One beauty of keeping a journal is that it provides a record of one’s behavior over the years. “Compare yourself not to others but to yourself,” I have been told by people who are wiser than I am, and glancing at one’s own journals is an efficient way to do this. Even so, I hardly ever do it. It’s just not high on my to-do list.

So this morning I’m in the middle of a painting and I’m rooting through a box of art supplies and I find an old journal.

I have many journals, dated from 1974, when I was 10, through to today. Some of them are digital (which is to say, on the computer), but many of them were written longhand, because I believe in the power of the pen. I mean I don’t just “believe” in it; I experience the tactile beauty of the ink flowing out through the nib, and that experience is part of the fuel. I’ve long used fountain pens to write my journals. It bores me to write a journal with a ballpoint, though in a pinch any pen will do.

(Feeling the writing in the body, by the way, isn’t a preference or experience particular to me. Traditional Chinese writers, for example—who say they “write” their paintings of bamboo because the strokes used in the bamboo are all used in Chinese calligraphy—grind their own ink on fine-grained slate stones and, while grinding, meditate on their words; then, approaching the blank sheet of rice paper, they let the poem rise inside their bodies, from the root chakra as the Indian yogis might call it, up through the heart and out the arm, through the fingers and into the hollow bamboo handle and the pointed wolf-hair bristles of the brush. This is the ancient and spontaneous “chi” and “tao” of writing, which just means the “energy” and the “way,” and its physicality brings the practitioner back to the present moment. Writing can be an effective physical discipline for awareness.)

bamboo

So I open this journal to a random page and find, from 15 years ago, elegant proof of my astonishing arrogance and blindness:

Went to a party last night & had an argument with Ben. It was hardly even an argument since we go so far back that it’s hard for us to get truly angry with each other. But I was telling him that I have pitied him for years because he’s made so little money & that I believe he subscribes to an artist’s myth that you have to be poor to be A Writer, & that he believes he’s on a faster track toward publication and fame for suffering the deprivation.

Reading only this far, I’m thinking, frankly, Jeeeezus-God, unfuckingbelievable. How could you have said something so mean? Then I read the next sentence, which only clinches it: …

… Read the rest at Recovering the Body.