March 25, 1881 Bela Bartok, born in Hungary, composer/pianist, Concerto for OrchestraGood god man I have absolutely nothing to say. I mean it. Nothing. But I do feel a nice sense of quiet calm. I remember days when I could spill thousands of words in an hour. Well maybe hundreds. I'd start writing sentences in my head while trying to go to sleep or get something important done. Stress and pressure really can push a novels worth of subconscious thinking out in a hurry. Boredom will crush it. Usually I'd go back and read the personal crap and feel embarassed. Never made any sense after the storms or successes blew over. Never understood the value of a journal when most of it ends up sounding like a soap opera. Better to get out and find life. I don't like sitting around writing about it much.
Not anymore.
It's quiet today.
1 comment:
nothing in life really makes sense, i suppose, except living.
i guess, however, that the value of a journal can only be had, if at all, at its complete end . . . only then, i think, can one see any patterns in the chaos . . . any lessons . . .
i have journals from when i was in grade school and i look at them now, as you say, with a little embarrassment . . . but i see how much i've learned . . . i realize things about myself . . . and those small, but precious insights i'm able to glean, eventually outweigh the initial silliness, drama, and awkwardness.
but that's just me.
hope you're well.
enjoy the quietude. it's not often that one can get it . . .
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