My Journaling Practice

Our Lack of Internal Life

My main man Seth sent me this post. Which I loved. And I have written about journaling before, but I spoke to Seth for a while last night and thought about the idea of an internally explored life.

Since I was in college I carried 2 books with me every where I have ever moved to. They were in the Jansport, the Timbuk2, and in whatever the carryon was on every plane I ever jumped on. They were tucked in every tour bus bunk, and in the nook in every punk rock van. They are in my shoulder bag now, when I leave the house. I carry ‘Leaves of Grass’ by Walt Whitman, and ‘Howl’ by Allen Ginsberg.

I think that says something about me, and about how I came to develop into this version of myself.

And I have kept a journal since the last day of 6th grade, until today at age 53. In my adulthood I have taken 30 minutes to sit quietly and write in a notebook with my hand holding a pen. There is a lot of nonsense and stuff that surrounds my life, but every day no matter what, no matter where, I sat alone and wrote in a notebook for at least 30 minutes. And none of you have read it (I assume Jackie peeked in college, but never said anything).

All those years of journals are stored in a footlocker that my folks gave me when I went away to college. Now, I truly wonder if I would buy a 18 year old a footlocker to go away to college, but they did. This is not exactly it, but its a footlocker.

Inside my footlocker is a document of my life. My daily life for all these years. And when I die, if my wishes are honored, a woman named Amanda will get the footlocker, and she can do with it as she pleases.

Seth and I talked about the nature of an internal life, an explored internal life. A considered, experienced, internal life. Not a life lead outloud. Not the no pic no count life. But a life lived. And a life considered.

You see, one of the things Seth and I talked about was this idea of over sharing. Which I sort of think is real and not real at the same time. I believe all of it is worthy of our art. Our stories. Our shared common ground. Our stories in many ways, contain the power to put us together. When I tell a story to someone, I pull them into my metaphorical life lived arms. They are with me, face to face, voice to voice. Heart to heart. And they can find themselves in the story, or maybe not. But, as a story teller, if you take the time to let me tell you a story, I am going to work to find a way for you to be in the story somehow. I am going to knowingly pull you to me. That is what I am going to do.

But, there is another part of that coin. The simple purging of oneself into something like social media. Years ago, at my friend Erics wedding, Erics mom came up to me and said, “Dino, I had to unfriend you on facebook, it was just too much stuff too often, and I could not keep up!” You see, at the time there was some way to connect twitter to facebook. And I was just in love with early twitter, and early facebook, and I was high as a kite on whatever the chemical we got back in the day from that sense of connection. But, it was just too much for Erics mom.

Now I am a fan of the confessional, the memoir, the blurt as art. I love it. Pollock is my favorite artist. Iggy Pop is my favorite musician. I used to choose DMX over Jay-Z. I love the immediate. And look, I also love the 3 minute pop song as perfected by Material Issue. But, there is something to be said about distance.

As a student of writing, with teachers like Marcia Hoard, or Susan Firer or Herb Blau….I was taught that the journal is a secret and private space. As a child of boxing adults in my dad in my uncle, the gym is a secret place for you to learn, and prepare. So, like the sparring for a box, my journal is a place to spar. To work on writing, to work on ideas, to try things out. So, that when I set down with a Google Doc and write something, there is something that was practiced, and CONSIDERED before I did it.

I am also a giant fan of stand up comedy. In 1986 Robin Williams released an album called ‘A Night at the Met’. And it is a brilliant tour de force. It is absolutely perfection. It flows so fast, and so smooth that people thought it was just Williams opening up his brain and letting it flow. The only things is, that is not the case. Williams worked for MONTHS almost every night of the week at Comedy Clubs trying the material over and over again, to get it right. He was sparring. He was freewriting. It was a time before the ability to really privately record this stuff, so he felt safe to dance on a high wire in comedy clubs, in order to get it right because he knew he was going to the Met, and he was going to record an album.

He was sparring.

He was in the gym.

He was writing in the metaphorical journal.

He was looking for it.

And maybe, just maybe we have lost that in some way. We have taken a sort of First Thought, Best Thought stance, and gave it growth hormone, and mixed it with our cultural loneliness and our loss of meaning in our lives, and added a digital camera. And now we have instagram feeding something. We have facebook and threads, and SUBSTACK feeding something. Not sure what it is exactly, but something feels different.

There are no more private first drafts between you and your friends. There are no first drafts reviewed by a senior person, and changes made, and then reviewed again. Then sent out into the world. But, that is not how we do it now. Heck, that is sometimes something I do not do.

I was taught that the journal is a safe place. You see, for me it started off inspired by Harriett the Spy and her notebook. Then it became Dear Diary. Then a lot of writing teachers and classes. I was taught that the journal, like the gym, is where you try ideas, see if they can catch, and then and only then do you put them forward.

I was also taught that the journal is a safe place through which you can order your existence to try to understand it better. That the confusing pieces of your life are made better with the distance of the notebook and the pen. If you write about it, something might come to you in your head, and you find something to resolve and unresolved.

This past weekend I had coffee with a friend and his 12 year old son. His son loves making up stories and imaginary worlds. He sits with a google doc and builds a universe. I asked him if he had ever written his stories with a pen and paper. He looked at me like I was insane. I said that writing with a pen and paper is a different set of mental stimuli for your brain to have while creating something, thereby changing the act of creation. The act of scratching with fountain pen, flowing with a roller ball, or pushing a ball point across all sorts of paper is different than sitting infront of a screen and typing something. Not better or worse. Just different. I said I would buy him some writing stuff to try.

That distance between writing and sharing, that is where some of us live. Most of us live. We do not need to tell you everything, but we need to tell you somethings. But, today it feels like there are people who need to tell you everything. I respect the desire to be heard and seen, but maybe a bit of distance gives you internal life a larger breath of life, and maybe you choose to keep it to yourself.

“As the saying goes, with great power comes great responsibility. And just to rip the band-aid right off - it’s a responsibility that many of us are ill-equipped to handle. We tear ourselves apart, we spiral - and then spiral over our spiralling. We don’t know how or when to stop.

In the pre-digital age, privacy was the default state. Sharing information required effort - writing a letter, making a phone call, or having a face-to-face conversation. Now, privacy requires effort. We have to actively choose not to share, to resist the temptation to post, to keep our thoughts and experiences to ourselves.

This reversal has profound implications. When sharing is the default, we share without thinking, flooding our networks with a constant stream of information. Some of it’s harmless, sure. So much of it is deeply personal, our darkest thoughts, our fears, our compulsive thoughts.” -Joan Westenberg