The Dark Post
So anyway this isn't a dark post in that it is all doom and gloom or that sort of thing. It is a dark post as in my wardrobe is black, my background is black, my physical bound journal is black I'm reading two books that are either black or dark. I like the smashing pumpkins song "We only come out at night." I'm not a priest but I could play one on TV. Ok maybe not. I really don't have the get up for that. The little white collar the colorful robes. How silly.
I can't say I'm really obsessed with the color (or lack there of if one wants to get technical) I'm just lazy. Black always looks good. No need to say does this shirt go with this tie or with these pants. With black and or gray it doesn't matter what splash of color you add, black goes with it. And I like black leather coats. They are cool like James Dean cool. My black leather wallet has an appeal all it's own (and it is a Wilson's leather wallet so it lasts for years without deteriorating.)
For pleasure, (as opposed to my obsessive need to read literary works) I'm currently in the middle of a couple of lighter novels. The first is Wizard and Glass (The Dark Tower, Book 4) Stephen King. I believe I've read this one before but as I want to read the last three books in the series soon It doesn't hurt to get caught up with the characters and it's not like I have a job to fill my days or nights. The second novel is yet anther P.D. James, The Black Tower. I've mentioned this writer before as I'm not normally a mystery reader but the old man passes the books along and I always find it better to read something new than to reread something out of the stacks. The novel was published in 1975 the year after I was born and is suppose to take place the year of my birth. It is always neat to look at the period of time just before there was me and my memories. (Hmm I should get a picture of my Copyright 1974 tattoo. Something to think about)
The background to the blog is black as I find it the easiest to read or look at. Something about the white light of a screen bothers my eyes after a while.
And now the black journal. Here is an example of my scrawl in the journal. Pretty hideous. I've actually picked it a couple times recently> I may be able to write in it again. I don't know. Reading it I noticed I have a different voice or style when I'm writing there than I do here. It is not only the span of time but the expectation of audience. One can tell from by journal's entries that they are intended to be read but I'm not sure what audience I am writing for. Here I am pretty well aware of my audience.
So anyway I thought I would make an attempt to transcribe one entry here to give y'all a taste of a me of the past. First some explanation. This entry was during the period of time just after I had returned to Macomb (to live) for the third time. It is a prelude to my last great bender. I was living in the Shack on the Tracks. with some fun / shady people. I had just escaped Chicago and a year long stint working in a doctors office. If anything else needs explaining ask. Now the entry:
Saturday 02 - 23 - 02 8:07 PM
Pearl Street, Macomb
Sometimes I stare at this journal and at it's black binding sitting there. It glares at me challengingly, saying "You neglect me. You can't come up with words to fill me. You are Powerless" It becomes a fearsome tome upon which plain everyday scribbling would cause pain and hurt, detracting not only from it's essence, but mine as well for daring to hold myself as one whose thoughts should not only be counted, but recorded.
I spend money too freely and the bars are inviting. I still get no urge to leap upon the hard liquor, to guzzle myself into oblivion. I stay away from Mary Jane. Yet I want to make people happy, to gregariously spend money, to pass out the liquor they long for and desire. Sitting in a house alone and writing or reading, I feel the need to be with people. I walk through the town searching, not only for exercise, or the chance to think, but in an active search for people to interact with, subconsciously thinking that merely moving myself about town I will somehow better my chances, or more precisely thinking that these wanderings will somehow bring my path across someone to spend a Future with, that this minimalist effort will be some kind of fixed lottery where out of the fog as I roll down the street will come she who will fill up a life time.
Me and futile dreams, putting upon others my happiness. One would hope to marry intellect to longing, but how ?
Me and Romantic notions of all variety -- not just love, but ideals of life and living and soul. Dreams of perfection of Being.
I crawl about these days strolling with a slow step, never in a hurry to be here or there, just to stare at the world, basking in my thoughts, putting together strange litanies in my head, repetitious meaningless beautiful religious sounding phrases, wishing I could record my thoughts as I go to later play back and pick apart.
I need too ... A phrase I start out with very often, writing out wishes and making it sound like just practical advice to self. Some times the just do it philosophy works out better. The again, that's just words too. Will there be action?
We / I as people / as a person settle into melancholy too easily, too glad in our sadness to notice the hooks in the embrace. What is melancholy but a fear of taking future chances, longing for past lost, longing for present we are unwilling to clutch. I sit and watch me / us / everyone make affirmations to try and do right without accepting what right is. "I need to be good, to go to school" Why? What are you gaining? Do you really think some future self will Damn you for taking too long to wake up. What do you want? Yes a loaded question. What are you willing to do is a better question. I swear many times that I abhor the idea of wage slavery. I fear the life of a cubicle drone. I never sit down and say what I want, just what I'm sure I don't want. Only limiting myself without looking for a road that is open to me. Writing is a road I have some skill, nut more open eyes would look for more avenues of approach more roads to success and always more white space ...
That is the end of the entry.
(A quick note about the white space thing. It isn't some stupidly racist declaration. It is something I may explain later in more depth but most simply its way of saying I'm waking away from the page and leaving a white space on it to signify that time has passed and I am no longer the same man coming back to this journal who sat down to write the above lines. So in essence I am moving off into the white space on the page into zen like no where but I will come back and interrupt that emptiness at some point in the future. I would use that instead of the More Laters sign off but I'm afraid I would have to keep explaining myself time and again.)
I've always been long winded and my religious upbringing marks my language and thought even if I am now professedly agnostic. That was a time consuming exercise not sure if it is worth repeating.
More Laters.
