Lately I’ve been thinking a lot on the concept of journaling, legacy, and footprints. A recent conversation with my grandfather (a man whom I admire VERY much) acted as the catalyst. My entire life, he’s been aggressively persistent on the matter. “Please keep a journal. Write in it every day, even if you just write down the temperature and the color of the socks you wore.” I’ve always loved the idea of keeping a journal, and understand the incredible significance in the act. I quickly fall in love with the story behind everything. I love things that are old, and rich with colorful history. Lastly, I love the idea of setting free the thought’s and ideas which I hold most sacred.

With that being said, you’d think that keeping a journal would come naturally to me. However, after years of trying I’ve recently given up on the practice entirely. On my best days, I’m simply awful at it. Writing three or four mundane sentences feels tedious to the point of maddening. Contrary to what this might imply, finding the desire, or something to write about has never been a problem for me. It’s almost completely the opposite. For me, every journal entry turns it into an elaborate creative endeavor. An attempt to capture a fleeting, but altogether profound, moment turns me into George RR Martin. The words just don’t stop, and the next thing I know I’m sitting on ten pages of single spaced word vomit.

The realization that I lack the self control required to simplify my thoughts, coupled with my overwhelming desire to focus on the profound left me in a tricky position. I really wanted to keep a journal, to record my experiences and my legacy in a way that would outlive myself. And until recently, I felt like a failure in the issue. Then I realized that a solution existed, and I’ve already been practicing it. Some of you may have your palms against your forehead, because you realized understood by the end of the first paragraph. But it turns out I’m not as bright as you.

I’M AN ARTIST. I have a living, evolving journal that kicks the ass of any written diary. Since childhood, I’ve been driven to create. And Growing up I also took the time to preserve and store a record just about every tiny thing I have ever made. Short stories I had written in school, songs I wrote for my band when I was a teenager, and even the odd little crafts I made at summer camps. I would archive and protect my creations with the same reverence that one handles a priceless piece of history. I didn’t even understand the significance of what I was doing, all I knew was that I felt compulsion to do so.

From as early as I can remember, the only thing that ever got me truly excited was the prospect of pursuing a vision throughout the process of physical creation. And it’s never dwindled, not in my most depressing chapters, or in my most comfortable and enjoyable. So it makes sense that I would hold on to my creations like they were a living part of me. I never thought of it as a journal, because it lacked convention. But decades later, here it is. A recorded history of the complex feelings which were most dear to me, told in multiple media formats.

It took me a moment to fully understand that my life can be traced back through the history of my art. I’m a painter now, but until recently that was never the format. I was a musician into my early twenties, and a writer before that. And I’ve always had a unique talent for assorted crafts. I’ve quilted, made jewelry, done photography, designed wardrobes, edited movies. You name it. I may not have been a guru in any of these areas, but skill level was never a concern of mine. Only the constant compulsion to create, emanating from my core like the faint light one sees at the center of a diamond.

And Art is so much more to me than any journal, than any private collection of thoughts. Because art is meant to be seen, felt, and heard. It’s fundamental function holds true to it’s nature: It exists for the sole purpose of being experienced by others, not just the creator. Where as the concept of a journal seems to betray it’s own nature…

We like to pretend on the contrary, accepting as we write, the idea that your diary is for your eyes, and your eyes only. But that’s completely bogus. We all know that the primary function of journalism is to keep a record of events, the intention being that the record will surpass you. Weather it be in longevity, or reach. Your diary is assumed private, except to those by whom you are survived. A faint reflection of your life, and the argyle socks you wore last Tuesday. A fading image to be considered after you have passed. how  horribly depressing.

Maybe it’s the artist in me, but I think it is incredibly egotistical to think that you are the only being worthy of that which is most sacred to you. And by “that which is most sacred”, I refer to your inner most feelings. The thoughts, ideas, emotions, and experiences which deeply resonate with you, all the way down to your core and your sole. On this topic of privacy I say: There are only two reasons for which to keep your thoughts and feelings private. Neither of them are good reasons. Either you are too insecure to broadcast your true feelings publicly, or you’re a terrible person who has malicious thoughts which shouldn’t be shared.

It took until my early twenties to realize this. When speaking about my music, people would often ask me things like “What does this song mean? What are you trying to say with your lyrics?” And I would often reply along the lines of “Nothing really” or “It just sounds cool. I thought people would like it.” But the truth was, the music always meant much more to me than that. And by abnegating the truth, I was robbing us both of so much. I think I was afraid to admit that this creation was actually a small piece of me. I believed that if my audience were to disagree, or if they failed to understand what I felt, it would be like they were destroying that piece.

In reality, I was destroying that piece by neglecting to enforce the true nature of it. Dissociation from my art also re-enforced a bad habit of refraining to work with my entire heart at anything I did. I couldn’t admit to myself that creating and emoting was the only thing that mattered to me. I wrote those songs because they felt good to me. I paint because nothing makes me feel more alive than to stand under a spot light in front on countless strangers, hold out my heart up, and hope to god that I can connect with at least one of them.

This is what I tried to emulate when I wrote in a private journal. But it’s not what I got. Attempting to free your feelings by compiling them together in a small notebook which you hide under you bed is like… Well… it feels like attempting to free a bird from it’s cage by putting it in a different cage, then periodically stuffing more birds into there with it.

Can anyone connect with this?  Maybe not…  But at least the bird is free.

Thank you for reading.  God bless.