Twenty years ago, while in Advanced Composition, we were
given the assignment of writing everyday in a journal. It was the first time I
had the need to write without being given any idea what to write about. What it
turned into was a stream of consciousness writing that opened up new doors
inside of me as I shut down the inner censor that was always hampering my inner
voice. It started slowly, eventually opening up something inside me that was
revelatory. I cannot say you will have the same effect reading it as I did
writing it, but I’m willing to see. The process is gradual, so you will have to
be patient. No attempt has been made to correct any errors except for spelling.
12-12-95
Writing without having a clue about what I’m supposed to
write about give to me an amount of freedom. I cannot possibly run out of
things to write when I have no…Or at least I thought so. Stream of
consciousness thought is easy to do but hard to put on paper. The thoughts flow
freely, but the hand that records c an only move so fast. Thoughts are lost,
often forever, as the slug-like fingers crawl across drag the pen across
the page. Then again, there is the part of me which wishes to edit, to conceal
whatever defects I may show. AS much as I don’t like to admit it, I am proud,
with plenty of petty vanities. Stream of consciousness shows my thoughts as they
occur, not as I would like someone to think they occur. I can only imagine,
though, that others feel the same way, that no matter how honest we think we
are, we hide ourselves behind little masks, many of which hide ourselves from
ourselves. I don’t particularly like where my thoughts are headed, but feel
compelled to continue this line of thought. Jack London writes in John
Barleycorn that there are two levels of truth, the healthy truth and the higher
level. The healthy truth teaches us to cherish the things that help us survive.
The higher truth simply is, without concern for us. Jack London said he
glimpsed truth unrobed and turned in horror. I feel compelled to look at what
London could not deal with. And yet I am afraid to relate that which I see. I
am afraid to confess my fear, my weakness, myself. And without other people’s
input, I think my vision is skewed by who I am, that others might see things in
a different light. There is a fine line, I suppose, between honesty and an over
willingness to burden other people with one’s problems. I mean, everybody has
problems, right? Nobody likes a whiner, and it’s not healthy to dwell on
negative ideas. Nothing is good or bad except in proportion. A certain amount
is good, but too much more or less makes it bad.
But here I run from the truths I wished to find. And even
now I am thinking I will destroy this paper before anyone sees it. I am ashamed
of my unguarded thoughts. Ashamed more of their bizarreness or mundaneness than
anything else. But perhaps just there I lied. I am afraid that anyone reading
this might find me strange. I feel an unguarded me is an unpleasant one. I am
here unguarded by the civilized me and am face to face with baseness, cowardly
emotions and base desires.
It’s funny, but I am merely a collection of things, none of
which is the true me. There is no indivisible whole that I can point to and
call “me”. Whatever. I do not like where this is leading. Should I terminate
this line of thought? Run from truth laid bare? Because it is true, you know,
all of it.
I sometimes tend to think that evil is an illusion, that if
I look clearly at it I will understand it and not be frightened by it, that
there is nothing to fear. Other times, I am all too sure that it is an entity,
to be avoided, and if need be, run from. I think at some level, we all run from
the truth. I think I have had enough of this line of thought—at least for now.
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