I can't say I'm really obsessed with the color (or lack there of if one wants to get technical) I'm just lazy. Black always looks good. No need to say does this shirt go with this tie or with these pants. With black and or gray it doesn't matter what splash of color you add, black goes with it. And I like black leather coats. They are cool like James Dean cool. My black leather wallet has an appeal all it's own (and it is a Wilson's leather wallet so it lasts for years without deteriorating.)
For pleasure, (as opposed to my obsessive need to read literary works) I'm currently in the middle of a couple of lighter novels. The first is Wizard and Glass (The Dark Tower, Book 4) Stephen King. I believe I've read this one before but as I want to read the last three books in the series soon It doesn't hurt to get caught up with the characters and it's not like I have a job to fill my days or nights. The second novel is yet anther P.D. James, The Black Tower. I've mentioned this writer before as I'm not normally a mystery reader but the old man passes the books along and I always find it better to read something new than to reread something out of the stacks. The novel was published in 1975 the year after I was born and is suppose to take place the year of my birth. It is always neat to look at the period of time just before there was me and my memories. (Hmm I should get a picture of my Copyright 1974 tattoo. Something to think about)
The background to the blog is black as I find it the easiest to read or look at. Something about the white light of a screen bothers my eyes after a while.
And now the black journal. Here is an example of my scrawl in the journal. Pretty hideous. I've actually picked it a couple times recently> I may be able to write in it again. I don't know. Reading it I noticed I have a different voice or style when I'm writing there than I do here. It is not only the span of time but the expectation of audience. One can tell from by journal's entries that they are intended to be read but I'm not sure what audience I am writing for. Here I am pretty well aware of my audience.
So anyway I thought I would make an attempt to transcribe one entry here to give y'all a taste of a me of the past. First some explanation. This entry was during the period of time just after I had returned to Macomb (to live) for the third time. It is a prelude to my last great bender. I was living in the Shack on the Tracks. with some fun / shady people. I had just escaped Chicago and a year long stint working in a doctors office. If anything else needs explaining ask. Now the entry:
Saturday 02 - 23 - 02 8:07 PM
Pearl Street, Macomb
Sometimes I stare at this journal and at it's black binding sitting there. It glares at me challengingly, saying "You neglect me. You can't come up with words to fill me. You are Powerless" It becomes a fearsome tome upon which plain everyday scribbling would cause pain and hurt, detracting not only from it's essence, but mine as well for daring to hold myself as one whose thoughts should not only be counted, but recorded.
I spend money too freely and the bars are inviting. I still get no urge to leap upon the hard liquor, to guzzle myself into oblivion. I stay away from Mary Jane. Yet I want to make people happy, to gregariously spend money, to pass out the liquor they long for and desire. Sitting in a house alone and writing or reading, I feel the need to be with people. I walk through the town searching, not only for exercise, or the chance to think, but in an active search for people to interact with, subconsciously thinking that merely moving myself about town I will somehow better my chances, or more precisely thinking that these wanderings will somehow bring my path across someone to spend a Future with, that this minimalist effort will be some kind of fixed lottery where out of the fog as I roll down the street will come she who will fill up a life time.
Me and futile dreams, putting upon others my happiness. One would hope to marry intellect to longing, but how ?
Me and Romantic notions of all variety -- not just love, but ideals of life and living and soul. Dreams of perfection of Being.
I crawl about these days strolling with a slow step, never in a hurry to be here or there, just to stare at the world, basking in my thoughts, putting together strange litanies in my head, repetitious meaningless beautiful religious sounding phrases, wishing I could record my thoughts as I go to later play back and pick apart.
I need too ... A phrase I start out with very often, writing out wishes and making it sound like just practical advice to self. Some times the just do it philosophy works out better. The again, that's just words too. Will there be action?
We / I as people / as a person settle into melancholy too easily, too glad in our sadness to notice the hooks in the embrace. What is melancholy but a fear of taking future chances, longing for past lost, longing for present we are unwilling to clutch. I sit and watch me / us / everyone make affirmations to try and do right without accepting what right is. "I need to be good, to go to school" Why? What are you gaining? Do you really think some future self will Damn you for taking too long to wake up. What do you want? Yes a loaded question. What are you willing to do is a better question. I swear many times that I abhor the idea of wage slavery. I fear the life of a cubicle drone. I never sit down and say what I want, just what I'm sure I don't want. Only limiting myself without looking for a road that is open to me. Writing is a road I have some skill, nut more open eyes would look for more avenues of approach more roads to success and always more white space ...
That is the end of the entry.
(A quick note about the white space thing. It isn't some stupidly racist declaration. It is something I may explain later in more depth but most simply its way of saying I'm waking away from the page and leaving a white space on it to signify that time has passed and I am no longer the same man coming back to this journal who sat down to write the above lines. So in essence I am moving off into the white space on the page into zen like no where but I will come back and interrupt that emptiness at some point in the future. I would use that instead of the More Laters sign off but I'm afraid I would have to keep explaining myself time and again.)
I've always been long winded and my religious upbringing marks my language and thought even if I am now professedly agnostic. That was a time consuming exercise not sure if it is worth repeating.
More Laters.
posted by Rich Rosenthal II at 2:56 AM
3 Comments:
the voice from your phsical journal example exemplifies your feelings more freely/lets us closer to what you're thinking/feeling without having to rely on an assumption that we know what you mean....did that make sense?......here i go talking about meaning and not making sense....not knowing your audience, you just zing it all out there thus it feels that you are less aware of us--letting us in for a closer, unhindered look.
Shy, that did make sense.
Rich, she's right. You seem more open and better able to express yourself in the old journal entry. It was well-written and engaging. I liked it very much.
I may repeat the experiment. There are some ideas that I've takled in the past that I would rather not rework from scratch in presenting them to readers. I'm glad y'all liked it.
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