Who Reads Your Journals?

[Paddler]

As a spin-off from the thread about permanent inks:

When family and/or friends come to your house for, say, a holiday feast, does anyone ask to read your journals? And, after reading one, do they ask to read another one?

[AzJon]

When family and/or friends come to your house for, say, a holiday feast, does anyone ask to read your journals? And, after reading one, do they ask to read another one?

No. To do such a thing would be profoundly grotesque.

I sincerely don't understand the question, because the mere notion is absurd.

Perhaps I would ask to see/read a friend's recently published book, but I would never ask to read their journal. What a perverse concept.

[jar]

No, no one has ever asked to read one of my journals.

[Chrissy]

When family and/or friends come to your house for, say, a holiday feast, does anyone ask to read your journals? And, after reading one, do they ask to read another one?

No-one would ever ask to read one of my journals. The second question would never apply.

I don't even foist my holiday photos onto my family or friends.

[migo984]

No-one reads my personal journals but they do like browsing through my commonplace books, my travel journals and my art journals. Most of those I’m happy to share but a few of the more introspective ones I keep to myself and my family/friends wouldn’t ask to read them anyway.

[Paddler]

I don't foist my journals on anybody. I mentioned them once and somebody asked to see them. That is fine by me; I don't introspect on paper or any other place except my head.
I keep:
A garden journal
A cat journal
A musical gig journal
One for wilderness canoe trips
One for sea kayak trips
One for whitewater rafting
One for miscellaneous events, diatribes, and rants
An Army journal
Journals from gradeschool, highschool, and college
Work journals
Fishing trip journals

Cousins (and now great cousins) ask to read them and sit in a corner after a feast and read. After I fall off the twig, I don't think my journals will be tossed in the Dumpster right away. I have learned to use good paper and pens and durable inks.

[AzJon]

That is fine by me; I don't introspect on paper or any other place except my head.

One for miscellaneous events, diatribes, and rants

[Medieval]

My journals are usually labelled such as "Fishing tackle log", "Football scores", "curtain colour ideas" so nobody bothers (yes, I've checked).

[Wuddus]

Most of my writing is just me exploring thoughts and ideas, and is done on a4 pads. They are meaningless to anyone else, and if anyone else asked to read them, I would say no.

Even I don't read more than three or four pages back, as that's what I was thinking a while ago, not what I'm thinking now. When the book/pad is filled, I throw it away and start another. It has served it's purpose, but is of no more use to me than used toilet roll. Both of them get covered in shit, disposed of, and I move on with life. I also don't want either being surveyed by anyone else.

I don't care what I ate last week, or what I was thinking last week. I don't care what the weather was like, or what happened in the garden, or what two neighbours were bickering about. I won't care next week either. That was then, this is now.

[Brilliant Bill]

Most of my writing is just me exploring thoughts and ideas, and is done on a4 pads. They are meaningless to anyone else, and if anyone else asked to read them, I would say no.

Even I don't read more than three or four pages back, as that's what I was thinking a while ago, not what I'm thinking now. When the book/pad is filled, I throw it away and start another. It has served it's purpose, but is of no more use to me than used toilet roll. Both of them get covered in shit, disposed of, and I move on with life. I also don't want either being surveyed by anyone else.

I don't care what I ate last week, or what I was thinking last week. I don't care what the weather was like, or what happened in the garden, or what two neighbours were bickering about. I won't care next week either. That was then, this is now.

Such an attitude makes me wonder if the gift of life wasn't wasted here. Makes me feel very sad the singularity of life could be treated so cavalierly.

[Wuddus]

Most of my writing is just me exploring thoughts and ideas, and is done on a4 pads. They are meaningless to anyone else, and if anyone else asked to read them, I would say no.

Even I don't read more than three or four pages back, as that's what I was thinking a while ago, not what I'm thinking now. When the book/pad is filled, I throw it away and start another. It has served it's purpose, but is of no more use to me than used toilet roll. Both of them get covered in shit, disposed of, and I move on with life. I also don't want either being surveyed by anyone else.

I don't care what I ate last week, or what I was thinking last week. I don't care what the weather was like, or what happened in the garden, or what two neighbours were bickering about. I won't care next week either. That was then, this is now.

Such an attitude makes me wonder if the gift of life wasn't wasted here. Makes me feel very sad the singularity of life could be treated so cavalierly.

Can I question exactly why I shouldn't have lived?

Is it because I live in the present moment, and not spend hours escaping from who and what is around me, and that I could be engaging with right now?

Is it because I don't waste time every day, writing stuff that will never be read, in the vein hope that my existence will somehow be extended by leaving some written record of when my strawberries fruited this year, or who parked too close to my car door, so I had to climb in through the passenger side?

Or is it simply that I don't like doing what you like doing, and am capable of thinking for myself, and chosing my own priorities in life, and therefore should be shot?

