mention I read the book, even when I do very well (or think I do very well) know what the hell it is I'm talking about. What will happen is someone will see a book in my room, or in my car, or in my bag, and just as soon as they mention something about it, yowsa, the subject magically changes (I am indeed a professional).
Anyway, about books. I restarted The Perks of Being a Wallflower, which I think many young people should read. Young as in high school. Maybe young as in junior high as well. It's not quite up there with Catcher in the Rye or A Separate Peace, but it is there.
I read some Sartre. I finished No Exit and the three other plays in that book. I find Sartre to be an enchanting man. What usually happens with me and writers is I find out the things I like most about them outside of their books. This was the case with Albert Camus, for example, who I read wrote a letter to the wife of Kazantzakis (who I haven't read yet), expressing his regret for receiving the Nobel Prize when it was her late husband who had deserved it "a hundred times more".
The author I am most infatuated with, however, is 85 years old. J.D. Salinger is one of the most interesting people alive, to me. He's a recluse now, which is terribly sad to me. He's been living on some large amount of land away from all people for decades. He still writes novels but never gets them published (it kills me). He once had an affair with an 18 year old. It lasted a year, and then she put the letters he wrote to her up for auction. I hate her. These aren't the interesting things about him, but I do encourage people I give a crap about (all... 2-4 of them) to read about JD Salinger. I'm checking the official biography of his out of the Library tomorrow. It leaves me feeling inexplicably disheartened because all I'd like to do is write a five or ten page letter explaining all I feel for this man as an author and how greatly his writings have influenced me.
I'm quite depressed over this. I honestly can't express how deeply or why, but knowing I'll not be able to send some meaningless piece of fan mail to Salinger makes me feel so unsatisfied. I know it sounds silly.
Jon who rocks enlightened my by letting me in on this tasty disorder:
polymodal synesthete - essentially means that you involuntarily associate various colors of the rainbow with specific musical tones, and "see" these colors appear before your eyes in bright splashes when you hears certain pitches sounded.
I've always been open about that. My journal was always open to the people I cared about, or even those I just pretended to care about, or even those I didn't care enough to make a decision on.
I've been doing a lot of reading late.
I'm always doing a lot of reading.
I find that every time I read a book, I want to talk about it to everyone I know, but in fear of sounding like an idiot, I just pretend to not know what the hell I was talking about and not even mention I read the book, even when I do very well (or think I do very well) know what the hell it is I'm talking about. What will happen is someone will see a book in my room, or in my car, or in my bag, and just as soon as they mention something about it, yowsa, the subject magically changes (I am indeed a professional).
Anyway, about books. I restarted The Perks of Being a Wallflower, which I think many young people should read. Young as in high school. Maybe young as in junior high as well. It's not quite up there with Catcher in the Rye or A Separate Peace, but it is there.
I read some Sartre. I finished No Exit and the three other plays in that book. I find Sartre to be an enchanting man. What usually happens with me and writers is I find out the things I like most about them outside of their books. This was the case with Albert Camus, for example, who I read wrote a letter to the wife of Kazantzakis (who I haven't read yet), expressing his regret for receiving the Nobel Prize when it was her late husband who had deserved it "a hundred times more".
The author I am most infatuated with, however, is 85 years old. J.D. Salinger is one of the most interesting people alive, to me. He's a recluse now, which is terribly sad to me. He's been living on some large amount of land away from all people for decades. He still writes novels but never gets them published (it kills me). He once had an affair with an 18 year old. It lasted a year, and then she put the letters he wrote to her up for auction. I hate her. These aren't the interesting things about him, but I do encourage people I give a crap about (all... 2-4 of them) to read about JD Salinger. I'm checking the official biography of his out of the Library tomorrow. It leaves me feeling inexplicably disheartened because all I'd like to do is write a five or ten page letter explaining all I feel for this man as an author and how greatly his writings have influenced me.
I'm quite depressed over this. I honestly can't express how deeply or why, but knowing I'll not be able to send some meaningless piece of fan mail to Salinger makes me feel so unsatisfied. I know it sounds silly.
Jon who rocks enlightened my by letting me in on this tasty disorder:
polymodal synesthete - essentially means that you involuntarily associate various colors of the rainbow with specific musical tones, and "see" these colors appear before your eyes in bright splashes when you hears certain pitches sounded.