I think the word ‘blog’ is an ugly word. I just don’t know why people can’t use the word ‘journal.’
Well, I like that. I’ve never cared for the word “blog,” either. It’s up there with “moist” and
“hangnail” on my list of words unworthy of creative expression on any level. But this website isn’t my journal.
I’ve kept an occasional journal of exceptional events for many years. At some point several years ago, I switched from a fountain pen to a computer. I’ts just not fun, doesn’t draw me in. I prefer pen and paper now. I write in it twice a day, since resuming in earnest last fall. Since Halloween I’ve filled a 240 page notebook and half of another. I write about gratitude, my sleep patterns, my sensations of well being (or unwell), about Being and Time and how hell is mostly other people. Present company excepted, of course.
I’m a big old introvert, so writing time also makes me feel recharged.
We live, in fact, in a world starved for solitude, silence, and privacy: and therefore starved for meditation and true friendship.
— C.S. Lewis
In my journal, I’m trying to hold on to my life: to people I genuinely care about, to frustrations and celebrations and gifts and sorrows and everything that’s draining away. So it goes.
Wow. I wrote that then told my Echo to play songs by Moby. This is the first one it played. I kid you not. A kindred thinker.