Journal of Journaling

(Dec 13/07)

I am at it again, scribbling down my thoughts, my things, these things in themselves. This cold December afternoon, I nary make it home without fainting dead (frozen) in my tracks. Lazarus cold: colder than the northern-most pole cold, perhaps colder yet. It is dear Charlotte’s birthday today; fifteen years pass so quickly.

(Dec 15/07)

I have swollen glands. My glands are swelling swollen. I made every effort to stay abed, glands swelling swollen, hipbone chaffing wearied wearily. I have an essay to put the final touches to this morning, my take on Lonergan and Freud, two unlikely bedfellows, an unconscious consciousness that has no beginning, but simply an in between.

(Dec 19/07)

A whirling-dervish sort of day: by any stretch of the imagination. There is a windswept turret of snow at the foot of my window; cursed ploughman hasn’t made his weekly drive-by. If Nietzsche was correct (and I’m inclined to believe he was, always!), I am doomed to a most punishing eternal-reoccurrence. Live you’re life as if you would have to live it over and over again ad infinitum! I suppose swollen swelling glands are a pittance to pay for a faulty eternal-reoccurrence. ‘One must still have chaos in oneself to give birth to a dancing star’. (Frederick Nietzsche) I’ve had my fill of chaos, yet still I seek more.