Number 15

Hello to all! It's been exactly a week and I was thinking about writing something less nonsensical for once, but then I came upon one of my (many) writings and it just cannot be withheld -- because as I often say, there's a message. And as I also often say, that message will not be disclosed. Your goal (should be) to attempt at understanding it. And if you don't comprehend all that my nonsensical self (oh that word really is overused on this site isn't it?) -- if you don't comprehend, worry not. It is alright. Take some time to live a little more life, and when you come back you might see. And if you do not, worry not still, because if you have the slightest whirlwind in you, I assure you, someday you will.

I wrote this a few months ago, so I'm going to put it all into quotations. I promise the next time -- things will be less (here comes that damn nuisance of a word again -- nonsensical).

"You know writing is everything to you when you can’t stop doing it no matter what. I can’t stop writing for the life of me. Why is this? I wish I knew. I’m currently blanking a little… I don’t really know why. Maybe I’m nervous? Alright. It’s established. I am after all, a little bit nervous. But a dose of nervousness is required. It shows that I care. And caring is certainly something we need more of. What’s more to say? -- Well. Recently I’ve been pondering a little more than usual and I’m beginning to think/realize/WONDER at how much I feel changed. Changed since September that is. I think I’ve become somewhat more fragile -- and yet somewhat more strong. I certainly feel very different than how I felt a year ago. Have things changed so?"


PS -- I know the title makes no sense (to you).

A Writers Condition

I want people to read my writing, but I'm afraid if they do they'll see what's inside.

But nevertheless, I must keep writing. I have a condition, remember? -- Can't-stop-writing-syndrome.

At the moment, I am feeling odd. Oddly like a motivational book or speaker. I keep conjuring up pseudo-motivational gathers of words…but unfortunately, my fear of being seen will undoubtedly leave me to deprive you of any small amount of wisdom my "pseudo-motivations" perceive. I save them for the "Smile Book".**
The lines I came up with (in my head) are far too direct. --- I have just reasoned out something -

The reason so much of my writing is so confusing, or nonsensical rather, MAY BE for the very aforementioned fact! I am afraid of being seen, so I hide the very possibility of it in a confusing form of prose that could be mistaken for poetry. But whether it is truly a mistake, I am not yet sure.

And I've managed to do it yet again.

(** The "Smile Book" mentioned in the post titled: "Notebook Ideas")

Garfunkel's First Name

How do you explain the inexplicable? -- It's obvious, you don't.

I mean can you even really? I think that's what music, poetry, prose, writing, art -- I think that's what it's all for. An attempt to explain the inexplicable. That is what the true artists are for. I suppose some may deem it a lost cause, for why attempt to explain the inexplicable --- maybe for the very reason that it can't be explained…its beauty. The beauty it creates.

For is not each attempt to explain that inexplicable madness and complicated simplicity of the world beautiful? Is not that at least partway why artists "art?", singers sing, musicians play, composers compose, writers WRITE. It's all just a little contribution to that madness. If it really comes from within at least. It is beautiful. So I encourage you, live a little more vibrantly and create some kind of wonderful ---

It evokes something. A reaction. An emotion. Perhaps if the artist is lucky, a realization. A phenomenon like no other.

172 Words of Nonsensicalness

Gasp!! It's been over two weeks since a nonsensical post last appeared on here! What a scandalous affair!

Worry not. Your time spent (cough cough, wasted, cough cough) trying to make sense of this madness does lead to some avail. And there is plenty more to come. --- In fact I thought I'd give you a little dose today:

As a (somewhat) regular human being-- I go through a range of states. And what do I do with these ever-changing seasons of the mind? I write. -- If that wasn't obvious, then one of us is on another level here. And one of us isn't me.
So since I love it so much, I'm going to write. You may think everything truly is nonsense and just an excess of flowery writing. Or maybe something you read will make sense, and if ever you need, it may help you gain something.

Now, if you please, take a look, take a listen, take a read. Let's have a "philosophical discussion". :)

Somehow I am convinced that existence consists of floors that go beyond what one can grasp. Not always. Not even frequently. But it does happen.
It leads one through a tumult of circumstance. Seemingly a place one cannot see through, for an immense fog clouds the way. And mind you -- although I make this place sound unfavourable, I assure it is not always so. It can come in many a form, but unfortunately, some may say, the most common form is filled with pain; A place with an immense sense of bottomless descent.
But luckily - the world is good and the universe, a friend, so one can become at long last, oneself again. -- And this is not to say that one does not get bruised, for scars that won't fade are certainly gained --- but mistake me not, they heal in the most exquisite way.
As all things are ever-evolving, eventually, we will surely find ourselves enjoying life as we wave away the clouds we look upon while basking in our momentary sunshine.

