As a child, it’s a diary… as an adult, it’s a journal. By whatever name, I’ve always had one. Often throughout adolescence it was online (I still have a LiveJournal account hah) but nothing has the tangible effect as a physical journal.
The cover, the pages, the ink, the artifacts taped within… nothing compares. I’ve always been a fan of Moleskines. In the past, I’ve regularly carried the small lined notebooks in my purse and the full-sized at home. Throughout the packing process (preparing for the move), I am filling boxes with old journals. I buy them faster than I can fill them… much similar to the fact that I buy books faster than I can read them.
Recently I bought a pack of journals from Barnes&Noble and I’m going to share some pages that I’ve filled in the past week.
from Jonathan Adler. It says “Notes” on the back.
two blacked out poems made from a piece of prose from an issue of Whurk (a local monthly magazine which is rather fantastic).
A self-portrait… physical proof of my inability to draw. I do love to doodle though! Imagine the hair is red, the eyes blue, the teeth not creepy, and plenty of skin imperfections. My glasses are super cool but they aren’t quiet as enormous as characterized. I am pretty adorable though. 😉
another Currently. I’ll have the tell the story of Stalker Boy at another time. It was a very random incident that lingers like a haunting. I also plan on documenting the antiquing adventures of my momma and myself—where the 1950s dinner table and chairs were discovered. More importantly, I bought an antique pink velvet sofa which is the bee’s fuckin’ knees. GORJUSS.
…until next time.