My friend once said to me,
Anxiety isn't a feeling; it's a place you go.
(I'll revisit this later.)
But, suffice to say: I regard my journal on similar terms -- not so much an it as a where. And my journals are an odd, and funny, wonderful place. The lines are clear -- sometimes:
I am in Kansas City, Missouri.
The lines are obscure -- more often.
The hills in front are mountains folded up. Gradually becoming blue.
My journal is a place comprising half-made lists, sprawling ones, things overhead, lines from other writers, things out of place, excessive context or none at all.
The lines, you can take at face value or not. But then there is the form -- were it a place, how funny it would be. Something like a carnival half on sea, half on hill, where a certain number of rides are spinning wildly out of control and a certain other number aren't running at all.
(It is, to be certain, a rather uncanny reflection of self.)
I remember my eleventh grade English teacher,
Form follows function.
And I think this was her pressing us toward clarity. Cohesiveness.
(But how wonderful when function and form align to make something else. A marriage of purpose and performance to make...a mess by design. Or is that a contradiction?)
-- Either way, messy thoughts messily expressed are, still, delightful to me.