Radio free europe
[later on in the evening.]
Why did I start this?
Already, anxiety is welling up in me. I got four packages from four separate colleges, each telling me something I had forgotten. A cheque, an essay, my life story.
I wrote things further down this entry that I want to refine. Make more coherent, more fluid, and more comprehensible. I want to explain myself, make it easy to get along with, comfortable and elegant.
And it frustrates me that it's not. And when today ends, I can't go back and make it comfortable and elegant. I have to be true to the journal.
It's killing me. If I could, I'd spend every spare minute working on this journal. (a shrine to myself? that's how I'd spend my time? terrible!)
I have exams coming up. I have so much work to do. And I feel this anxiety, this fear, I'm so afraid...
I don't know what to do with myself...
earlier entry:
I tried to write a journal entry at school, but didn't have the time or the privacy. I felt watched. And I was switching between browser windows and didn't have the attention span necessary to write a real entry. Later in the day, my plan was to write; "I am very much in love. No more long entries." and pass it off as an entry. Well, I guess I can't always promise such long entries. They tire me out. But then, I can't say something like "I am so very much in love." and just leave it. That wouldn't be terribly fair, now would it?
Well, I didn't write that entry (oh how I wanted to...). I started wondering about it though. If I fall in love with someone, I probably couldn't write about it in this journal (my friends read it!). Now, I've never fallen in love with anyone. Unless you count The Edge. And I could probably talk, for some length or another, about love and all that sort of stuff. (I won't right now, I'm just using this as an example.) (Actually, I don't know if I could or not. I could probably try.)
It would drive me crazy if I left "I'm so very much in love," in my diary. Just that. No explanation. No analysis. Nothing. Maybe it would drive you crazy too. I don't know.
May I now state: I am not in love. With anyone. Even myself.
---
I've been thinking an awful lot about the Art Of Online Journals (uhmm. metajournals reference). The reason I started a journal (way back in August) was to get through some sheer boredom. I don't think I've ever felt boredom as such a force, but I've found that it can drive me to almost anything. I was working in a meaningless job (child care is the nice way of putting it), and to pass the time I typed out journal entries on their computer.
They're horrible to read now, because I had no sense of the audience. (something I think is very necessary, but shouldn't be obvious when you're reading the journal.) They were written to keep my brain from melting down, and really served no other purpose.
Do I have a purpose here? Yeah, it's to learn to write better. It's to learn how to tell stories. It's to polish my grammar. That nagging question comes up every time - why online? Cause I like connecting. Cause I love so many other online journals. I know how to love an online journal, and I think that there'd be people out there that might like mine. I'd be sad if some of my favourite journals didn't write, and didn't put it online. A hope for the future: maybe there'd be someone who'd love my journal.
Maybe. I'm not too concerned. And I can always imagine that someone out there does like this, and just hasn't spoken up.
The other purpose is this: I share my journal with my friends because it keeps me from having to repeat myself. I've almost always done this with my journals. Now, katie won't read my journal (I pretend she does) because Margaret Was A Moron back in June. (When I publish my college essay - when it's finished - you'll know why.) However, there are plenty of people in my real life that I give the link to, and I'm fairly sure they read it. I get tired of telling my stories all the time, and I like having a central place for the stories to go.
Now, I've never tried my hand at fiction. And I've never seriously tried to write poetry. Or prose for that matter. I write argumentation papers and research papers fairly well. Journals is about it. I wonder, sometimes, if I can learn to write fiction from writing a journal. Or if a journal qualifies as real prose. (Hmpth. that's a risky statement... Well, I do think a journal can house fine prose.)
I aspire to write a really wonderful online journal. That's definitely one of my goals. I don't exactly know how to define "wonderful online journal," though. There are journals I love and read avidly, but I don't want to write like them. It's a matter of taste and style. (It used to be "I don't think I'm capable of writing like them." I'm sure I'm capable. I have faith in my future...)
These entries have been incredibly long lately. I don't know why that is, I suppose I've had long stretches of uninterrupted time. They've been goofy too. I've been having fun.
---
Last night, I was talking to Tim online. He said he didn't know how to respond to my journal entries about depression. I know exactly how he feels. I always come across parts of the net, journals and otherwise, and worry horribly about these complete strangers. My jaw drops, I drop my teacup, I just worry and lose my voice. Terrible things have happened to them, or worse, terrible things are happening to them. It drives me crazy, and I feel completely ineffectual.
What are you supposed to say when someone tells you they're depressed? I don't know. While I was at my therapists, he gave me the pills, and gave my parent's a call. "What should we do for her," they asked him. "Give her ice cream and sympathy." Man, I have tons of both. What else can you say? Nothin'. And I understand that, trust me, I understand.
---
My friend Jason gave me a tape today, completely out of the blue. Mix tapes are fantastic, and quite the Lost Artform. There's some Le Tigre, Bowie, Stereolab, and Sleater-kinney. I just listened to the whole thing, really love the Le Tigre stuff.
Alright.
I wonder if someone out there'll think any different of me because of the music I listen to. I also really love U2. And other smarm of equal caliber.
What if I was really into Harry Connick Jr? Or horribly commercial pop music? Or country? And I said so and you thought differently of me.
Now, I used to say "I want you to know me through my writing, not my taste in music." I'd argue, now that I'm ever so wise, that I'm not a good enough writer for you to know who I am. (hell, I don't know who I am. how can I expect you to peg me?)
Oh man, all these long entries are exhausting. That took me an hour and a half to write. I wonder what'd be better: writing long entries a couple times a week, or writing short entries every day.
(shrug)
It's all safely inconsequential. Thank god - wouldn't want to talk about anything too important.
2000-01-10, Online journals / Music and perceptions...
before / after archives / website / hello book / diaryland