These are my notebooks, if the building was burning I’d go back for them, they are years of pouring heart out onto pages, ideas, reflections, sketches, poems and writing. I return to them regularly, it’s a beautiful act of time travel to go back into your head before you knew what you know now.
I love reading them they are raw and inspired, honest, sometimes uncomfortable but always great tools for reflection, and the purest memories of feelings, sensations and moments that needed to be written. I’ve only every thrown one away… into the fire, an act of spiritual exorcism at the time, the first part of a chronicle of a mad, passionate and unhealthy love affair that nearly took me out, I’ve got the second part, and often wish I could re-read the first. Not for the memories, I’ve got those to work with but for the words, the choice of the words is everything, the shape of them, the way they were thrown onto the page, exhaled or bleeding, the form they naturally took, line breaks, space the gaps between things happening.
I couldn’t sleep last night so I got these out looking for a specific poem that I wrote and used to perform at readings, I didn’t find it but got lost in another dream of things written when life was all sea walks, music and night fires. I wrote another one looking from here to there and knowing a lot more, a blank page was filled, a little more expressed, and I found one, a recent one about dreaming of rain and I breathed some space into it on the pages. It feels full of something, a notion that’ll come clear reading it back years later, and so I write my truths, and for that life is good today.
© Carys Shannon, September 2020.