SOME FAMOUS JOURNAL KEEPERS

Researching for my journaling class coming up, I found this list of 10 famous journal-keepers:  

Virginia Woolf                                    Anais Nin

David Sedaris                                    Jonathan Franzen

C.S.Lewis                                           Joan Didion

Franz Kafka                                       Susan Sontag

Jessamyn West                                 Ray Bradbury

Virginia Woolf began writing her journal in 1915, at the age of 33, and continued until four days before her death.  She left behind 26 volumes written in her own hand.  A Writer's Diary is a collection of her journals edited by her husband and a must-read for any writer.  One of the uses Woolf found for her diaries was as a place of exploration, of trying out ideas and styles for her writing.  Here is an excerpt from an entry dating to April 20, 1919:  What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk, or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through. I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art.

Many of us writers use our journals the same way: jotting down thoughts and snippets of conversations we overhear, copying memorable passages we read, trying out different voices and tenses for a story or a poem, and just plainly documenting our daily lives - sometimes dull and dreary, other times exhilarating and surreal.  

Do you keep a journal?

What do you write in it?

Do you illustrate it?

Do you read it months, years later?

What do you learn about yourself from the practice?

Tell me.

THE INNER JOURNEY: JOURNALING IN THE MODERN AGE

Journal writing is not about writing better; it’s about writing freely.  It requires the whole brain: the left brain – intellect, rationale, order, and the right brain – problem solving, intuition, creativity, emotion.  Both sides work together on the page. 

The journal is a place of centering, of stepping into a quiet world to focus on what’s within and what’s around.  Writing in a journal is not only a way to communicate with yourself and the world but also a way to keep a record.  And it’s a form of contemplation and examination.  Anchoring insights is another benefit of journaling. 

Journaling can help with personal growth and development by regularly recording your thoughts.  In this way you will gain insight into your behaviors and moods.  In addition, writing in a journal is an effective tool for use in the healing process.

Journaling forces you to crystallize your thoughts into written content, which simultaneously forces you to think deeper into the topic that is important to you. The most important fact is to get to the core and to stay honest with yourself. If you are truthful with yourself, you will get to the point where you see the next level of thought that you avoided so far, leading towards a solution.  We go to the gym to keep our body in shape.  We go to the doctor to clear problems.  Why not do the same with our mind and spirit by getting rid of the mental weight we accumulated over time? 

Self-Reflection is the method to do this and writing a journal is the path to that end.

Unveiling the Mind

Soon my new poetry collection will be published.  In the meantime, here is the title poem:

Listen to the poem celebrating Egyptian writer and activist Nawal el-Saadawi

WEATHER PATTERNS

The snow appears outside the glass doors without warning. Where does it come from? Undoubtedly from the west. All weather comes from the west, moves east, disappears on the way to Europe over the Atlantic. Sometimes weather comes from the north or the south but not often. The west brings us cold wind, warm breezes, rain, and snow. This particular one is unexpected. And certainly unwelcome.

I notice the sun on my blue tablecloth, the half-empty bottle of red wine. I notice the radio speaking to me about news. Later, the fog rolls in, enveloping the skyscrapers in a white mist. I see them from my perch atop the house, in my attic where I write stories. 

But today the sun shines daringly, elbowing itself from between clouds, like saying "let me out. Let me shine. These people need warmth and brilliance. They've had a long, cold, dark winter." Sometimes the clouds oblige. And we are joyous with light and heat. We thank them, go on with our daily lives, hoping they will stay away for a long time, hoping they will allow the sun to reign over us for a long time, a very long time yet.

COLLAGES ANYONE?

       Sitting and reading - 20 x 16 in. - $150.00


      Los Internacionales - 15 x 19 in. - $100.00

These are two of my collages for sale.  I have many more.  If you are interested, write me.  Make me an offer.  They are ready to be framed and hung.  More coming...

THE AMBIVALENCE OF TRAVEL

It is the last day of the millennium in Buenos Aires --

another journey after a long absence, lunch

by the river with the childhood friend, Plaza Mayo

with signs demanding justice, café La Biela

where the breeze greets us as we sit by the window across

from the cemetery for rich folks, and the uncertainty returns:

Why don’t I live here?

Why do I travel?

