Author Topic: Diary Writing  (Read 1932 times)

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Baron Von Hentrich

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Re: Diary Writing
« on: October 11, 2020, 12:13:21 pm »
I am back to this method presently.  This may be related to my ressurrected practice of marching through the documentation of solving mathematics exercises with art pencil, then explaining in ink with pen ... often my interests in math spill into the "literature" (what I refer to my 'diary' as) - it contains the processing of my emotions before I could ever be able to even enjoy the higher faculties required for "working with" mathematical phenomena.

There is a daily cruel joke in the form of a question:  Why not math?  It turns out that life is one unpredictable mishap and disaster after another.  If we all had crystal balls we might drop dead from fright and anxiety or be paralyzed by panic.  It's best to reach a point where you embrace those rare hours for a cerebral existence as a creature who ENJOYS working within the abstract realm of mathematics.  Within that realm, one might embrace a consistency that can be comforting in an otherwise chaotic and irrational swamp of blood and guts.   :-X     ;)  (not to mention the wonderful bowel movements of all we emotionally mature, psychologically sophisticated creatures-made-of-tubes [flesh robots on a dead rock in the middle of nowhere])

I also process even the most subtle interactions which cause me distress, a disagreement with the female member of a couple of neighbors ... walking away without allowing her to suck me into an argument ... like the novel Journey to the End of the Night, where suddenly he was verbally and psychologically attacked by what he called "frustrated vaginas".  There are just certain women who are intrinsically repelled by, I think, my intellect or cerebral nature.  They wish to make me feel inadequate or "emotionally disturbed and manic" so as not to face to enormous gulf between my representation of the world and theirs.

So, such disturbing rupturings with the social fabric serve as opportunities to document our current Dostoyevskian "psychological observations" in our respective social encounters from the perspective of We, the protagonist who must struggle to remain on his own side at all times, no matter what.

There were what I imagined to be quite attractive and strong women characters in, say The Idiot, where she had repressed hidden feelings for Prince Myshkin, but she hated him outwardly for this.  Dostoevsky wrote before the institutionalization of psychology, which is what makes these contradictory characters so fascinating, I suppose.

If you can invoke your own brain to look upon and behold our/your current math texts and notebooks and diaries "in a sacred manner," then there is the evidence of an inner-directed life that is independent of social relationships.  This becomes your lifelong lifeboat in a river of darkness until we disappear into the void ... { }

There are also the daily misadventures of Maman to process.  Why not math?  Why not?  Because Maman has lost the keys to her car again.  This mother has taught me patience.  Dark low-grade science fiction dystopia. 

Moods ... it's all about the moods.  Think of the very mood one has to be in when one feels what is being written is worth exploring or analyzing.  Maybe those who don't handle liquor well are those whose nervous systems, especially the neo-cortex [frontal lobes], are more developed, or, to put it another way, Schopenhauer's way, those who enjoy their higher mental faculties on a regular basis throughout their lives, may become acutely alarmed upon witnessing the disintegration of their hand-eye coordination.  A diarist would be particularly SENSITIVE to the impacts of alcohol on the nervous system, since the ramifications have immediate consequences.

To pick up a pen and notebook as a way to process or attempt to articulate what one is experiencing as potentially overwhelming in the present moment.  This entails allowing the bad mood to settle in without self-deception.  Or one grabs the pen in a fit of enthusiasm.

To realize all one's reflections, written down or lost in the wind of the nonverbal and submicroscopic, will be dust in actual wind one day ... Can any one of us console another entity in the face of its existential predicament?  No, that power within must be attained by each of us, by hook or by crook.  May YOU, the reader, collect some blank notebooks to be seized upon one day when you have found a place to hide in seclusion and privacy ... preferably notebooks with no lines (unruled).
« Last Edit: October 11, 2020, 02:37:15 pm by Sticks and Stones »
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