As I was perusing the earliest volume of my notebook journals on Saturday, some interesting, or not so interesting, topics emerged:
My theory that listening to classical music could calm down my brain enough to read Bertrand Russell.
Actual use in a poem “razors of solitude”
Similarly bad short stories written for classes.
Account of drunken attempt at writing the student government constituition whilst imbibing copius amounts of Killians Red and crushing on a hot, goateed, philosophy major.
Letters to my highschool best friend I did not send.
Random notes on books I was reading: Gatsby, Camus, Rilke, Sartre, Turn of the Screw, Hawthorne, also notes for a Whitman paper, where there is this (not sure if it’s a direct quote or from where):
“The greatest poet is he, who within his works, most stimulates the reader’s imagination and reflection, who excites him the most himself to poetize.” (YES!)
And from Camus:
“Sex leads to nothing. It is not immoral, but it is unproductive. One can indulge in it so long as one does not want to produce. But only chastity is linked to personal progress.” (*sigh* if only I could convince myself of this NOW)
A clipping on the I ching.
Notes on the Stanslavski technique (I was still doing theatre in those days)
Some really hurtful things I hope my mother never reads.
Lengthy thoughts on feminism after reading Naomi Wolff
Lengthy lists of books to buy, books to read, books I’d read
My desire to travel extensively (hasn’t happened yet), learn Italian (ditto) and play the violin (ditto)
