On One Hand

November 16, 2004


Filed under: Uncategorized — ononehand @ 1:35 am

Oh, FUCK! I just realized what my problem with guys is: it’s that I’m already in love with my JOURNAL! Like… EEW? This is too weird. I don’t even know how this all began.

First of all, let me just explain that “my journal” is not just the limited archive that you see here. My journal is transcendent. It includes this, but also the things that I keep on the side: my highschool timetrackers, ridden with drawings and notes, a diary on my computer from when I was fifteen, notebooks upon notebooks, a pile of loose scrap papers I wrote on in class, ideas sribbled on the backs of graded assignments, an internal dialog that never ends. My journal includes myrad quotes and ideas, drawn from the world plus a perpetual thought-bubble always hovering ominously above my head. It pulls me in. It steals my soul. It’s a part of me.

(Don’t tell my computer about the notebooks – it gets jealous.)

I’m not saying I’m a good writer, but regardless of my skill I have the same sort of inward mentality that all writers have. I think it began when I was forced to confront my sexuality at an early age, thus becoming the introspective person that I still am today. Then I went through my religious crisis, which was more shit than a person deals with in a lifetime at age sixteen, and then I came upon love (DON’T EVEN ASK). It all snared me in its tendrils, tied me in knots, made me feel like shit and want to die, but I was entrenched in my own thoughts, entranced by them, and didn’t have the will or ability to pull away and bury them like other people do. By then my journal had become me: my OCD tendencies made manifest in an insatiable desire to delve into every perplexity, uproot every meaning, ponder every posibility, and annotate it all faithfully, obsessively, to be stashed away and reviewed later. You see, writing isn’t just a thing you do; (those of any profession, from physician to church pastor, write things down. It doesn’t make them writers.) Writing is a way to think. To ponder, always searching for something, creating something, even if it’s only for yourself. It doesn’t require knowledge or intelligence (though that helps), but only openness and reflection. Writing is a craving of experience. It is a gross exaggeration of every feeling, thought, or scene. It’s a lifestyle of metaphor, of imagery. Writing is a community of romantics. To be a writer, you can’t just read Virginia Woolf and think she’s interesting. No, you have to fall in love with her. No, I don’t mean that figuratively – and it includes all the connotations that adult love has – I mean you have to LITERALLY want to FUCK her. I’m serious. Don’t laugh. Shut up! Writing means you admit your own humanness; a writer who always portrays him/herself or main character as a hero is a shitty writer. You admit weaknesses, because that’s reality. You admit desire.

So coming back to where I started, I’m in love with my journal. I have a different relationship with each of it’s many outlets: the most intimate is that with the yellow spiral notebook, becaues I can write on it and not feel like it has to be good. For this diary, online, I MUST at least spell check, and have second thoughts about embarking on undeveloped thoughts. There’s a fancy diarybook my newspaper advisor from high school gave me when I graduated and it’s so intimidating I haven’t touched it since, though I often carry it around just in case. I have a second spiral notebook that I often use, this one with pictures, and I am starting to use it less now. I scribble notes on blank sheets and write whatever I want because I usually lose them anyway. There’s more than that, but those are just a few highlights.

So perhaps what I want most in a relationship, as creepy as this may sound, is someone who can become part of my journal, and I a part of his. I’ll talk to him so smoothly it’s like I’m talking to myself, running his mind through random thoughts, working ideas over, sliding perceptions over my tongue to his like ice cubes, like his lips over mine, making a meaningful story. We’ll pull it silky out of the air and wrap it around us both, vivid color, life, heat, endorphins and clever lines like puffs of smoke. It’s going to be beautiful, just you watch. You’re invited to read: it’s going to be kept in a journal for all who crave meaning to see.



  1. I know exactly what you’re talking about, I have countless journals aside from the online ones. I haven’t really connected with my LJ though, it’s kind of frustrating.

    Comment by non_se_quitur — November 16, 2004 @ 4:03 pm | Reply

  2. I think I’d have to agree. Granted that I do have someone, but it’s nice to have a place where I can express everything I feel without fear of hurting the one I’m communicating to. It would be nice to have a person like that, or to feel that I did have a person like that. Until then, here I am, writing away as per direction from my psych prof. 😛

    Comment by draconicdreamer — November 17, 2004 @ 4:04 am | Reply

  3. This sounds like something from http://www.theonion.com

    Comment by marlowe1 — November 17, 2004 @ 8:55 pm | Reply

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