This mortal coil has coiled… and here I meet myself again.
The cooler air seeps through forgotten cracks in this house, I’m sweeping up lost leaves.
Another year gone by…
And in time, I am reaching near the end of my journal.
I ask myself, why it is, that I have only ever written in a couple of journals I have made. The others have been bought.
Is it the novelty I enjoy? To have something made by someone else - so I am detached, giving room for my personal signature?
I have often bought journals and kept them blank for years, and used them in fear of making them feel neglected. Many old unused albums and journals adorn my shelves. Some have one or two photos in them of people I don’t know. Another is full of vintage postcards about landmarks and travels circulating the globe nearly 100 years ago.
I have one of Robert Burns Birthday Books that has a tartan fabric cover; it’s dated August 12th 1910. It’s tiny, measuring 7 x 9 cm, and comes in a little distressed box. There are a few entries of people’s birthdays, lovely old English names written with black ink fountain pen.
I have another vintage diary from Egypt, 1944. It has directions to landmarks and a little fold out street map that looks to be hand drawn. It’s gorgeous, and unused. The cover is stained with blotches of ink.
I wonder, did they wonder…where their words would end up? Did any of these people have an inclination that there might exist in the future, what exists today, and their words would be mentioned in this blogosphere space, here, in the midst of nowhere?
This nowhere, non-place.
Marc Augé, in his book Non-Places: Introduction To An Anthropology Of Supermodernity (1995) refers to place and non-place, which he describes as opposed polarities: the first is never completely erased, and the second never totally completed. Augé found that if a place can be defined as relational, historical and concerned with identity; then a space, which cannot be defined as such, will be a non-place.
Sometimes I see the internet as a travelator; an escalator that escalates yet does not rise or lower. While you are on it, where are you? A place between places; a non-place.
Do the pages of a journal journalate? I figure they do, for sometimes as I write, I am propelled to keep writing, my hand scribbles furiously in fear of not having enough time or space to write all I want to say. And no, I don't have a train to catch. I just have to get it out. And fast.
On that note I may bid goodnight to these keys, in favor of black Steadtler ink. I'll journalate my way to that non-place, then dream.