[AzJon]

Most of my writing is just me exploring thoughts and ideas, and is done on a4 pads. They are meaningless to anyone else, and if anyone else asked to read them, I would say no.

Even I don't read more than three or four pages back, as that's what I was thinking a while ago, not what I'm thinking now. When the book/pad is filled, I throw it away and start another. It has served it's purpose, but is of no more use to me than used toilet roll. Both of them get covered in shit, disposed of, and I move on with life. I also don't want either being surveyed by anyone else.

I don't care what I ate last week, or what I was thinking last week. I don't care what the weather was like, or what happened in the garden, or what two neighbours were bickering about. I won't care next week either. That was then, this is now.

Such an attitude makes me wonder if the gift of life wasn't wasted here. Makes me feel very sad the singularity of life could be treated so cavalierly.

Oh Bill, you make the nihilist in me chuckle.

It is possible for life to have meaning, profound meaning, without documenting it. If not giving a hoot about documenting one's existence is "cavalier" I would shudder to think what you would label the more debauchery filled stretches of my life have been.

[SIR]

the more debauchery filled stretches of my life

PM me, I want to know ;P

[Brilliant Bill]

Most of my writing is just me exploring thoughts and ideas, and is done on a4 pads. They are meaningless to anyone else, and if anyone else asked to read them, I would say no.

Even I don't read more than three or four pages back, as that's what I was thinking a while ago, not what I'm thinking now. When the book/pad is filled, I throw it away and start another. It has served it's purpose, but is of no more use to me than used toilet roll. Both of them get covered in shit, disposed of, and I move on with life. I also don't want either being surveyed by anyone else.

I don't care what I ate last week, or what I was thinking last week. I don't care what the weather was like, or what happened in the garden, or what two neighbours were bickering about. I won't care next week either. That was then, this is now.

Such an attitude makes me wonder if the gift of life wasn't wasted here. Makes me feel very sad the singularity of life could be treated so cavalierly.

Oh Bill, you make the nihilist in me chuckle.

It is possible for life to have meaning, profound meaning, without documenting it. If not giving a hoot about documenting one's existence is "cavalier" I would shudder to think what you would label the more debauchery filled stretches of my life have been.

It's not about the documenting or lack thereof. What triggered my response was the uncaring. The "I don't care" and "I won't care." For me, life is about caring, whether you document that or not. And caring has to do with remembering.

Since you are in AZ, I'll give you an example from my time (20 years ago) in Tucson publishing Web sites for Intuit. One afternoon after work I came across another employee in the parking lot; he had locked his keys in his car. A few of us gathered around trying to help. One was a janitor working in the building, and I can still see him saying, "I'm Mexican. You can't keep me out of a car." I still remember both those people because I care about them and their lives. The fellow employee was a fascinating itinerant tech support worker. In the tax season, he'd do telephone tech support for the Turbo Tax program by Intuit. At other times he'd work for Microsoft when they were rolling out new software. He sort of followed the software seasons. I thought it was an amazing way to live, and I wonder how he's doing today, given that he's still with us. He was also the only other person I've met who was born on the same exact day I was. I also wonder about that janitor, such a delightful and engaging personality. What car is he getting into today? What family cherishes him?

I've never written any of that down, yet I remember because I care. Maybe I spent too much time working with addicts for whom nothing mattered but the present moment. Get the fix you need this minute, nothing else, past or future, matters. Perhaps that colors my perceptions.

Given that you're in Flag, you may or may not know there is a liveview cam there, done by people who like watching trains. It's on the train station overlooking the tracks -- with a good view of the comings and goings at the Lumberyard...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsAGE3Yq74M

[AzJon]

Most of my writing is just me exploring thoughts and ideas, and is done on a4 pads. They are meaningless to anyone else, and if anyone else asked to read them, I would say no.

Even I don't read more than three or four pages back, as that's what I was thinking a while ago, not what I'm thinking now. When the book/pad is filled, I throw it away and start another. It has served it's purpose, but is of no more use to me than used toilet roll. Both of them get covered in shit, disposed of, and I move on with life. I also don't want either being surveyed by anyone else.

I don't care what I ate last week, or what I was thinking last week. I don't care what the weather was like, or what happened in the garden, or what two neighbours were bickering about. I won't care next week either. That was then, this is now.

Such an attitude makes me wonder if the gift of life wasn't wasted here. Makes me feel very sad the singularity of life could be treated so cavalierly.

Oh Bill, you make the nihilist in me chuckle.

It is possible for life to have meaning, profound meaning, without documenting it. If not giving a hoot about documenting one's existence is "cavalier" I would shudder to think what you would label the more debauchery filled stretches of my life have been.

It's not about the documenting or lack thereof. What triggered my response was the uncaring. The "I don't care" and "I won't care." For me, life is about caring, whether you document that or not. And caring has to do with remembering.

