|Fuck You and Your Blog Journal
This—illustrator/designer Ray Fenwick's darling journal—my daughter brought to my attention while perusing vintage cards and local artwork at an East Side gift shop. Oh. My! I said, and quickly stole the book from her purple-painted fingertips. The book is nothing more than near blank peachy pages, which is precisely the sort of instrument in which I used to journal (though my daily entries were not punctuated by profanity—the Catholic lexicon wouldn't permit, the backside of the wooden spoon deterred), back in another time when longhand was not a lost art. Back when I eagerly opened my fabric bound diary and looked squarely at the Date line, recording the time of arrival, and quickly, with little regard or fear, dusting the soot-swathed nooks of my psychic pipes.
This was where the deconstruction of each day began and ended. It's where I dismantled the events, the words, the thoughts and attempted to reassemble the scattered collection with lambent reflection. At some point during my college years, the journal was abandoned, the pipes left accumulating wending years of daily-minutiae-dust with little thought to the passing days. They came. They went. They happened. Without so much as a scratch of hand-forged verbosity.
I had stopped paying attention. I had stopped taking notes.
For a good while.
But desires, emotions and observations stockpile over time. And begin to restrict flow. Words smoldered for years—years—an incomplete combustion, neither enough heat nor light to stoke the fire, muck-lined tin smothering invention. The pipes needed to be swept. Cleaned. Scraped.
I don't remember when that primal urge to scratch black manganese stories on a slab returned to me, but thank goodness several years ago it did. It came rushing back, wafting at me like a great big smoke signal. Convert thoughts to printed words, it puffed, restore those pipes to good working order...
Muscle memory doesn't serve well for longhand journaling—I can barely read my own scrawl. So this blog, my techno-journal, is where it happens now. Not all of it. But some of it. And you can tell me to go Fuck Off, but I'm most likely going to hang in here, scraping away, pulling things apart and reconnecting a while longer.
Deconstruct and reassemble—now that really lights my fire.
|Old Typewriter - Photo by Todd McLellan,
from his Disassemby series
I do like Fenwick's witty little journal, though. Maybe I'll get it for bedside epiphanies.