Leonardo's Notebooks and My Journaling

Leonardo da Vinci, the famous scientist, artist and philosopher, has always been one of my role models. The man designed contraptions that were way ahead of his time (a flying machine, for example). His paintings were remarkably lifelike and anatomically correct. According to history, he was also a superb musician and a snappy dresser to boot.

As a consummate scientist, he kept observations about the world around him. Da Vinci filled notebooks with writing, drawings, diagrams...you name it. These entries were as varied and eclectic as anything, but unfortunately, he never got around to organizing it in any coherent fashion. Imagine what kind of index it would have made if he'd done so! He asked questions, formulated answers and tested hypotheses. He drew pictures of plants, machines and human bodies. Da Vinci was -literally- poetry in motion.

Some of these musings were written in mirror writing: backwards and right to left. Da Vinci was a natural lefty; it may have been simply easier for him to write that way. In all, reading his notebooks is a fascinating journey through the maestro's mind.

I hadn't known about Da VInci's notebooks when I first had the urge to write. If I'd known, I would have laughed at the irony. Nearly fourteen years later, I wonder why I hadn't done it much sooner.

It was during my first year of marriage and I was living in Charlottesville, VA at the time. Having to readjust to a new environment and dismal job opportunities had put me in a paralyzing funk. What was I going to do with the rest of my life? Was I going to end up as a resentful housewife for the rest of my days? Needless, to say it was a rough period.

I don't know what compelled me to go to the Barnes and Noble. I went straight to the gifts section and looked at the sketchbooks. I finally picked out hardbound, spiral one: blue, with a picture of stars and galaxies on the front; crisp, heavy white pages meant for color pencil and charcoal. After paying for it, I hunkered down in the B&N cafe' with a ball-point pen and started to write.

I poured out my thoughts, my dreams and my resentments. Eventually, I also little scenes of action and dialog, which I dubbed "snippets". Sometimes it sparked other scenes to take it forward, other times it hung there, suspended. I also scribbled poetry, dream recollections, quotes and anecdotes. Inspirational articles found their way into the pages: interviews with successful writers, how-to's and others. Favorite comics, advice from the business section of the paper.

As the years passed by, I filled notebook after notebook. Later, I started to sketch and drawings of my own. I finally overcame my embarrassment at my (poor?) artistic ability. There was no harm in experimenting with colored pencils, brush pens and charcoal. Still life, scenery and lots of beach scenes. My cats became unwilling models for my art.

It surprised me just how natural this felt after such a short time. Keep in mind that I'd already been writing in a regular journal for more than fifteen years prior to this. That journal was more of a "daily-time-tick-here's-what-I-did-where-I-was". The sketchbook seemed to allow me the freedom to expand my horizons, the room to write whatever I wanted, with no censure. I figured the only person who would see this rubbish was me, anyway. It must have been the white, blank page, no boundaries. I wasn't intimidated by it. I simply filled page after page with no second thought.

It was a safety valve through those initial years, a place for me to bent my feelings and build my dreams of a more fulfilling, more creative life. At first, I was reluctant to act on them: not practical, not intelligent. But  my notebooks insisted for years, until I found the courage to act upon it.

As of this writing, I have twenty-two of such notebooks (and twenty-five journal books, dating back to 1986). Paging through them is like sifting through a gold-silted river. Old ideas and new insights, old snippets and new connections. It's strange how coincidence and synchronicity had such an impact on my life...but I hadn't realized just how much.

Recently, I bought the book, "How to Think like Leonardo Da Vinci" by Michael Gelb. It was then I found out about Da Vinci's notebooks and his widespread creative efforts. I was struck by his genius and like Da Vinci did, I continue to record in my notebooks...the pieces of my existence.


All original writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

Indiana Annie and the Used Bookstore

I step into the used bookstore and I feel like Indiana Jones in some sort of exotic temple with foreign languages on the walls and strange tales waiting to be read. Of course, I'm actually at Book Sellers, in Charlotte, North Carolina, and the books are all arranged according to subject: science fiction, history, poetry, mystery...the list goes on.


The store has an interesting selection of book translations in other languages, including Korean, Chinese, Japanese, German, Spanish, Czech and Portuguese. I found German translations of the "Star Wars" saga and "King Kong", as well as a Portuguese translation of "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's (Sorcerer's, US) Stone." You can find the most unexpected treasures there. Once I picked up "Winnie Ille Puh" in Latin.


The Writing section is farther down the same aisle. There are plenty of how-to books, others full of publication advice (some several years out of date, unfortunately) and blank journal books. Some are spiral bound, others are hard-bound, with colorful covers and all sorts of designs. I've found unique journal books there and have built up my stock of blank books to jot down all sorts of ideas.


In the back are several shelves of the one dollar bargain books. Old college textbooks, humor collections, classic stories and recent novels, exercise and fitness, cross-stitch patterns, and non-fiction galore. It's a undiscovered treasure chest. I've found books dating back to the 1920s (like a copy of E.M. Forster's "Captain Hornblower" and "Cartellas del Armas" from 1944), but you have to to really dig to find them. Once you find them, it's worth the one dollar you pay for each.


I'll keep coming back a few times a month to see what's "new" on the shelves. It's like a siren call that I can't resist, one that leads me to treasure. 



All original writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

Does Writing Age Like a Fine Wine?

I've spent the weekend digging through my old writing notebooks, some dating back more than 10 years. I'm amazed at all the writing I've done that I've long forgotten about. At the time, I just dashed off these little poetry/short story snippets without too much thought. Words scribbled between teaching classes, grading papers at the local coffeehouse, and waiting for the city bus at the stop. The years of my student teaching were grueling, with hardly any time to breathe. (the first one was in languages/ESL for undergrad. The second was in a 5th grade classroom, all subjects for masters). Writing was a necessary outlet to preserve my sanity.


