Why Keep a Journal

In “On Keeping a Notebook”, Joan Didion writes that she was just a child when she began keeping a journal. Her mother had given her a Big Chief tablet and told her, instead of whining, to amuse herself by writing down her thoughts. Joan amused herself so much that she kept on writing.

Big Chief

Joan explains that she is not interested in recording the day’s events because she finds this boring and meaningless. She prefers a journal that mixes what happened with what might have happened.

The way we write about things in our diary is how we will remember them. Memory affects our psyche (and our psyche affects everything), so if we could learn to write about what has happened in a poetic way, we could make our lives read like poetry. Like Joan, we could whine less and amuse ourselves more.

Joan wonders if the need to write about others is indirectly minimizing ourselves. For me it’s the contrary. Writing about others is like suiseki, the Japanese art of stone collecting. It’s the talent of finding something extraordinary in the ordinary. For example, if the essence of a waterfall can be seen in the particular shape of a rock, the rock is collected and then displayed in such a way as to give it artistic autonomy.

Suiseki Stone

Of his ready-mades, Duchamp said that he’d simply tried to create a new idea for an object that everybody thought they knew.

I would love to keep a diary with a suiseki spirit and, like a talent scout, discover a special story in the people around me. By writing about others, we orbit less around ourselves and give our inner world a rest.

A diary can be seen as a rough draft for a book entitled “The Way I Used To Be.” That’s why rereading old diaries makes me uncomfortable. I no longer identify with the person who wrote them because I’ve changed so much. But that’s one of the main reasons we should keep one—so that we can see that change and understand that, even still, we’re in constant motion.

My mother told me that I cried on my first day of school because I was afraid of being ridiculed for not knowing anything. My low self-esteem had me focused on how little I knew instead of focusing on how much I was going to learn. Diaries are the opposite. You think you know everything about yourself. Then you reread a diary from the past and the you from your past seems like a stranger.

P.S. It’s interesting to note that the swastika is depicted on the Big Chief tablet as it was a motif commonly found in southwest American Indian designs. The swastika dates back thousands of years but all it took was one powerful dictator to change its meaning forever.

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“On Keeping a Notebook” by Joan Didion free pdf HERE.

SLOUCHING TOWARDS BETHLEHEM, a collection of essays by Joan Didion can be read via Archive.org HERE.

Related: Chinsekikan: Japanese Museum of Found Stones that Look Like Human Faces

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Sometimes you catch, sometimes your throw

Mexico has left many landscapes in my mind that won’t go away. One is that of driving hours through the desert when, unexpectedly, the nothingness was interrupted by a small village of homes constructed from cardboard boxes. Poverty had not obliterated the need for beauty. The homes had been painted with bright colours and further adorned with planters made from old tires. Suddenly I understood that art is an awareness, an awareness that existence alone is not enough.

 I‘d wanted to stop to take pictures but feared doing so would show a lack of respect. So the only photo I have is that in my mind. It’s there to remind me that, to give my life purpose, all I have to do is make art.

Sometimes You Catch, Sometimes You Throw

Life is not static. It’s about interrelating with yourself, with others, with the world around you. Sometimes you’re the protagonist, sometimes you’re a spectator. In other words, sometimes you catch, sometimes you throw.

It’s how you interrelate with the world around you that determines the quality of your life. You can sit there and whine about what you don’t have. Or, like the inhabitants of the cardboard village, you can paint your life.

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(from Luz Corazzini’s NOTEBOOKS ©)

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Transitions.

Night Driving

It’s time to move on. Time to prune the bushes and to rearrange the furniture. Time for a new hairdo.

See you in January!

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The Bluest Eye

Toni Morrison

Toni Morrison’s THE BLUEST EYE, although beautifully written, is a difficult book to read. Its topics of racism, incest, and child molestation keep the stomach in knots. Thus, despite the magnificent prose, there can be nothing poetic about the horrors of growing up as an African-American in a WASP America.

The novel gets its title from a prayer. That of Pecola, a little Black girl forced to live with a foster family because her home was burned down by her depraved and alcoholic father. Pecola considers herself to be ugly because of her dark skin. So she prays to God for blue eyes thinking that they will make her beautiful. For two years she prays but, despite all her prayers, her eyes were still brown. And for Pecola, those brown eyes are proof that God doesn’t exist.

Morrison dramatically illustrates how racism can lead towards self-hatred. And how self-hatred can lead towards insanity.

The message the book gives reminds me of Michael Jackson’s “Heal the World” lyrics. We can make the world a better place by learning to love more and to hate less.

To read THE BLUEST EYE by Toni Morrison on Archive.Org, go HERE.

Related: Lynching Postcards

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P.S. Imagine that you are an American citizen born and raised in the U.S. and don’t have the right to vote. Although the Civil War, in theory, gave Black men the right to vote, it wasn’t until the Voting Rights Act of 1965 that racial discrimination in voting was prohibited.

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Propagating Friendship

Summer before last as we were getting ready to leave Paros, my neighbor and adopted sister, Angeliki, gave me some cuttings from her canna lilies. I carefully wrapped them and replanted them once back in Rome. One part I planted on the balcony, another part in a pot that I keep on the dining room table. Every time I look at them, I get a feeling of joy and tenderness. And when I say “good morning” to the lilies, it’s like saying “good morning” to Angeliki, too.

Angeliki's Canna Lilies

A few years ago my Greek neighbour Vasiliki gave me some periwinkle cuttings. They were easy to grow and that Periwinkle Pink made me so cheerful that I started planting them everywhere and gave clippings to friends as well. Little did Vasiliki know how much joy she would be spreading when she gave me the periwinkles.

Balcony Periwinkle

I’ve always enjoyed propagating plants and often take walks with a small pair of scissors and a cloth bag in my purse in hopes of adding to my clippings. It’s not just about having plants for free. Above all, it’s about the idea of “da cosa nasce cosa”—from one thing comes another. From life comes life.

Clippings

Now I’ve started to collect clippings from my friends in Greece. It makes me ever so happy to have their plants near me when I’m in Rome. And when I water them, I greet these plants as if they were my friends there in person.

Propagating plants from your friends is like propagating friendship. Especially when one propagation leads to another.

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