Tagwriting

Notebooks, Books, Paper

Dear Daniel,

This is hardly the letter you’ve been asking for, much less in the form you were expecting and even lesser — the content. But these are the words I have right now and I feel a need to say them to you and in written form. So here we go.

My Marie Kondo-ing has stopped and for the greater part of a month (maybe more?) I just sort of dropped everything in its place. So I resolved today to continue where I left off, on the category of paper. But what I have the most of is paper. As you well know. So I came across not 1 or 2 diaries, but FIFTEEN! Most of my old diaries are incomplete or blank and even reiterations of one another (as I used to “update” each diary on the same night as if each one were an individual friend).

The oldest diary I found is from 2000. One might be older but I didn’t bother looking at the dates. A lot of writing happened in the year 2001 when I was 12 and mostly I wrote about learning HTML and all my numerous websites and how I was meeting web-designers online, etc.

Most of the diaries can be saved because the majority of the pages are blank and I’m sure I can use some of them… right?? But the almost complete ones… the diaries whose purpose has been fulfilled, I’m finding it extremely hard to let go. I can’t bring myself to throw them away. And I know it’s because I treasure the past so much when I should instead be looking to the future. But memories mean so much to me and I don’t know what to do.

Reading things about my past recalls a time when I was a little bit more unaware of the world, a little more focused on creation and creativity and my most extreme worry was learning tables (now defunct), frames, and Paintshop Pro 7. I just want to be there, in those moments, again. The present feels so wrought with worry that I can’t even express it. The possibility of youth just seems so dwindled I’m even crying right now.

I think the romance in letters only comes from distance. We see each other every day, share our life every day but we have to concern ourselves with dishes, and walking the dog, and real things. Time is moving too quickly. I don’t want to focus on real things — I want to focus on the enjoyment there rarely seems to be time for anymore.

I know they’re just diaries. I know they’re the past. But I like looking back at written history and remembering. All those small insignificant things I wrote about (“I made a friend today,” “I went to Knott’s Berry Farm,” etc.) seem so much more monumental because I otherwise would never have remembered. And my appreciation for those captured memories is too great.

It’s hard living a minimal life. But I know once I get rid of some of these excesses then it will be easier to focus on the present and to an extent, look to the future to find my joy. For example, instead of being inundated by 200 books, if I had a collection of 20 it would be easier to go pick out a book and say, “Ah I know this is something I am going to enjoy reading.” The less mess there is to sort through, the easier the joy. But I’m just afraid some treasure will get mixed in with the mess. And I just can’t continue on. I’m far too emotional about paper. It feels like I’m throwing away every accomplishment and with it comes a fear that I will have no new accomplishments.

It’s funny how much more easily I am able to toss anything and everything else into the garbage but paper, but that’s because I know hardly anything else in this life is rare. There exists countless other copies and versions of just about everything. But not my personal past. That is unique and it cannot be replicated. But it can be forgotten. I don’t want to forget. Little else captures memories like the written form. Not even photos do that for me.

I need lessons in letting go. Or a storage plan for the past.

Yesterday I went to see Mr. Holmes finally. It’s about Sherlock Holmes, in a retired state, attempting to recall his last case but he is unable. He is senile and dying. This is something like my fear: not being able to remember something important. Because 10 years from now, 20, 30 years — how do you know what will have been important? Sherlock regrets not having written the story of his last case sooner and only through much hardship does he finally recall the last of his work. (I was almost in the theater alone and then some really old man came in. Apropos.)

Anyway, I’ll see you later tonight. We might have to change the movie we watch tonight but with so many great films out right now I think we’ll be OK.

-Bri

Cinnamon

Note to self: Make blog post for Elizabeth regarding morality and beliefs.

