Like most other impractical visionaries who subsist on metaphysical poetry and acoustic music, sometimes I feel like I spend my entire existence running away. I say I detest the absolution of responsibility, a culture that refuses to take the blows for its actions, but I do just that. I wonder if I will ever catch up, or if I will continue to make it simple for myself by letting go. However, that is the great lie of “letting go” — it masquerades as the easy thing to do, because all it seems to demand is the relinquishing of one’s hold, but in reality it is the planting of a root of remorse. You create ghosts of the things you wish you had done, the people you have let down. Writers recycle their regret by transforming it into stories, littered with the people they’ve abandoned. It is such a cop-out, but its a way of evading blame while simultaneously creating art. Art is the sum of our mistakes as much as it is a means of expression, for what to people desire to express most commonly other than mistakes, or circumstances that have arisen from them?

“It has always seemed strange to me…the things we admire in men, kindness and generosity, openness, honesty, understanding and feeling, are the concomitants of failure in our system. And those traits we detest, sharpness, greed, acquisitiveness, meanness, egotism and self-interest, are the traits of success. And while men admire the quality of the first they love the produce of the second.” – John Steinbeck, Cannery Row

entry – neatness?

I dislike the idea of neatness when writing. Writing should not be neat, it should not fit so nicely between the invisible lines on a computer. It is messy and aggressive, saturated with emotion. Typing on a computer, back-spacing, deleting– it diminishes all of that. What to do. My integrity is not compromised too much by taking this shortcut. Although, there is something to say for a clear thought-process. All I do is vomit words on a whim. Is there true love without Eros? There. Writing gets the thoughts flowing like this.

Moreover, I am too much of a control freak–concerning what I write, what I say. Everything has to go through some sort of bizarre filter that churns out a comment tailored to whoever I’m speaking to. Saul Bellow was right when he announced that he believed “sincerity impossible,” in an interview. Fundamentally, these carefully curated expressions arise from fear of being prosaic, fear of being boring. When you treasure your intelligence, build your identity around your brain, you’re terrified of losing a reputation. It’s the same with being popular for looks. Everybody maintains their image. Tale as old as time. It’s so frustrating to want to write when you feel like everything has been written. Perhaps that’s why we do it. Tantalized by the possibility of abstract ‘newness,’ the budding author seeks new and exciting pastimes, more and more radical combinations of words, disciplines, sentences, sentence fragments. There’s a lot of horrible stuff in the world. Horrible horrible things. Art redeems, but only up to a point. Art is not the only salvation. Artists always have a keen intuition and sense for the “what ifs” in life; to them everything is a possibility. And this can be damaging because the whatifs are given real credit, they are endowed with credibility, because the artist either cannot or does not wish to differentiate between what is distantly possible and what is immediately and likely so. Therefore, they are easily disappointed, easily led on. The robust realists have no false notions, the whatifs are carefully kept in a cupboard.

When you write, you have to feel very deeply. Your dialogue between your characters must fit within the realm of things you would say yourself, discussions you would have yourself. I am not that clever traditionally but I am very philosophically aware of the world. Maybe Hobbes is right. Maybe it is because I have lived my life by the luxury of leisure; I have had all the time in the world to think of these things, brood upon them. But it still holds that I feel so strongly, ‘love so intensely,’ and I must find an outlet for it.


Writing, at its best, is a lonely life. Organizations for writers palliate the writer’s loneliness but I doubt if they improve his writing. He grows in public stature as he sheds his loneliness and often his work deteriorates. For he does his work alone and if he is a good enough writer he must face eternity, or the lack of it, each day.

For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment. He should always try for something that has never been done or that others have tried and failed. Then sometimes, with great luck, he will succeed.

