My Old Journal

<slides on readers> TAKE THAT, NATURE

Because the post-cataract can't see right now. Odd then, that my recent choice of activity was to dig to the depths of my bottom shelf to thumb through old journals. The oldest one was already gutted, its remains and reflections in transient form of notes and clippings in a perforated sketchbook. My real focus was the next, the first of my intentional journals. It was the first time a sketchbook was chosen. This was a 10x14 book that ran from 2002-2006. There are, of course, entries about life, as well as clippings and found things, various writings, and terrible art from when i didn't know how to draw. (I still don't, but it's less obvious these days.) There was much snickering following page turns.

The book itself has a lot of wear. I had to reinforce the entire spine with duct tape. The mend could be considered my first (unintentional) bookbinding practice, which, while not the first time, is where it's led me. One of my art professors once said that which you leave behind is how you'll be remembered. That has always resonated with me. Over the years, I've had many criticisms from close contacts about destroying my artwork. "AND?" is always the response I've had. Their reasoning is that it might be worth something. Be that as it may, life is lived now, and that's my decision, to leave something intentional with what I'm making. The "why" is always so much more interesting than the "what."

Specifically, the notes will lead to the next step of a project I've thought of from time to time. The class I took in bookbinding was enjoyable, and since I have journal content to overhaul, why not turn it into a handmade book, or series. This will be a relic my life from the perspective of having already learned the lesson.

An enormous part of it is the fact that I go back through the entries, and the writing is incoherent, but it can be put together in a way that better communicates the thought. That's why i don't mind ripping it apart. It isn't putting behind me, precious memories, or thowing out all the hard work I've done to this point. By my own will, it is the manifestation of taking what made me, tearing that apart to let it go, then using those once whole pieces to rebuild me into something better. Growth is an ugly mess of a project, and I won't share the mess until it is repaired and complete.

There is much disciplinary practice to fulfill before it can become a finished object. Since keeping that first journal, I've never even kept margins. In my rewrites, that will be a challenge, because I intend for this to all be handwtitten, never typed. So this is...a lot, but I can do it.

Alongside it, there will be other, much smaller projects. I'll need them to teach me along the way. A weird thing to want for someone who doesn't like reading that much, but less nonsensical for a writing enthusiast.