Open
This journal appears to be one of the older ones. Something like this past April would have been its eighth birthday.
The moments & events (re)invented here - as well as how they are represented - fluctuate drastically in their tone, style, poignancy, spirit, vivacity... all those things that are helpful in classifying and specifying what is generated, inhabited, reflected, and related by the written.
To invoke the subject: It got to a point where I was afraid to continue writing. For any audience other than the so-called future self, for anything other than to flesh out and reflect upon a personal history or even trajectory, or to think through an anxiety, grief or predicament. As if construction was merely a way of putting it, as if truth was to be revealed to the vigilant and faithful! Such a secret. A process that was surprisingly embarrassing, and thus (apparently) made visible to no one else. And this repeats itself (over and over)! Is it not time to move on?
It is a ritual: fingers hammering wildly away at a keyboard, eyes fixated near catatonic upon a screen, in an awkwardly lit space, typically the dead of night (the Witching Hour), in fantastically uncomfortable positions, tired, sleepless, paranoid, distraught, lost. Portland, Los Angeles, sometimes on the road between the two - San Francisco, Berkeley, Arcata, Redding, Santa Cruz, Big Sur. Never the train tracks; no internet there. (That has been the movement, though, always between the two. And I am growing sick of it.) Desires flow(ed) through every situation, always a bit different, but always there.
But it would be tragic to elide the human (?) from it all. And so I write (there are still affective bodies behind these technologies!). And so you respond? A conversation, perhaps.
The moments & events (re)invented here - as well as how they are represented - fluctuate drastically in their tone, style, poignancy, spirit, vivacity... all those things that are helpful in classifying and specifying what is generated, inhabited, reflected, and related by the written.
To invoke the subject: It got to a point where I was afraid to continue writing. For any audience other than the so-called future self, for anything other than to flesh out and reflect upon a personal history or even trajectory, or to think through an anxiety, grief or predicament. As if construction was merely a way of putting it, as if truth was to be revealed to the vigilant and faithful! Such a secret. A process that was surprisingly embarrassing, and thus (apparently) made visible to no one else. And this repeats itself (over and over)! Is it not time to move on?
It is a ritual: fingers hammering wildly away at a keyboard, eyes fixated near catatonic upon a screen, in an awkwardly lit space, typically the dead of night (the Witching Hour), in fantastically uncomfortable positions, tired, sleepless, paranoid, distraught, lost. Portland, Los Angeles, sometimes on the road between the two - San Francisco, Berkeley, Arcata, Redding, Santa Cruz, Big Sur. Never the train tracks; no internet there. (That has been the movement, though, always between the two. And I am growing sick of it.) Desires flow(ed) through every situation, always a bit different, but always there.
But it would be tragic to elide the human (?) from it all. And so I write (there are still affective bodies behind these technologies!). And so you respond? A conversation, perhaps.