How simple the writing of literature would be if it were only necessary to write in another way what has been well written. It is because we have had such great writers in the past that a writer is driven far out past where he can go, out to where no one can help him.”

entry – “to love again”

The artist, or aspiring artist, scopes out the lonely man by the curve of his limbs and the stoop of his shoulders, the spectacles sliding gradually down a hooked nose turned inward. He spots the secret smile of a beggar child who has just spied a stray kitten from underneath a pile of rubble and newspapers. He is always attuned to the quiet moments of contemplation. He can recall the reddish tinge of passion on flushed cheeks and preserve the memory long enough to recreate it with peach and violet hues.
The artist views his art as a more exalted form of reality. The details do not escape us, rather, the details are what we find most captivating, for it is the details that distinguish one person from another. Taking time to truly observe the form of a man — how he sits, whether his eyes meet yours, whether he clenches his fist or lets his fingers fall — all of this lends insight into who he is. Henry Miller once wrote that “to paint is to love again, live again see again…” The artist and the writer both observe the bald patches on the head of a man on medication for his alcoholism; one traces the smoothness of the exposed cranium, the other wonders how it feels as the hair comes off in his hands – gently? all at once?

Compassion is born from attention to detail.

entry – reflections on the first.

I think the reason we never worked was because I was so similar to his family. I was just another person who read a great deal, engaging in what he deemed “solitary activities,” reading, drawing, and the like. Poor boy, he just wanted to be loved for who he was, without being bound to some standard. He once said that he was afraid of reading a story of mine because he knew how much his opinion meant, and he “didn’t want that kind of pressure.” I understand. We were happiest when we were in our rawest form, simply enjoying the warmth and tenderness of each other’s bodies. But distance is too great a burden for that kind of love because that kind of love desires and requires proximity. One day I will write a book, and I will turn him into a character, and he will exist within a different dimension, perhaps perpetually eighteen. We grew within our love as well as without it, and it has shaped us like sitting shrinks the spine. We withdrew into ourselves to better understand what it meant to care about somebody so different from ourselves. But “loves asks for some of the future,” as Camus wrote, and love transcendeth not all barriers. I will always miss pressing my face against the warmth of his smooth cheek, and feeling the soft, fragile skin around his eyes and lids. It still surprises me, grieves me even, at times, to think that I will never touch him again.

The hardest thing about first love is the fact that you grow with it. It is like a wooden pole that supports a young plant; as it grows the plant’s leaves curl around it and they exist as one entity. It is like a metal insert placed inside a broken joint; in a few months the cartilage has melded to it and it is indistinguishable from the rest of the limb. What was once important remains eternally important if it changed you irrevocably at a certain point in time. In retrospect, one grows to feel almost as if this first pain of love were as vital as an organ donation.


entry – what i said only in my head

“You see, most people have compartments in their minds and in their hearts: there is a compartment for ‘people I love,’ and ‘people I loved,’ for example. Its hard to take you out of the first and put you in the second because it means the drawing of a boundary I don’t know whether I am ready to draw. It just feels so limiting, although it doesn’t have to be. But that is simply what it feels like.”

entry – “purpose”

I have been here about five full days, and I have adjusted well enough. I have learned how to fill my days adequately and reject the distractions of the internet and communication. I don’t even feel terribly close to Greg anymore; the umbilical cord has been weakened as if too little of the essence of life was being shared between entities. I’ve gotten used to his absence in a world so diametrically opposed to the one in which I am accustomed to seeing him; perhaps that is the reason. I don’t feel like doing my SAT work at all either; it seems so dull in comparison to the customary chaos and the drama of life here. Teaching the special-needs children is actually quite arduous; as they so clearly belong to a world separate from the present reality. Its frustrating how difficult it is for me to write lately, words used to come to me so naturally. Perhaps this is God’s punishment to me for my sin; or maybe Greg has simply hijacked my brain by clogging it with memories of him.