172 words of nonsensicalness. The rest is just there. Take what you will.


So I think ' two-posts-ago', I referred to what I like to call "spilling", and today, I thought that's what I'd do. (Especially after the last post's confusion, I think we all deserve something that makes at least some degree of sense.)

Something I think I should advise you on before I commence: There is Passenger playing in the background as I write. -- I don't know why, but you should know.

So about a half-hour ago, I finished putting the phone down upon calling up my piano teacher. Well, she used to be my piano teacher, she's retired now -- in her 80's. I still call her my piano teacher, although she's certainly more than that -- she and her husband, they're more like "grandparent figures" to me really.

I called her to ask to visit her, which I do every now and then. Every time I call, not only is she so very appreciative of me wanting to visit her but also for the fact that I've called her. Genuinely. I can hear the pleasure in her voice over the phone, it radiates. She and her husband are so appreciative of something I barely even mean as a kind gesture, it's illuminating. Illuminating to see how easy it can be to make someone's day brighter.

The thought of having company over is such a joy to her -- it's wonderful!

Usually, when visiting her place, we have some tea, I play some piano for her, and if she needs help with anything around the house, we go about that. A few hours at most. Yet she appreciates it so truly and deeply, it's a beautiful sentiment to behold.

You might be wondering what I intend to tell you with the recounting of all this. Well. It's just an observation I've made. You can, perhaps, make some observations upon examining my own. There's clearly a message, but it's one for YOU to unfold.

And this time. I'm not giving out a hint.

(Hint: Contemplation)

Hello everyone! I have only a few words before you enter a state of utter confusion (upon reading what has come of my writer's mind):

If you can tell me what this means. If you can make sense of this "excerpt". Well then. You've got something. haven't you? And maybe you should write. ////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Contemplation is never-ending. It wanders thought to thought -- endlessly. Amassing all the solitude of wisdom as it proceeds. It begins as simply as the clouds of subconscious clear just a little, allowing some obscure abstraction to appear. - And so the great entwining of the known and what seems unknown occurs -- leaving oneself in an immense state of stupor. Stupor at all that one has so far misunderstood.

Suddenly -- a ray of light appears. Seemingly, without a source. Truth-tellingly, from deep within. -- The light is dim, but the glow is there. It always was, has been IS. But it is difficult to see, for it cannot be detected with thine eyes. It requires something else…of a different sort, for it is misleadingly faint in the relation of its candescence. Perhaps it would rather be felt, that looked upon, unbeknownst.


I'll leave this one to you

As we have all inevitably discovered, I am a lover of writing. It gives me something. (Something to do.)

But really. I love writing. I do it all the time, putting words together from just about everything. And I have realised, that, many a time this writing comes from my thinking. -- Whether it be on a completely abstract concept or the events of the day, I have this constant "introspection-type-thing" going on in my mind, and I suppose, the writing is my way of letting it all spill out.

And today, I thought I'd spill some of that here. Hopefully, you'll take some interest in what I've got.

So a short while ago, I finished (re)-reading a book I have. The last time I read it was a few years ago. Anyhow, the protagonist of the story, her character goes through this change in herself throughout the book, an she's very aware of it. The changes are positive, although they seem obscure, or rather, difficult to comprehend when they come. In the end they make sense. In the end, it all makes sense.

Me being myself, I thought about the aforementioned. We always hear the expression, "People change". Somewhat dismissive, it's usually a way of putting the blame on others and doing the only thing you know -- moving on. But what if the "people" referred to there is you? What happens when you are that person? -- Ponder on that a while.

I for one, have been thinking over this a while and I've formed some kind of hypothesis. Although it's really not a hypothesis. More of an observation…that could very well be flawed. Not logical or scientific at all really -- it's not meant to be proved. Most of my observations, you will find, aren't meant to be.

Their existence is a different kind of comprehension. A comprehension far from proof.

And here come the obscure half-metaphors again. Better brace yourselves.

So coming back to the topic at hand. "People change". Of course they do. You're a person too. And maybe you've experienced a change in yourself. I dare you to think about how it felt. I dare you to think about how it feels. I know that phrase, overused, "People change" may seem negative. But that's just perception.