Since you are in AZ, I'll give you an example from my time (20 years ago) in Tucson publishing Web sites for Intuit. One afternoon after work I came across another employee in the parking lot; he had locked his keys in his car. A few of us gathered around trying to help. One was a janitor working in the building, and I can still see him saying, "I'm Mexican. You can't keep me out of a car." I still remember both those people because I care about them and their lives. The fellow employee was a fascinating itinerant tech support worker. In the tax season, he'd do telephone tech support for the Turbo Tax program by Intuit. At other times he'd work for Microsoft when they were rolling out new software. He sort of followed the software seasons. I thought it was an amazing way to live, and I wonder how he's doing today, given that he's still with us. He was also the only other person I've met who was born on the same exact day I was. I also wonder about that janitor, such a delightful and engaging personality. What car is he getting into today? What family cherishes him?

I've never written any of that down, yet I remember because I care. Maybe I spent too much time working with addicts for whom nothing mattered but the present moment. Get the fix you need this minute, nothing else, past or future, matters. Perhaps that colors my perceptions.

Given that you're in Flag, you may or may not know there is a liveview cam there, done by people who like watching trains. It's on the train station overlooking the tracks -- with a good view of the comings and goings at the Lumberyard...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsAGE3Yq74M

Indeed, Bill. I also have worked with addicts and understand where you are coming from. However, the other side of that coin is releasing attachment to wants and the physical world. To accuse someone that their gift of life was "wasted" comes off to me as dark, and cynical, and counter to your apparent caring for others. If ideas, good and bad, are written down and not thought of again (a great trick for insomnia, by the way), how does that equal a wasted life?

I understand what Wuddus means, and that is perhaps the difference. I don't care (nor does anyone else) that I've eaten oatmeal for breakfast for 15 years. I don't feel compelled to remember that it was rainy yesterday, at least not enough to make permanent record of it. Nothing we do is of any particular importance, not on the large unknowable scale of everything. We just do and are and then we are gone.

I was unfamiliar with that webcam. There is another one on top of the tracks that has a larger view of the downtown area.

[Wuddus]

Most of my writing is just me exploring thoughts and ideas, and is done on a4 pads. They are meaningless to anyone else, and if anyone else asked to read them, I would say no.

Even I don't read more than three or four pages back, as that's what I was thinking a while ago, not what I'm thinking now. When the book/pad is filled, I throw it away and start another. It has served it's purpose, but is of no more use to me than used toilet roll. Both of them get covered in shit, disposed of, and I move on with life. I also don't want either being surveyed by anyone else.

I don't care what I ate last week, or what I was thinking last week. I don't care what the weather was like, or what happened in the garden, or what two neighbours were bickering about. I won't care next week either. That was then, this is now.

Such an attitude makes me wonder if the gift of life wasn't wasted here. Makes me feel very sad the singularity of life could be treated so cavalierly.

Oh Bill, you make the nihilist in me chuckle.

It is possible for life to have meaning, profound meaning, without documenting it. If not giving a hoot about documenting one's existence is "cavalier" I would shudder to think what you would label the more debauchery filled stretches of my life have been.

It's not about the documenting or lack thereof. What triggered my response was the uncaring. The "I don't care" and "I won't care." For me, life is about caring, whether you document that or not. And caring has to do with remembering.

Since you are in AZ, I'll give you an example from my time (20 years ago) in Tucson publishing Web sites for Intuit. One afternoon after work I came across another employee in the parking lot; he had locked his keys in his car. A few of us gathered around trying to help. One was a janitor working in the building, and I can still see him saying, "I'm Mexican. You can't keep me out of a car." I still remember both those people because I care about them and their lives. The fellow employee was a fascinating itinerant tech support worker. In the tax season, he'd do telephone tech support for the Turbo Tax program by Intuit. At other times he'd work for Microsoft when they were rolling out new software. He sort of followed the software seasons. I thought it was an amazing way to live, and I wonder how he's doing today, given that he's still with us. He was also the only other person I've met who was born on the same exact day I was. I also wonder about that janitor, such a delightful and engaging personality. What car is he getting into today? What family cherishes him?

I've never written any of that down, yet I remember because I care. Maybe I spent too much time working with addicts for whom nothing mattered but the present moment. Get the fix you need this minute, nothing else, past or future, matters. Perhaps that colors my perceptions.

Given that you're in Flag, you may or may not know there is a liveview cam there, done by people who like watching trains. It's on the train station overlooking the tracks -- with a good view of the comings and goings at the Lumberyard...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsAGE3Yq74M

So you've progressed from saying the gift of life was wasted on me to calling me an uncaring individual. Maybe you should reflect on your comments somewhat, as I think you are painting yourself worse than you are painting me.

