I’m not sure what this blog is about yet. Wait, that’s not entirely true. I am going to attempt to let it develop along the way.
In the second paragraph, I will attempt to establish the topic. This should have been done in the first paragraph, but oh well. So, although a little late, here is the topic: thought, the things we write down, some on paper, some in journals, some in diaries, and some electronic. Maybe in music or on canvas. Maybe sculpted in clay. It’s about the intention behind the thoughts we communicate whatever the medium may be.
In the third paragraph, I realize that I didn’t quite meet the goal of the second paragraph, or the first paragraph for that matter, and since I appear to be breaking the rules, I have decided that the rest of the paragraphs will be kind of free-flowing thought. Please excuse my inability to follow the rules of essay. I propose, that you think what you will, try to understand, open your mind, and just enjoy. That is my intention.
Now I will attempt to establish an underlying topic of how despite an unspoken request based on trust, or one that may be quite literal and written…thoughts that were once private seem to be out of your control once they are shared with anyone. I am sure that I will be unsuccessful with establishing this topic but it is important for some reason tonight.
It’s about fear.
It’s about respect.
It’s about trust.
A few years ago, I received a gift from a man I was involved with. Okay, it was my ex-husband who also is the father of my kids.
He knew I liked a certain musical artist and connected with his music. The artist was Kurt Cobain. The gift, was a copy of pieces of Mr. Cobain’s journal, published after his passing.
I read it a few times. Uncomfortably.
Every reading brought something new to light. Tonight, I really need to say something and I am not sure why.
Here is what I am feeling and I don’t quite know how to get the message across to whoever the intended may be, but this is the message:
“I didn’t mean for you to read it after I was gone. I wrote these things down for you to understand me. It wasn’t meant for publication. It was meant for you. We write things, and we hide them, and like all secrets…they are never secret from the ones that we love about the most for very long. If anything, all I wanted was understanding, to be comfortable for once, to feel a commonality of thought and feeling with the ones that I cared about the most. I was enough of a bastard when I was alive. Please don’t bastardize my work when I have moved on.”
I am really, really sorry about this gift that my ex-husband purchased for me. I should have paid more attention to the very first page because in the book, Mr. Cobain said don’t read it when I am gone.
It was obviously meant for his family, maybe his wife, who knows.
His words were literally…don’t read my diary when I am gone.
Then, an invitation to read, look through his thoughts, and figure him out. That seems strange, very personal. I kind of don’t want this book anymore.
Is it weird that I respect the request of someone who wrote thoughts in a journal, and after his death, unbeknownst to him, got shared in a publication, and then when it was given to me as a gift, and I read it over and finally noticed the first page where the author kind of blatantly asked for the opposite?
I think I get his intention. Maybe.
Mysterious journals. We keep them close. Always protect them like the treasures they are.
The reality is that it is never close enough. No answers. Damage done.
Wow. The cover of the book just moved. I will take that as an approval.
thoughts and musings from my mind 