I almost started this yesterday, when for seemingly no reason the word “ilk” was in my head first thing upon waking, but I thought it might be a fluke.
I was proven wrong when today another random word appeared. Thus, let “the new thing” begin…
Today’s first random word to pop in my head is: quincunx. More later, maybe… the important thing was that this begin.
My left pinky is still healing. It has been eleven days since I hurt it. I saw it coming. I knew the energy was messed up. The question, now, has become… could I have prevented it? I can’t help but be curious about what, at that very instant or perhaps just the moment prior, might have occurred in the immediate surroundings, or perhaps in my extended circle of energetic presence.
Twice in the last twenty-four hours I have noticed the phrase “good riddance” in something I was reading. The two things I was reading were totally unrelated. For some reason, it struck a chord when this phrase came up the first time. I found it, therefore, even more so resonant when I read it twice in the timespan of one day.
Some time ago, before MySpace, then Twitter, then Facebook took over the internet, I was keeping an online journal. At first, I was not very interested in it, but I did it anyway, daily and sometimes multiple times per day. In short time I found it to be a very satisfying experience which I actually looked forward to doing. I also found it a very useful tool to inspire myself creatively.
I have since then become a very private person. The internet has changed and everybody is always on Facebook now. Nobody seems to care about anything but getting the approval of someone else, via a “Like” or a “Follow” or whatever. For a time I was a part of the whole social media game, at one point having over 1500 “friends” on Facebook. I went from maintaining a constant daily journal, which offered me inspiration to write and create prose or poetry, which kept track of important events in my life and which served me therapeutically during times of difficulty, to making the whole thing private in favor of Facebook status updates. A year or so after that, I realized I wasn’t writing anymore. I wasn’t journaling anymore. I was less happy.
So, I deleted all of my “friends” on Facebook. I thought that was the problem. It didn’t occur to me that I wasn’t journaling anymore. I just went offline entirely, except for whatever stragglers were out there from the ubiquitous presence I had previously established. All journals were private and I never even read them anymore, much less bother to post. I also noticed that I wasn’t writing anymore. All throughout my life I have written little bits of prose here and there when I felt the need to express myself. I don’t know if any of it was ever any good from a technical perspective, but I was fond of some of it. I would go back and update it later, again and again, until I was eventually happy with it. Then I would forget about it for a while and later repeat the process. These bits of writing evolved with my life. I wasn’t doing it anymore. Why? I’m not really sure.
I haven’t really determined what use Facebook has for me. I’m not sure what use it is for me to Tweet. (I deleted all of my tweets, too, when I decided to become so private.) I do, however, have a theory about journaling: it is a useful personal tool. For me, it seemed to be a catalyst for creativity. I wrote more during the time I was journaling than I ever did previously.
I think, maybe, I stopped doing it because I was thinking that one day I might wish to publish a book of all of my writings, or somehow tie them together and create something useful, artistic or interesting. Some stupid part of me then insisted that I had better not be blogging or else I would never be able to publish such a thing. I say that was some stupid part of me and I mean it most emphatically, since what ultimately occurred is that I stopped writing altogether because of this ridiculous postulation. The fact is, if that is what is meant for me to do, then it shall happen regardless of whether or not I chose to publish something to a blog previously. When I started thinking about my journaling and writing activities from a fear-based, capitalist, monetary perspective, I lost my inspiration. I closed down and I went private. I hoarded my inner muse and she eventually fell silent. I haven’t written since.
I’m not sure how to reawaken my inner muse, but I know from whence she emerged in the past: journaling. She was with me before social media exploded. I have escaped from social media into my little domain here and I haven’t told anybody about it. Here I am, hidden in plain sight.
the space between the notes 