Lolol… so the title comes from one of Rona’s slip-ups. Since she makes fun of me all the time when I say something not to her liking (video, wolf, etc.) I decided to laugh about it. She makes me happy~~ 😀

I’m currently supposed to write a rough-draft of an original argument. The problem is that the essay’s topic is on ME. Ugh. I cannot write three pages on one of my personal traits, and demonstrate why that characterizes me. Three pages is too much. Blah. So to make it interesting, since we need two outside sources, I’m thinking of describing how  I’m happy using Aristotle’s definition of happiness. Lol… if I can make it about philosophy I will! Otherwise ugh… this is not an assignment I’m looking forward to writing. Tyler provided us with an article so we could use that and pick between being like Athenians or Visigoths… and so far I’ve always opted for the choice of picking some outside article to write my essays. Not this time though. I prefer writing analyses or critiques not original arguments.

This thing is due at midnight… alkfjlsfjlsjdf. What the hell. =\ At least I currently have a 99% in the class, though. *shrugs* Writing in stream-of-consciousness for about 10 minutes sometimes helps to get the writing process kick-started. I don’t really believe that, but I haven’t really been blogging so there ya go.

To keep myself happy I’ve been singing along to the Repo! soundtrack. Hahaha… but it’s sort of distracting, too.

Oh yeahhh… this is just a rough draft! I need to remember that. Though I do always write the entirety of my essay the first go-round so that for the final I just edit. Writing 2 sucks! I hate that UCSB doesn’t let you test out of it.

This weekend ought to be pretty fun, though, with me turning 20 and all that! 😀 Okkk, back to writing ze essay~!!

A Delightful Catchphrase

After a time – an indescribable amount of – there comes a point where people begin to blur. it’s a slow and steady blur, but it’s there. It’s … a strange singular blurry presence that is beginning to cloud over my vision of reality.

People are falling into categories. If you could hear my words now, well this would simply make more sense. In a way. Perhaps the lack of distinction amongst people is recent and so my words are not coming out … understandably. This notion of categories: what I mean is, an x amount of people all remind me of one another. And these people in group A could all have a single physical feature in common, or even a mannerism. I don’t know the requisites for each group but there they stand. Your names begin to fade. Your faces become one. And suddenly I don’t have an x amount of friends because they have faded. It’s getting harder for me to get your story straight. And what’s your name again? Oh, I was starting to think you all had the same name, were the same person, a group turned into one.

And no one individual is standing out to me as special. There is no sharpened figure amongst the blur.

My eyes are tired of looking at this big blur. I want to squint my eyes and look for the one person that seems different. The problem is, I’ve been looking too hard and now my eyesight is strained, tired, and nothing will ever look so clear to me as my memory of you. No one can compare, no one will ever compare. Everyone else adds to the blur, falls into another category of people.

Show me someone worthy of my attention.

Note: I don’t know. Most of this is true. I felt like writing it. Except there has never been anyone special in my life to be so clear amongst the blur. This should be interpreted as wishful thinking. Or a failed attempt at an emotional release. I don’t know.

Take it as you will.

Don’t Make Me Do This Again (Catharsis)

Separate yourself from the truth and it never happened.

Tall wooden chopsticks sifted through the white bean sprouts in her soup, at this point no longer looking for leftover noodles in the broth but rather wasting the time away. A quick beep brought her attention to her phone, which lay comfortably on the table, to her right. The text message said nothing pertinent to her current state of mind. Her eyes moved back from the screen of the phone to the soup and she contemplated finishing the orange thai tea in front of her. ‘She calls herself “happii” doesn’t she?’ the girl’s thoughts returning to the content’s of the text message. Such a seemingly innocent thing, that with a grain of time formulated much deeper thoughts in her mind.

Quickly she pulled out her small pocket moleskine, appropriately covered in the black cahier material. Sifting through her big blue purse for the pen did not come easily but after touching around for its shape she grabbed it and pulled it out. She didn’t recognize the pen, but that didn’t matter. Clicking the top she began to write furiously all her thoughts. The girl knew, without getting the thoughts down as quickly as possible that in an instant they’d disappear, become so insignificant… and her thoughts would turn into nothing more but a short ramble of nonsensical words.