As I look back at these pages, I can remember the circumstances of each piece. My health has always been up-and-down, with constant infections and other problems. It wasn't until I was formally diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis in 2006 that many of the incidents made sense. This poem was written on June 1, 2001:

The pain makes me tremble.

It pierces with dull blades

Sharp when water flows.

It burns my blood.

When my mind is clouded,

my body becomes a rod

attracting all kids of thoughts.

My back feels heavy,

my legs sting.

The hornets hide in every crevice

And poke with awful sting.

My soul stands up against it,

saying, "No, you don't,

Not this time."

But the shell I occupy

turns traitor.

And I crumble with little strength.

I rebel against my fate

And bear the agony alone,

Hiding the ashes within my throat,

Withering slowly within my heart.

---RAD 6/1/01

I'm amazed at how relevant those feelings are to me, nearly ten years later, and how powerful they remind me of that time of my life. Here's another one, written the same year, when I was angry at my husband. We'd been married 5 years at this point:

An idiot

knows he's an idiot.

A smart idiot

bites his tongue

till it bleeds.

But a genius idiot

dies a death

of a cold hell

where he rambles on

to an audience of one:

himself.

---RAD 7/16/01

Again, I'm struck at the relevance of this poem at the time and now. This was before we had our children, and two of our three children's diagnosis of moderate/severe autism. It wasn't until much later that I realized my husband had all the signs of Aspberger's Syndrome (high-functioning autism), which includes brilliance in certain areas (in his case, computers), but difficulty in relating to others' thoughts and feelings.

I'll close with one more short poem, about trying to find who you are.

Finding yourself in a mirror,

is such an easy thing to do.

Your image warped

beyond recognition.

Good in place of evil---

Perfect lines blurred.

Yet which one is the right one?

The crisp reflection of everyday life?

Or the shadows hidden within?

---RAD 3/11/00

Writers, when you look at your old manuscripts, what do you see? Can you remember the time and place when you wrote it? Can you remember how you felt at the time? Look back, you'd be surprised.

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

Art and Writing: A Collage of the Mind

I was very fortunate to meet a wonderful group of women at a "retreat" in Asheville, North Carolina, in 2005. Nine lovely women met at a cabin in the mountains, and we spent time laughing, eating, drinking and sharing our dreams. We found common ground, despite nine different backgrounds. It was a heady time. We visited new restaurants in downtown Asheville, sought shelter in a bar from a sudden downpour, played board games in our pajamas. I was pregnant with my older daughter at the time and was full of hopes and dreams.

One of our activities was collage-making. We searched through magazines and cut pictures and words that described our dreams. Here are two of mine: the one on the top has the theme, "What are you Waiting For: Oh, the Possibilities". It shows some of my "true colors" of my personality. Jewelry-maker, Virginia Tech alumna, chocoholic, musician, reader.  These are the facets of me.

The page on the bottom is a "Glimpse of the Future". A trip to the Pacific Rim, Healing of Body and Soul, triumph over depression, and flying straight and true like an arrow from a bow. (My zodiac sign happens to be Sagittarius.)

Try collaging and see what you come up with. You just might be surprised.

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

Journals as a Window to Other Worlds

Right now, I'm reading "Arthur Conan Doyle: A Life in Letters" edited by Jon Lellenberg, Daniel Stashower, and Charles Foley. It's a collection of letters that the creator of Sherlock Holmes wrote to his mother, Mary Conan. He began writing to her during his boyhood in a Jesuit school and kept on until her death in 1920. The first two authors are members of the Baker Street Irregulars (a society devoted to Sherlock Holmes) and Charles Foley is Arthur C. Doyle's grand-nephew.


His world (late 19th-early 20th century Europe) is a different world from ours. He brought a lot of real-life aspects to his writing. His worst subject was mathematics, so he made Holmes's arch-nemesis, James Moriarty, a mathematician by training. He studied medicine at the University of Edinburgh, and so made Doctor James H. Watson a doctor. Doyle was horrible at dating his letters (not to mention organizing them and punctuating them), and Watson's chronicles were also written in the same haphazard way. Doyle also mentioned his idols (Poe's short stories inspired Holmes's serial adventures) and even mentioned some of his critics' early reviews of his work.


They say that art imitates life and that's true, especially about writers. "Write what you know." Journals can give you an insight into a writer's mind and into what influenced him/her to write about what they did. They write about their worlds from their unique points of view. Many casual diarists don't consider their lives special, but to an outsider, looking in, each entry reveals a little more about that life that I might not have known about.


I have a whole shelf full of journals written by various people. The Journals of Lewis and Clark. The Diary of Anne Frank (both "A Diary of a Young Girl" and a 1956 British copy inherited from my godmother), Zlata's Diary (of a girl living through the Balkan war), and A World War II Diary 1941-45 (of a U.S. Navy Sailor stationed on a destroyer in the Pacific). I also have a copy of a fictional journal of a girl in the Middle Ages, Catherine, called Birdie (2 copies, in English and Spanish). Call it a habit, but I've always been fascinated by other's journals.
I started my own journal when I was 8, in regular spiral-bound school notebooks. Then I switched to hard-bound journal books when I got married. Each book's cover reflects something going on at that time of my life. So far, I have 18 hard-bound books in a box in my closet. And I still write when I can.


Do you keep a journal? How often do you write in it and what do you write about? A friend of mine describes his as "The Life, The Universe and Everything" (with apologies to Douglas Adams). How special is it to you?

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010