A lesson I learned over the past year of my life is that change can be complicated. Sometimes, good changes don't feel good. At least not until you've lived a little longer and seen what that change brings to you. Most of the time (as per my perhaps-flawed observations), change doesn't happen because you wanted it to. I think it comes as a surprise. It can happen over a short period, or an extended period of life. Oftentimes, change is a feeling. Maybe so inward that it isn't noticed by the world around you. But felt, undoubtedly, by the difference in the way you notice the world.

Change, for me, has been painted as an "uphill battle" --
Some force pushing me to reach that top, I'd break into a heavy sweat, drenched. Soaked to the core, my clothes fall apart, holes in them. The path is rocky, sores all over my feet. Cuts bleed. My muscles ache. But I've got to keep walking.
The weather near the top, oh it's bad. It's suddenly terribly cold. My now very meager clothing doesn't suffice. So the warmth of walking will have to do. Actually, running would be a better option. If I run, I can't feel the cold. So I do. I run uphill, even if that will eventually only make the muscle-ache worse.
This goes on for longer than I know. But somewhere -- it ends. Momentarily, at least. This pause of some sorts is uncertain but definitely good.
Then WHOOSH. I'm being led back down. And it's easier this time. I think about the climb and how much it hurt. How exhausted I felt. But now as I go back down, I feel extraordinarily…alive. I climbed. To the top. Now, as I come down, the remembrance of the fact somehow proves I'm alive. I appreciate that climb -- because I think I understand it a little better now that it's been lived.


Befriending a Journal

Well, I've got some Bruce Springsteen playing in the background as I write (or type rather) tonight, so I'm feeling extra inspired to relay to you a very special post on --- you won't believe this ---: journaling!!!

Yes. 'Booksbybecca' really is obsessed with the whole "writing thing".

And so we begin. Just moments ago, I put down one of my many notebooks, my "Journal through Highschool". I've been keeping it since freshman year, and I don't write in it every day (although I've willed myself to try many a time), but I write in it often enough. I just finished an entry about my day today and how slow these summer days seem to be passing by and then I decided to flip through the pages of my "journey" and relive some memories. It was actually quite interesting I have to admit. And I noticed something interesting as I turned the pages.

When I first began this journal, I wrote a lot less often than I do now. When I did write, (maybe a few times each month), I only wrote about a page, if I really wanted, maybe two pages. But that was it. Seeing the way I write now, I can hardly believe it. These days I actually have to keep myself from writing every day (as I am running out of pages, and do not wish to begin using another book until September)…and my entries. Are they long. They can lead to four pages sometimes. And I have a tendency to want to write more than just once a day. My being the lover of reflective abstraction that I am, I took it upon myself to feel some awe at this great change in the relationship between my "journal" and I.

And I realized that's exactly what it is. The relationship I have with my journal. -- My journal is like a friend. When we first became acquainted I was shy and awkward. I didn't really know what to say --- should I trust it? Will it give away the details I store away in its pages? I didn't know my journal very well. We hadn't experienced much together. At least not yet.

But that changed. My journal became a confidante that would guard my somewhat obscure musings as best it could. I trusted it. So I spoke more often. Came and waved hello with an air of ease as our conversations lasted longer, dug a little deeper and our bosom friendship was solidified.

A journal is like making a new friend. You may not be your full self at first…but when you start to trust the universe enough to reveal yourself, you'll realize, there's no need to hide.

So maybe try keeping a journal? There's not much to lose in a paper friend after all, is there?

Notebook Ideas

So in my last post, I decided to attempt some poetry and write about why writers write, which is already too much of the word 'write' in one sentence and consequently probably left you in a puff of confusion. --- Unless you actually understood something there, in which case I congratulate you. You have been enlightened with a dose of my nonsensicalness. If you read more of this, maybe you will become nonsensical too. Or at least avoid the nonsensical words I use. (Note: there was too much use of the word 'nonsensical' there.) ((2nd Note: the first note was not taken. Nonsensical is a word that will not go away)).

Alright, I will be serious now. You don't know much about me, and I don't know much about you. So all's well and good, because that's fair.