“To call yourself as such you really must be very happy inside and glad for the cards life has dealt you. And just how in control are you of what cards you get?” These basic words introduced the unpleasant train of thought to come in a second. She sighed, sipping some of the thai tea. It felt cold in her mouth and on her tongue where earlier the warmth of the soup had warmed over her body. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to finish the cold drink, but she sipped on anyway, tempted very much by its exotic flavor. And she heard the wind howl cruelly outside, a cold chill running down her spine.

She looked to the other seat across her in the booth and the sudden realization that she was the only one eating alone suddenly hit her. This was why she had taken her time initially. Meals were consumed by mindless chatter and silly jokes, but without any of these she needed to preoccupy herself with those strange thoughts that filled her mind perpetually.

Ink flowed again onto the pages of the small notebook: “And I think back to my former self… the girl I was in 9th grade… and I can’t help but wonder if at any point my personality can revert back to that girl.” She had no need to elaborate the ‘who she was’ bit because of course she knew. She knew the optimism of her youth, or at least of that year. And the conversation she once had with Valerie came to mind. And how she had let Eric read it. Even he had marked it as important. It was. The conversation had taken place during December of 10th grade and it’d been epic. The thoughts were coming forth from the woodwork and none of them were going on paper. She felt a strong need to capture these in concrete words.

“The moment 10th grade began – the beginning of the end for me – everything changed. My environment changed. My personality changed. My friends changed… no longer did I have the ability to talk to and hang out with the people I thought would mean the most  and define the rest of my high-school experience. =/ There’s no reason to reminisce… those days are long past.

“I was what – 11 or 12? When I first got taken to the mental hospital.” With a single paragraph break she’d gone from 9th and 10th grade directly down to 7th. “The harsh truth of it is hitting me pretty hard right now and… I can remember fragments of it. Twice. My mother took me there twice. Each time it was for about 3 days.”

A short phone conversation and exchanging of money for the meal later, she continued, this time not in the comforts of the restaurant but in the dry coldness of the outside world. Biting her lower lip she wondered why she hadn’t just stayed inside a while longer. Surely no one would have minded but she’d been in there long enough and she needed a change of scenery. The parking lot was dimly lit. For no reason whatsoever besides the cold weather did she want to go back to her apartment. So she did the only other reasonable thing to do: she found a place to sit and write. The cold felt wholly painful and her hands stiff.

“It may have been the first time or the second time… I don’t know… but I got strapped to a gurney. There was no fight left in my body at that point and no reason for it, but I cannot for the life of me recall what exactly caused the argument between my mother and I. It could have been as simple as me not wanting to do my chores. So badly I want to cry right now. Yes damnit I happen to be in public. =/ There’s never any undoing of the past and those arguments have caused my mother and I to be distant now.

“The rows of beds in which we all slept. And I remember talking to them, listening to their stories all the while marking my superiority by telling myself how wildly different I was in comparison to them. No, now I realize not so different after all. We just made different mistakes but we are the same.

“And the shower. The tiles were entirely blue. It was down the hall and as my memory recalls it – it was a door, like opening a closet but inside was simply that shower room. And the questions they asked me. The pills they gave me. And the stares and disbelief. Did I shut down my mind? Specifics have always been blurry territory for me.”

Frozen hands closed the notebook. Clicking the pen shut and throwing these items back into her purse, that bright blue fashion item, the only thought she could think of now was: ‘Who can I call? I want to cry to someone that won’t judge me. Someone who will listen. Someone who doesn’t care about my past because I’m passed that… I’m someone else now, but someone that will still listen.’

And sure enough a name came to mind. Dismissing the name was easy. There was no way in hell she would ever call him. The feeling of heartbreak and loss rose in her chest. More and more she wanted to cry now, but it’d be a waste if no one heard it. There is no consulation in crying alone. A new name came to mind. No, she hadn’t talked to him in a while and the last thing she wanted to do was call back after all that time – and cry. Another name. No. That call from earlier, she’d told her friend she would call back, but she didn’t want to talk to her anymore. A few more deep breaths. ‘Remember, you’re in public. There’s no crying allowed.’

And now the moment is gone.

-Stolen from the moleskine diaries.