Some times there are thoughts I don’t dare record. Nothing super creepy—actually, I mean, there are sometimes things, like, say, some criticisms of M, that I reword carefully/politely, or I don’t say them, mostly ‘cuz I’m also learning as I write. I mean, I don’t want to be an asshole, so sometimes I correct myself as I write—I challenge and question myself, which is one of the coolest things about doing these freewrites: the self-teaching, the self-correction.
So often, writing escapes time—it collapses time by summarizing, it takes an overview perspective—a perspective outside of time—like telling the story while knowing how it ends. But my journals don’t do that—they’re written within time, from that perspective where there’s lotsa details. I mean, there are so many things to write about when you’re not just summarizing the high points!
But also, I don’t know where things are headed—what things happening now, today, will later seem important and which won’t. But the beautiful thing is that I am—how to say?—recording lived time in my journals. That’s what all these nearly 300 journals are—a recording of consciousness—and consciousness experience (and consciousness experience even sorta makes, through memory, time).
[From journal of Tues. 3 July 2018, Journal 279, page 116-7]
MonkeyMoonMachine 