* * *

Llueven gatos y perros en NY dice el taxista

con turbante que corre por la Park Avenue

sobre el asfalto mojado.  En NY todo me parece industrial,

gris y moderno, como el cielo nublado

de esta tarde de abril en Soho.  En NY

la gente linda, joven y elástica se mezcla con los turistas

en zapatillas blancas sacando fotos a todo y a todos.

La gente linda, joven y elástica vestida de negro de pies

a cabeza camina rápido, me atropella.  En NY

las calles humean en blanco.  El tedio me cubre,

me llena el alma aburrida ya de las grandes ciudades. 

Añoro el campo o el mar, la playa, el pueblo.

Añoro el silencio interrumpido por el viento o

un cuervo volando bajito.  In NY smells of falafel

and hummus mix with blaring horns

and sirens.  “August is Anal Sex Month in NY” reads an ad

in the Village Voice.  In Harper’s I read a letter found

with the bodies of two dead

young men from Africa:

Yaguine Koita, 14 yrs. old,

Fode Tourakana, 15 yrs. old.  

Two boys found in the cargo hold

of an airplane, in Brussels.

The letter asks the citizens of Europe

to help Africa.  The boys wanted to

study, to become like us they say.

How is this possible?  I ask. 

Why not? You say.

I can and

cannot believe it.

Trashy,

New York is always trashy,

a madhouse

but 

sometimes

I want to be like the New Yorkers, 

the frenzied intellectuals,

the funky-dressed women,

the pierced artists.

A thickset woman lowers her pants against

the wall in Brooklyn.  I can see her naked buttocks. 

After she’s done, she struggles to pull them up,

moaning.  People steer away

from her, afraid to catch her disease.

* * *

The mistral blows in Provence.   I sip coffee at

Van Gogh’s Sanatorium’s Garden, the pansies of all colors:

yellow, purple, white, red, the cypresses: I stand among them and imagine him

– the yellows and purples weaker in real life,

not like his, intense, brawny, almost startling.  He

was right about the light here. Did Vincent

sit here too and drink?  Certainly he painted.

After climbing the steps to Bonnieux, we sit overlooking the village

under a cool shade, awed by the gothic beauty

of these perched villages, the stonewalls,

the church steeple bathed in sunlight.

Do we go places to tell our friends

we’ve been there? To tell ourselves?  To keep a list?

True beauty is

in the quotidian, in the small stuff.

The constant motion frightens me,

a reflex reaction from centuries of displacement

and migration, of diaspora,

lived entirely in one day.

It is very warm in St. Tropez and Brigitte Bardot is nowhere to be found.

We sit across from the Casino Monte-Carlo

hoping to see the “rich and famous”

but all we see are Americans with cameras.

* * *

Serene but for the squawking birds

sleep eludes me in Tampere.

This room boasts of windows, of sun and trees, too radiant

in this midsummer night.

The never ending light disorients me.

I have narratives I say: Let me tell you a story.

While I stroll Tampere streets or sip a cup of coffee

fragments of Cortazar’s stories materialize,

Borges’s people appear when I look out

the window.  And I’m back –

in Buenos Aires -- its energy, its night life, its contradictions. 

Borges said he didn’t believe the city was founded;

he believed it always existed.  You

never really leave Buenos Aries, it lives with you forever,

said another writer. 

I know.

It lives in me, has lived

despite the years and the distances.  And now

I try to imagine my life as if I had never left it. 

I paint scenarios.

I question. 

I have no clear answers yet.

RanDOm thOUGthS & quEStioNs

I just finished reading Redfield Farm, a novel about Quakers, the Underground Railroad, and the Civil War.  Engaging, easy to read, with lots of names of people who marry, have babies, and die.

When will Winter be over?  I'm tired of wearing coats and gloves and socks.

Life takes over. The blog is neglected.

I talk to people.  Strangers on the train, the bus, a cafe.  I talk to people holding maps on the street: do you need help? Where do you want to go?  It's a family thing.  

Last week I found an artist's portfolio on the "L".  No one paid attention to it.  No one wanted to touch it.  I took it, found a name inside, emailed the owner.  He was very grateful.  

Why are people afraid of each other?

I remember when women - young and old - walked arm in arm on the street.  

I remember when brides walked out of their homes to go to the church. We threw rice at them.

What is "Alice in Wonderland syndrome"?

I have fits of yawning.  Often.