here's me in a bowling shirt i bought at a thrift store. it says "mr. schnur" above the pocket. i loved that shirt. i don't know what happened to it. this picture was taken when i was in college.
here's something i wrote in my journal about 10 years ago, after not writing for some weeks:
i don't know why i'm choosing tonight to write of all nights. i'm not inspired. nothing particularly exciting or tragic is happening to me. i am just writing. its been awhile and this is a good habit that i have fallen out of. a problem i had not expected to be mine, since writing has always seemed so natural.
why do i write? to catch up? to catch who up? myself? is it for future generations or for history buffs? is it so my great-grandchildren can discover me? is it to give me something to do? or is it because i am supposed to? like breathing. i think that's it. but why have i stopped then? why stop breathing? i hold my breath when i am afraid and i feel the need to be absolutely silent in order to hear what's going on.
its as if the noise of my living is too loud to keep me alive, when i am most afraid. hence it is with writing. i think i am framed in fear these days, and so i do not write. the noise of my writing - not of the pencil's scratch so much as the soul's remarks - is too loud for my fear to handle. somewhere deeper than thoughts, i think to myself, "if you write you might hear yourself - really - and you don't want to do that." and somewhere deeper than deciding, i decide to listen to my fearful self. and so i stumble through my days, holding my breath because i'm so afraid to be heard - even to hear myself. its pitiful really. i suppose i still have so much growing up to do.