Journal Entry – #003

Good intentions are of no use: I was browsing the net last night. Again. I couldn’t read any books yesterday because of that. I am reading 10 books at once, plus extras. I’ve got this schedule that makes me read – forces me to read – every one of them. It works like this: in the morning (& in the afternoon, for that matter) I can read as many books as I want, as many chapters as I want, but at night I must read only 1 book, the one least read and at least a chapter of it. It would be a very good schedule if only I followed it. I do follow it, but yesterday I disregarded it completely. Saturdays are the worst days ever.

As for today, I woke up at 9 am and went out to buy food. On reaching the subway, I glanced at the clock: 9:15 am?!? Oh god, the DST ended Saturday! When I got to Liberdade fair, I couldn’t buy any food, since they were still mounting the booths and the shops were all closed. I paced up and down that ungodly square under a scorching sun for 2 unholy hours! I had little money on me and I almost spent it all in magazines (only magazine stands were open). To make matters worse, the place was packed full of wondering wandering people. I thought I would lose it. As soon as I could possibly muster, I bought food and ran away from that place. Very comical indeed.

I was getting disappointed in Saul Bellow. His novel Humboldt’s Gift was beginning to wear me down but now I have fallen for his writing style again. Damn, the man’s good! I read about 5 chapters of it today – and to think I was unwilling to read the whole thing at all! Amazing, isn’t it?

Oh, I’ve created another blog. I shall create many others. Just today I surfed the net and ranted all over my many blogs. I gotta stop these things.

Surprised at my terrible grammar and spelling and handwriting? I do tend to be all sparks and glory at the beginning & ashes afterwards. It’s a diary, after all. It must reflect myself.

Disconnections, sudden shifts of subject, intrusive thoughts, distractions, insights, bursts of pedantry, self-abuse & self-worship – & most of all, idiosyncrasy – are to permeate all through this diary. I can’t help it & surely you can’t help me. I told you to leave hope behind.

As I write, dark clouds sneak into my view. I am writing by the window, the sun has set but a glint of light still lingers on the horizon. These same blackish clouds are wiping away that band of light. It must be winding like hell on the skies above, they’re passing by so fast. One looks like a buffalo. Or a cat.

It’s 7 pm already. The sky has taken a lovely shade of royal blue.

Journal Entry – #002

17Feb2005

Here is the first of a series of disappointments – or maybe this isn’t the first one – a diary with a preface. How crushed were you when you realised you weren’t actually reading the diary? Maybe you were just amused and you’re reading this now with the same enthusiasm and light-headedness as you did before. Maybe your heart’s skipping even faster, because you were put on hold for too long, and your curiosity’s about to set your heart ablaze – or you could just be bored to death. I’ve warned you not to set your hopes to high – for this isn’t the diary yet, but a prologue. I just wished to dabble once more in metalanguage. Will you indulge me?

The reason of this prologue is to find the reason why people write diaries. Many do, it’s a widespread habit. I could argue that they are reminiscent of the religious confessions, but then I’d be disregarding other cultures. I could say it’s a fad, but it has endured for centuries. In a way, diaries are much like books, even though raw. Both express our views on reality and fantasy alike. Maybe that’s what makes us human, the need to express ourselves. However, expressing oneself is never easy. Without a hard shell made of hypocrisy & contempt, fake smiles & lowered eyes, one self could barely stand the onslaught of oneself. The solution? A confidant we can trust in, one who’ll remember every single word we say, one who’ll accept every flaw we have without judging us, one who’ll remind us of who we are. Maybe to write a diary is to hold onto the self. A way not to get lost in the hustle & bustle of life. A way to live, & not only to be alive. The problem with some is that they put too much of themselves into their writings. They draw blood from life to make the pages sparkle, whereas their lives wither. Let’s not dwell on this subject any further, the point’s been made and I’m already digressing. I attempted to answer a question, but failed miserably before your eyes. Weak arguments, weak case, weak prologue. Luckily for you, this is the end of it.

Open the curtains. Let the show begin!

(End of Prologue)

Journal Entry – #001

17Feb2005

And so it starts – a diary, in which my thoughts shall be engraved for posterity. That is, if I don’t rip it apart first. I shall write it in any way & language I fancy, after all, it’s mine, posterity be damned, for I shall have none! These thoughts are never to leave these sheets unless, of course, someone wants them to. In fact, after it’s written, I will have no power whatsoever over this diary – if I can, if I remember, I’ll hide it; after I’m dead, pity – or over my life, since I’ll be dead by the time someone reads it. At least in spirit, feeling an ominous shiver, unconscious that someone’s reading my diary.