Okay. Now I will actually be serious. As you may be able to tell from my last post, I love to write. I love to write, as most people do (except that most people don't, but nevertheless) I love to write. I also love to repeat myself. I don't just like writing here---I write constantly. It's a never-ending syndrome that constantly beckons me and occasionally manifests itself as a poetic muddle. Because of that, I write in notebooks. Several of them. Each one for a different subject, and subsequently, written in a different style-----now I realize, this is probably not what you want to do with your life, but in case it is, I thought I'd share, "My Wonderful Notebook Ideas", and if you like them, they can be your wonderful notebooks too.

And so we begin:

1) "A Journal through ______" -- it's a play on the word 'journey'; you write down the daily (or if you're like me, the try-to-be-daily) progressions relating to a certain aspect of your life. (A journey). It could be anything really---for me it's 'A journal through high school'. Evidently, the writing in this is journal-style, but unlike a diary or regular journal, you don't necessarily have to give all the little details of your life, just the ones relevant to your journey -- whatever you decide.

2) A book of advice -- it's a book of advice. Although you may not know it, you as a person have a lot to give that could potentially really help someone. Many people think of a book of advice as being very heavy material "too deep" for them, but you are human and inevitably have depth so why not try? Something I do to try and keep it light is -- pretend to be an old man. Which, of course, influences the writing style, I have to convince the readers I am a funny, friendly, witty, and most importantly: wise, old man. Also, you don't have to call it "a book of advice", my personal edition is referred to very simply as "the smile book" (because it has the word SMILE on the front cover).

3) "The book of Questions & Answers" -- learning is good for you. So next time you have a serious question about something, even if it's something obscure like "What is the meaning of life?", write it down. Research it. Think about what you've learned. Form an opinion if you like. And write it all down. Include diagrams if you want to, make it interesting. -- Another thing, it doesn't have to be a question you need to look up, it can be a question (and subsequent opinion) that rises upon reading the newspaper, or talking with someone. It can be totally opinionated if you want it to be.

4) A book of funny anecdotes -- time is passing. It is common knowledge. We live so many moments that make us laugh, they're so funny EVEN looking back on them. Those moments are what I live off of. (Well that and writing of course). And I write them all down -- mainly because that's what I do, but also because I want to remember them. Memories have a beautiful bittersweet quality about them, and if the humorous anecdotes really are good, they can cheer up you and many of those around you even years after the moment you lived them.

5) "The Songbook" -- music is wonderful. I think it's a writer's dream. People's taste in music is something that interests me and probably you too; "The Songbook" is a book where I write all the names of songs I love and the names of the artists. Each page is dedicated to a song. The title and artist go at the top, and then I write about the song --- why do I like it? How does it make me feel? What do I think it means? Is there an instrument in it I like? Is there a perfect place I'd like the song to play? --- whatever comes to mind really. This notebook is one of my favourites because it really gets at your sentiments in an indirect, metaphorical, obscure and confusing fashion, that I, as a carrier of can't-stop-writing syndrome adore. (Note: I recommend listening to the song while you write about it.)

And with that, I think I shall leave you. I have gone on so long I don't remember how I began. Anyhow, I hope you'll consider notebooking, or at the very least, keep reading these.

Why do writers write?

Why do writers write?

Is it because we are just so full with feeling it has to have somewhere to flow? Is it because there is a part of us deep within that only the most complicated metaphors could explore? Are we a map of hidden destinations that has no right way? Or are we, after all, just writers?
Do we really have a place inside of us that no being knows or has known? If so, can words do it justice? Are we people that simply enjoy basking in our own overcomplicated abstractions? Or are we, after all, just writers?
Are we desperate beings, yearning just to be understood? Do we compensate comprehension with words that are only more obscure? Are we just lost souls, looking for a cure? Or are we, after all, just writers?

Why do writers write?

Well, I'm not really sure. Because maybe a lost soul is not something meant to be cured. Maybe "comprehension" isn't the purpose of the words. Maybe it's nothing but a longing to convey. To convey to the world, what we wish we could just say. Maybe it's not an act of desperation. Could it be considered a kind gesture instead?
Maybe our abstractions are not overcomplicated, but deep. Maybe words don't exactly do our experiences justice, but at least they can then be seen. Maybe that small place inside us is simply a place other people don't know that they own. Is that something lacking?
Because even if we are a map, hidden underneath our heart's door, that leads only to places, metaphors can explore, the consequence of writer's feelings that do soar, are the punctured onlooker's hearts and souls forevermore, for words have a way of grasping to the core what lips would never dare say.

Why do writers write?