There are things I care very little about, and wouldn't waste time writing about them, as I find them to banal to be worth my attention. There are things I care passionately about, but would rather engage with them, than just write about them. There are things I experience which make an impression on me, but I would rather discuss them in conversation, than commit it to paper.

The act of committing my thoughts to a page, a page which might never be read, just seems like a waste of my time. I appreciate that others get something from the process that I don't, even if I don't fully understand what that something is. However, I do not consider my desire to spend my waking hours engaged in other things to be a waste of life, or lack of empathy with the world around me. In fact, the reverse is true. The journalling would be a waste of my hours on this rock, and I would rather be sharing with others, than self indulgently creating my own version of the world on a page.

These thoughts on journalling are in no means a reflection on others who have different perspectives and priorities, unlike your unappreciated comments were, they are merely an expression of my own feelings on doing that activity myself.

[penwash]

Most of my writing is just me exploring thoughts and ideas, and is done on a4 pads. They are meaningless to anyone else, and if anyone else asked to read them, I would say no.

Even I don't read more than three or four pages back, as that's what I was thinking a while ago, not what I'm thinking now. When the book/pad is filled, I throw it away and start another. It has served it's purpose, but is of no more use to me than used toilet roll. Both of them get covered in shit, disposed of, and I move on with life. I also don't want either being surveyed by anyone else.

I don't care what I ate last week, or what I was thinking last week. I don't care what the weather was like, or what happened in the garden, or what two neighbours were bickering about. I won't care next week either. That was then, this is now.

Such an attitude makes me wonder if the gift of life wasn't wasted here. Makes me feel very sad the singularity of life could be treated so cavalierly.

Oh Bill, you make the nihilist in me chuckle.

It is possible for life to have meaning, profound meaning, without documenting it. If not giving a hoot about documenting one's existence is "cavalier" I would shudder to think what you would label the more debauchery filled stretches of my life have been.

Jon, I'm not speaking for Bill, I just happen to read his comment as stating that there are moments in life that in retrospect, we may wished that those were recorded in a journal of some sort. Maybe a profound realization, maybe a funny moment or story, maybe impression that a person made, maybe an event or a day that was out of ordinary, maybe something that you learned in traveling, etc.

I personally wished that I kept a more consistent journal about many things that I discover about life that might not feel significant at the time, but looking back, when I did discover an old photo or sketch or writing, I wished I kept more of those.

[HorologicPen]

It's just me reading my journal these days--if I ever do. I USED to have online journals growing up but after having 2 crash (diary-x; xanga) and losing all posts, I decided to go back to analog when I took up this pen hobby. Journal writing has always been a stress relief outlet. I may never read it but adding the fun pens and inks to this process has been even more therapeutic.

[inklord]

i journal in the form of haiku and other short, hokku-like poems. then i bore the living daylights out of my family by force-feeding them my products at the dinner table. when i volunteer to read "a poem or two" outside the family people are usually replying very kindly "oh thanks, but that's not necessary"; and since nobody other than myself can read my scrawl, my journals remain perfectly encrypted and unread. every few years or so i throw them into the woodstove, vowing that from now on i'll either not journal or write better stuff that's actually of interest to someone (hasn't happened yet)

[Brilliant Bill]

Reading this thread made me think about my approach to "journaling."

While I've done a great many things in life, behind it all has always been a writer. I've done newspaper and magazine work mostly, book editing for a while. I think that has shaped and defined my philosophy on writing, i.e. publication is the end product. I spend time using my fountain pens to write trivial nonsense in "journals," but it has no intent toward publication. It also contains nothing I would find incriminating in case other eyes ever came upon them. Nevertheless, as I said in the permanent ink thread, I value the permanence so I use inks that give me that. When I get serious about writing something it's with a view toward publication.

These days I publish only in my little Web log corner of the world:

https://deadreckoning1.wordpress.com/

It's open to the world, and anyone who chooses may read it. Almost no one does, and I don't really care one way or the other. I devote the same craft and care to entries there that I used in my magazine writing days. But it turns out that's not really a "journaling."

What this thread has made me think is that my photo site is my real journaling. This is a visual record of my world and how I see it. For myself, I organize it chronologically, so as I scroll through various galleries I see an historical progression. Each image provides a story of where I was, what I was doing, what I found important (worth making an image). The images are uniquely mine, just as any written journal would be. Since I no longer sell photographic services, I don't have to create a disciplined "portfolio" that demonstrates my capabilities. The images are thoroughly eclectic, just as anyone's life would be. This is also open to the public; anyone can view this visual journal; very few people ever do. Fine with me. I often find myself on a cold winter night with a cup of hot chocolate and the galleries of images I can review as a visual journal; this is very personally satisfying.

https://wetracy.smugmug.com/

Seems like a funny realization for a fountain pen site!