journals, books, and burritos

I have written on (nearly*) all the pages in my Moleskine journal. This means that for the first time in my life, I have actually filled an entire journal. I still lack consistency: the first page has an entry from August of 2006, and I certainly have not written every day since then. Two hundred and forty pages of bottom-of-the-brain dregs from one and a half years of being alive. 

On top of that, here is another surprising realization. I was curious to know how many books I had read lately so I consulted the list in the back of my Moleskine. Fifteen books in the month of March. [shakes head in incredulity] I have spent a lot of time this month with my eyes firmly nestled in the pages of books. (Is there a better place? Honestly.) Becoming a member of the British library here in Bangkok just may have been one of the best investments of my recent past. Even better than my weekly investment in Mexican food. 

I'd really like to chalk this up as a good month. I think I will. 

Tomorrow starts a new month and a new journal. Good. 

*There are two pages reserved for writing down which books I have read and will read. So I guess that makes two hundred and thirty-eight pages. Eh, close enough for government work.

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Not Quite Café Terrace by Night

Not Quite Café Terrace by Night
Originally uploaded by chaayenyen

One of these days, I am actually going to invest in oil paint and instruction. Until then, dear reader, you might have to suffer the occasional bad reproduction of a famous painting.

But they are so much fun.

coffee insomnia

It's one-thirty in the morning. Having that espresso (and free iced latte chaser) at the neighborhood coffee shop wasn't a good idea. I should know better than to caffeinate myself after six o'clock. [sigh]

My desktop is littered with pages from the academic bulletins of several schools: Walla Walla, Andrews, and UMass. On my real desk, there are pieces of scratch paper covered in calculations and lists and options. I have arrived at a scant two conclusions: one, university is expensive; and, two, I don't know what I want from life. I have neither plan nor goal to organize my life around.

I am listless and frustrated. And I can't sleep. Whatever the opposite of giving up is, that's what I want. To un-give up.

Four and a half hours until tomorrow. Ugh.

books are my drug of choice

Currently scrunching some wireless. I finished a book today, and I am wary of starting another. Chances are if I start a book, it will keep me up late again. For something like the fourth time this week. There wasn't a new book every night--mind you, I am not that literarily promiscuous--but almost every night.

This last book was titled the The Short and Wonderous Life of Oscar Wao (Junot Díaz). I found myself identifying way too much with the protagonist. So much that when the narrative ended with Oscar's death, I curled up in bed with a knot in my stomach and escaped into a nap. Words and stories and characters have a way of crawling under my skin and messing with my mind (I know that's not possible with the blood-brain barrier and all, but it's true). When I read A Million Little Pieces (James Frey), there were moments when I had to turn my head and eyes away from the page because it was too intense; the narrative had drawn me in to the point of needing desperately to hit the mute button.

Does this happen to normal people when they read? Gosh. Why are books so damned powerful? Err, darn powerful. (Depending on your sensiblities.)

no worst, there is none

I have tried to write this post hundreds of times. I simply cannot develop an adequate explanation of how bad the last two months have been. There is an entry in my journal that reads

I am not doing as well as I would like people to think. That is why this is on paper in my journal. I don't trust myself to be honest with another person. This may not even make it out of my journal. But I am beginning to become desperate...

I suppose, at long last, the entry has made it out of my journal. But not in its entirety. A small part of the reason why I haven't written a post in two months is that I wanted neither to blacken this blog with the negativity that was bubbling inside nor paint a facade of falsehood about how things were going. A large part of the reason why I didn't blog was because on the bad days I couldn't muster the energy, and on the okay days I was afraid that reflection would cause a spiral into another bad day.

For now, that is as close to an explanation as I can manage. The paint in my memory hasn't yet dried and I am wary of getting too close.

Things are better. The okay days have lately been outnumbering the bad. And, oddly enough, I've been delving into poetry. I covet the poet's mastery of expression.

No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief-
Woe, wórld-sorrow; on an áge-old ánvil wínce and síng —
Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked "No ling-
Ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief."

O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.

-Gerard Manley Hopkins

I get this. Deeply, where the threads of my soul come together.