Saturday, December 6, 2008

everyday matters


It's the title of another Danny Gregory book. It means alot to me and I haven't even read the book yet, but the simple combination of words is so true. Lately I have been trying to at least find something significantly different about each of my days versus all of the others I have lived. Not just different, but important to the person that I wish to be, and actually find myself becoming a little more everyday. Last night, my littlest sister and I had a movie night. I put Arnica Gel on her calf that was sore from swimming (that silly little cow, she can't keep it out of water). I had a single drink because I felt like it, and no one joined me but that was ok with me. And then, late at night I fell into a chat about why I journal and how important it is to me... and, I guess, what I hope to do for someone in the future.

I started writing journals before I hit double digits. Back then they were called 'diaries'. I think I may have actually written to the Dear Diary on more than one occasion. But I always hated the term, and I didn't like to share that I kept one, I only ever wrote a few things that I wished no one else to ever read. Those I found years later under lock and key.. I think one of them was mentioning that I saw Jonathan Taylor Thomas in a dream.

Yeah, I was a shy kid. To this day I still turn bright red if you strike the right chord.

Anyway, for some reason I had the insight back then to write down things that no one else would really care about. But they mattered to me. Throughout the years of sporatic cleaning bursts, finding these random journals that have 5 pages at the front full of words and then the rest blank (I have a terrible habit of that) stop me in my tracks, and a 30 minute job lasts for hours.

One entry is still burned into my brain. It's the only one that I remember being accompanied by a drawing. I'm not sure whether I never forgot that day, or I just came across that book so many times that I had a constant reminder, but there's something profound about writing mundane things about daily activities. I was 9 years old. Late 1994, Grade 5. Vern Ames Public School, and that day in class we did gymnastics. I can't remember why I thought it was the most important thing to write down that day, maybe it was because I always had a secret desire to be a dancer, specifically to do ballet, and gymnastics was closer than I had ever been. I had friends that were able to do some really cool stuff with dance and gymnastics. Maybe I was inspired back then, as I still am today, with what you can potentially do with your body. Strength and flexibility have always fascinated me, both with what you can visually see, and what it means as far as levels of health. Whatever the reason. I remember that day, I remember being in that class and the door in the far corner was open. And then I begin to remember other parts about that gymnasium. I always loved the days we used the sit down scooters, and I never learned to like basketball. I catch myself thinking, and then I realize why I should keep writing.

I don't know the exact number, I'm not a scientist, and I don't plan on becoming one. But, I know I have heard on several occasions from several sources, that you retain and remember at least twice of what you see, hear, do, experience in general when you write down even a single sentence that your mind attaches the memory to. Maybe it's because you force yourself to really think about the experience? I'm not into reasons, I'm into results.

I know that because of two little books, one I bought in a Paper store on Yonge Street in Toronto while I was early for an interview for a job I was offered and never took. To me, that was the coolest looking sketchbook I had ever seen. So I bought it and didn't touch it until the end of April when I was sitting in the Amsterdam airport's lounge area on a stopover between Toronto and Rome. That book is still filled to about half way. While living in Florence in May, I went and bought the second book of that journey. A small art supply store around the corner from my apartment sold Moleskines. I had just embarked on my first Moleskine ever back at home before I left and I fell in love with the paper quality, the size, the shape, ease of portability, and the deceptively simple black cover that tells nothing about the contents.

Now I don't have any more blank pages. I'm on my third Moleskine since I've returned from Italy. I waited until December 1st for this one, and I have to say I was slacking a little this week, but I plan to have this baby filled by the end of this month, getting myself prepped for a book a month in the coming year. That's going to be one of my 2009 goals.

I love to draw, and I am finally stuck on making it my life, but I find my sketchbooks have begun to come to life ever since I let my words creep onto my drawings, on walls, behind faces, becoming the dominant design, giving new meaning to the entire image. Sometimes people think they can decipher my intentions. Sometimes it really looks that way, but anyone who has ever been confused by their own language knows that there are words and terms we may not fully understand, and because we learn by experience and observation, each person has their own little dictionary inside.

Back to what I was on about, all the little things we do, even 50 years ago, would have been so different then. The world is changing so quickly, I want even just one future generation to be able to look and see the differences, but more importantly see the similarities. Right now, I'm just a twenty something trying to get my things together and get my life sorted out. The older I get and the more I learn, the more I realize I don't know a hell of a lot.

All this was pushed out of me because I forgot to turn off my alarm clock this morning. When I finally became conscious and started listening to the radio.. "The count for Canadians killed in Afghanistan is up to 100 as of yesterday."

That's signficant.

And for me, it was worth writing down.

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