Every single moment is important, and so far I have been using my time well, although it can always be better. I am still struggling with how I can actually develop a permanent solution or lasting framework for the ills at hand. It is a difficult job and I am discouraged so easily. I feel trapped in my feelings of impotence and threatened by the “pantheon of heroes” that have come before me. I’ve been in a strange mood lately, easily irritable probably due to hormones. Hopefully this issue will resolve itself and I can return to my full mental and emotional capacity. I despise feeling impotent and incapable of translating my life experience into words and sentences with the force of an image. My inspiration has left me, and I am resentful. I am paralyzed by a fear of wasting time, yet paradoxically bent on either enjoying myself or wallowing. I think the best thing to do is pray about it, continue to read, and continue to write, letting the atmosphere reveal itself. I find the bathetic that continues to creep into my writing repugnant, and so the curse of repeated words. I am nothing besides my verbal prowess and my ability to correlate multifarious media; criticism on these counts is chilling.
Greg is enjoying his time with his cousin in Oklahoma. He really is such a boy, a young, naive, American boy, who is bound, inevitably to become a yet naive and tentative American man. The sincerity is there but it is so overshadowed by trepidation and the limitations of familiarity that I can only pause with fear and pity. It is not superiority that one feels, exactly, when exposed to an environment like this, but I hate to reduce the effervescent life around me to the narrow context of my life experience. I exist-like any person who has felt deeply the different worlds in which they have lived- in part as a product of the disparity between the two cultures.
Women imageSometimes in order for one to deal with overwhelming misery or sadness one feels some kind of primal need to take refuge in superficiality in order to dull the commanding reality of pain. “The soul must be hollowed out and then filled, hollowed out and then filled.” I don’t know exactly why this is; maybe because superficiality is ubiquitous and it is relaxing to plunge again into the matter, the substance that makes up, and is found in, all the hollow world.
~ I worked with the special-needs children today. They are all differently handicapped but they are grouped together in the same room like a motley traveling circus. They are sweet children. I haven’t seen any tantrums so far or any crying so perhaps the members of this group are either carefree by nature or simply bottle up their frustration. The teachers are clearly devoted to the children, which is something by which I’m relieved.
There is a sort active “component” or edge to the gratitude experienced sometimes by people here; they feel compelled to return and give back. The children themselves are similar to all mentally deficient everywhere. There is that permanent childishness, that stubborn innocence that doesn’t seem to relinquish them from its grip as they continue to fumble with sentence fragments and proper punctuation. What has struck me so profoundly however are their eyes. Their eyes seem to be the only true outlet for expression, that enduring state of wonder from which they subsist in a world so disillusioned by the numinous. There is one boy with great big eyes and an expression that reminds me of Gavin’s, the full lips faintly parted in concentration. It catches me unawares at times when I am waiting for him to answer a question, and I can feel it transcend the caverns of my heart.
The hesitation, the restlessness, the yearning for affirmation that is present in so many of these children is present in so many of us, who have greater control over our faculties. Are these children like a foil for the character of others? Do they exist to reveal the nature of those who interact with them? Will someone, even one who is most strongly convinced of the immutability of the human dignity be able to treat these children with equal respect every single day without fail? In the general context of purpose; when one writes about one’s “purpose of life” and making an impact, what does it mean in the drama of their lives? Eugenicists of the past and even the present were intent on the perfection of the human race, even worshipping a distinct ideal. With the progress of science, human beings will carry on happily with their tiresome quest for the best, the most conventional and the most beautiful. I by no means wish to idealize or praise “mistakes” or an indifference to suffering or even escalating scientific progress as a whole. However, fallible humans must never exalt themselves so high as to believe what is starkly in contrast with their nature; namely, that those who are severely disabled are somehow “subhuman,” but this is a complicated thing to grasp.
Unconditional altruism is not always a perennial flower; there are some months during which it does not grow. And sometimes it is uprooted altogether. Not everybody has the time to meditate on the idiosyncrasies and logistics of individuality… The dirt-baked, weather-beaten farmers who walk with calloused feet to pick up their ill sons and daughters have no lofty notions of “purpose”…that is the luxury of the fittest.