now that my basketball fix has been, well, fixed, I find myself falling back into myself and my thoughts. An idea I have been pondering for a while:
The Dead Library
A place where anyone could submit the writings (stories, poems, songs, etc.) of any deceased family member or friend, where they would be cataloged and archived permanently. It is certain that 99% of submissions would go untouched for generations, but wouldn't it be cool to find out that Dylan's working-class grandfather was a poet, too; James Dean's ancestor's wrote anti-religious novels; or a wealthy, hidden, expired trust-fund kid composed masterpieces in her spare time, only to be discovered years later? We are privy to precious few writings, as most fleshed-out ideas are lost with their creators. I am fondly reminded of Kevn Kinney's MacDougal Blues banter ("tons of bad poems, just blowing down the streets like tumbleweeds"). Would be an interesting day (or life) trip, squatting in a dusty, echoing hall, flipping through unpublished, unknown writings. Voices of the dead. But important enough voices that they were compelled to put pencil to paper. Oh, so romantic. Would it be worth collecting hundreds of thousands of scratched-out notes to find a moment of brilliance. That answer is quick and easy, but I won't bore you with it.
shanti,
mjh
2 comments:
my aunt made a book of all of my grandmothers poems and gave one to each of us grandkids one christmas after she had died. they didn't mean anything to me when i was little, but now i get it.
i don't think that many people feel that their thoughts are important enough to write down and keep track of. or that anyone would ever be interested in them.
in a similar train of thought, that is why i waited so long to even start a myspace page, and have never started a blog. who cares about my life and thoughts but me?
if it means anything, i care. and i can name several others who do, too. so blog on you crazy diamond.
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