Ok, so I dragged one box of journals out of the garage yesterday. Intent is to try to arrange them in some sort of chronological order; read them (with total dread); try to see what is worth saving; get rid of anything that could cause unnecessary pain. Best is probably to transcribe into files that which I decide to keep; figure out some organizational scheme; consider: how to use? Then burn. The idea of burning journals has become some sort of fetish, I think.
[All of this in the context of reading The Book of Disquiet for the second time. I keep finding entries that make me think: I wrote that. I just have to find the passage.]
The first journal covers 1967-1968, my senior year of high school. It is somewhat reassuring (in a very strange way) that I have been asking the same questions for so long.
The thread of influence is so thin, so transparent, that often we do not notice it at all. I wonder how I really feel, what I’d really like to do. I wonder who has stolen my mind and what he’s doing with it. I feel so base and dishonest with faces and bodies superimposed on mine. I am trapped deep inside, screaming to be heard, but with nothing to say. What is this, this emptiness? What is this void? I feel it right here, an empty place, purple and paisley, fluid and translucent. Will only death answer me?
The chasm is so deep, the fall is eternal. Why did it happen to all of them, and will it happen to me? Can’t I hold on to what I know, or must I lose and why can’t I die before that happens?
Who is blind, the seeing or the sightless and which am I? The aura of permanence around my life must not push me along the taken path.
I walk alone. I am apart from the air I breathe, from the forms that I do not really touch, but pass through, as I travel along and alone but rarely upwards–never towards where I want to be.
People know things that I do not know, and feel things that I cannot feel and touch things that I cannot touch, but who knows what it feels like to be me? How very apart everyone is from each other, how totally abstract are the things we call reality, how incredibly far is everyone from finding out what is important. Why? There is so little real communication and the sad part of this is that we so often fail to realize that we are not communicating or not understanding. So often is said, “you know?” and so often is replied, “yes” that these pantomime conversations are mistaken for a pact of understanding. Are we afraid to accept another’s terms and definitions? How else are we to attempt to know another and learn from one another?
A thought is a location, we must lead others to it, exactly to it, on top of it, before we have communicated it. We must be understood. Yet we are apart. Why? Because eating and driving a car and talking on the phone are called real things and we fail to realize that these are only substitutes we have devised to deter us from our one real activity. It is not meaningless conversation or bearing a child or writing a journal or eating an apple or picking a flower or taking out the trash. It is the approach to and the existence of the instant of our being in which we find a true flow of consciousness towards answers to questions most of us dare not ask. Perhaps it is death.