||[Jan. 11th, 2007|03:50 pm]
I was never asked to be perfect. I was even repeatedly told by teachers, parents and others that perfection was impossible. I simply was never good enough. It had nothing to do with perfection. I was simply incapable of achieving anything, due to the expectations set forth. No matter what the task or instance, I was always expected to do better. Some might think me bitter or resentful for this. I was, as a boy. I have over time come to the conclusion that though I am not all that I aspire to be, I like who I am. As strange as it may sound I enjoy my own company. I generally like myself despite my shortcomings. I know some who can’t be alone, because of how much they dislike themselves. I also know that without the trials and tribulations of my life I would not be who I am today. There are things in my past I would not wish on anyone. Yet I know that without that experience I would not be me.
I want to write. I want to write for more than just the sake of ego, or the classic desire to make a log of one experiences for posterity. My desire is not so much to write a diary or memoir as it is to learn about my self in a unique way, and be able to go back when I am older and see what I was through the eyes of what I have become. I want to write every day. Every day. The problem comes in two forms for me. One is simply the means to do so. Time paper, ink a computer a typewriter, blood and stone, whatever it takes to put the word down. That is not so much and obstacle as a challenge. The other is fear. Some children are taught that they must be perfect. They spend their lives trying to always achieve impossible goals and when the inevitable moment arises that they do not succeed at something they have attempted, they break. The writing issue comes from my cultivated discomfort with my English and basic grammar skills. I have never been an effective grammarian. Punctuation still drives me batty. My handwriting is abysmal. I love to write. I love to craft images and form thoughts. I love reading well composed words. The ability to convey feelings and knowledge across time and space with a bit of ink and parchment is a wonder.
More than one teacher taught me that the quality of my efforts comes not from what I alone accomplish, but how that stacks up against my elders, peers, and juniors. I was repeatedly taught that despite the joy I received from writing, I was to cease doing so immediately to become a tree pusher or a cog swabber or some other meaningful job that I would be better suited. That and never write again. I had a few beautiful souls who encouraged me. They were a family of heart that loved me enough to give me positive guidance and support and always encourage me to follow the calling of my heart in all of my life. I lost that support as the family fell apart with the death of some of our core. Some of those I would have given my life for. After they died I took to writing in journals. It was what my grandmother and great-grandmothers had done so many years before, and had encouraged some of their grandchildren to do. I jotted down Ideas and thoughts constantly. On scraps of paper, I hoarded them in secret files on our family first computer. Anywhere I could squirrel them away for later. Slowly I trained myself to keep them so hidden that it became an anathema to show them to the light of day.
After years of hiding even from myself I began to build a new family. Yet despite loving all of them, always wanting them to know me, I held by the worlds inside. Just letting them out on brief occasions and the odd social rant, only to quickly stuff them into the shadows. Over time I shared them with some. They began to seep out a little at a time. I started hanging around an internet café in 1998. I began to expand my chosen family. We were a community of extraordinary and distinct souls. A few years went by and one of my brothers, booda, told me about Live Journal. At first I did not see the attraction, until the idea came to me about “the call to the void”. That is the desire to speak and know that it’s possible someone might hear you. That somewhere in the cosmos someone might hear your words be touched by your thoughts. Not a need to know, simply to know it was possible. That is why I don’t lock my posts. I have wandered through here ever since. I still love paper journals, both those that are filled and those waiting to be filled. I write all the time. I still want to write more consistently though. I want to make it a ritual to write at least once a day. Like any ritual it will take time, and effort. I will not ever be perfect at it. However, life has taught me that practice makes progress.
I will begin one step at a time. One more way to learn who I am and craft what I will become. Both an act of creation and record of life. If there is nothing to record, I shall record the nothingness and if, and when, I reach old age, I shall open one of my tomes of vanity and personal discovery, and light a fire to life and all of its verities, against the cold of faceless time.
If I lose the light of the sun, I will write by candlelight, moonlight, no light. If I lose paper and ink, I will write in blood on forgotten walls. I will write always. I will capture nights all over the world and bring them to you.”