I finally tackled the new bookcases, (that aren't so new anymore), and came across the soft-covered books I made when I closed down my first blog.
It's hard to believe I've been at this online journaling thing for ten years but it's true.
This format, blogging, has changed wildly since I began about ten years ago. Very few of the people I read and connected with a decade ago are still in it; even fewer still are those that choose to use blogging as an online journal.
Writing shit out has always been my process. Not that I always do it very eloquently, nor would I ever entertain the idea of becoming or calling myself a writer because I'm not.
I am a journal keeper. It's my way to index and catalog my feelings; a place to catch all of the clutter that fills my head so I can carry on with my day.
+++++++++++
On the eve of moving in with a boyfriend, I gathered all of my journals, threw them into a black garbage bag, and then into the bin. I was convinced this boyfriend had stolen/read one of my journals at the beginning of our relationship, (why I continued along that three year path says so much about where I was at that time), and I couldn't bear for him to have any moreammunition information.
I've never regretted that decision, (those years during art school in San Francisco were very moody and broody), save for one list kept and transferred from book to book. That list carried the most ammunition and became the deciding reason behind tossing those journals. Now with the internet being what it is...I would love to have that list.
+++++++++++
I'd like to write daily, I believe in the brain dump, but that almost never happens. Lately, my journal has become a place to hash out photography portfolio statement ideas, and sometimes a feeling or two. It's strange that I'm not writing much here or there, but trust me when I say I'm feeling it all. I guess there's that old saying,
'if you don't have something nice to say...'
definitely a motivator, but also, I am trying to instill compassion into my operating system for reals and replaying the old stories/wounds/low moments in the same way I've always replayed the stories/wounds/low moments keeps it all stagnant and truly, my motivation these days is momentum. I aspire to flow.
Writing shit out has always been my process. Not that I always do it very eloquently, nor would I ever entertain the idea of becoming or calling myself a writer because I'm not.
I am a journal keeper. It's my way to index and catalog my feelings; a place to catch all of the clutter that fills my head so I can carry on with my day.
+++++++++++
On the eve of moving in with a boyfriend, I gathered all of my journals, threw them into a black garbage bag, and then into the bin. I was convinced this boyfriend had stolen/read one of my journals at the beginning of our relationship, (why I continued along that three year path says so much about where I was at that time), and I couldn't bear for him to have any more
I've never regretted that decision, (those years during art school in San Francisco were very moody and broody), save for one list kept and transferred from book to book. That list carried the most ammunition and became the deciding reason behind tossing those journals. Now with the internet being what it is...I would love to have that list.
+++++++++++
I'd like to write daily, I believe in the brain dump, but that almost never happens. Lately, my journal has become a place to hash out photography portfolio statement ideas, and sometimes a feeling or two. It's strange that I'm not writing much here or there, but trust me when I say I'm feeling it all. I guess there's that old saying,
'if you don't have something nice to say...'
definitely a motivator, but also, I am trying to instill compassion into my operating system for reals and replaying the old stories/wounds/low moments in the same way I've always replayed the stories/wounds/low moments keeps it all stagnant and truly, my motivation these days is momentum. I aspire to flow.
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