Ideas come at strange times. Sometimes I’ll be sitting, studying space for contradictions in the laws of physics, and wallop, an idea sinks its claws into my arm. I scream until I realize that this might be good. Ideas have a tendency to sound very good when they first occur, similar to how a dream feels upon waking or an idea conjured from bubbled smoke feels while you’re still addled.

This is the critical time. After the idea occurs, you’re usually puzzled: Where did this idea come from? Who keeps feeding them to me? How much money will I make from it? Who would I sell it to? What am I going to spend my first million on? Thinking these thoughts can distract you from the idea. Before you finish counting the millions you will earn from your idea, it’s a good bet that the idea will vanish. Only your thoughts of fame and fortune will remain. It’s usually good that you forgot it. It was probably crap. But it still would have been nice to put down, just to be sure.

You’re probably thinking this entry is about a eureka moment, a flash of brilliance that I will expound and develop, only to forget about—or worse, contradict—a few musings later. I have a history of this. See my theory on sharing my writings. See my theory on meanness. See my consternations on writing. This time I will disappoint. As I have a tendency to do, I am going to discuss the process and not the content. You see, I’m writing this musing based on notes I took in my new journal: a Moleskine journal. I am going to try to carry this journal around to take notes with. Not necessary journal entries, just stray thoughts.

Before I get into my new journal, I wanted to write about.... Do you see what happens? I had a wonderful idea I wanted to get down, and poof, it’s gone. It would have bridged my discussion of flighty ideas and journals. I’m sure it would have been brilliant. You see I can’t make this up. I’m that pathetic.

The last few times I visited Borders, I’ve looked through the journal offerings. I purchased a spiral-based journal before my trip last week, but I forgot to bring it. This turned out beneficial. I missed having something to write in and Doolies and I went journal shopping. That’s when I discovered the Moleskine. At first, I was turned off by the advertisement: as used by Henri Matisse, Vincent van Gogh, Ernest Hemmingway, and Bruce Chatwin. I didn’t want to be a poser. But when I tried it out, I noticed its advantages. It has an elastic strap along the outside that keeps the book closed when not in use. The front and back cover are stiff cardboard with protective coverings (I was hoping it was made from moleskin, but I don’t think that’s the case. It would take many moles to cover these books). The binding is excellent. All the pages open flat and the lines are ruled close together. The size and weight is also excellent. A drop too big to fit comfortably in most pockets, but any smaller and it would not be useful.

I’ve been thinking about buying a new journal ever since skimming Camus’s journal. I’ve attempted this in the past. I bought my Compaq iPaq before moving to Houston to record my thoughts. That didn’t work out well. PocketPCs are still difficult to write in, are too large to comfortably carry around, and have too many distractions, such as games and internet. I’ve carried around larger journals, keeping my yellow flipbook journal for a long time, and a bunch of spiral journals, including the ones I brought with me on my European and Argentinean trip (these entries I typed in as musings, but they are not worth reading). But these have been too large to carry daily. I would put them in my bag, but I did not always bring a bag.

The purpose of my new journal is a bit different from what I’ve tried. In the past, I would record whole thoughts and transcribe them verbatim from paper to my musings, correcting only for spelling. My new Moleskine is a depository for ideas: raw, unformed, nobody-will-understand-not-even-your-own-mother ideas. Full sentences will not be required. I will translate the nascent ideas or abortive words before I post them. But for my Moleskine, there will be no requirement to make the ideas clever.

So far, I’ve been rather satisfied with my Moleskine journal. I used it while visiting Doolies and on the return flight today. You’re reading some of the gems (cough, cough) (my signal for sarcasm). I also recorded some thoughts for a new story about waiting in line. (Remember what I said about the value of most ideas.) I’m hoping to write that story this week.

I am still wishy-washy about what effect people reading my website has on me. I check my logs and comments often enough to suggest that I care. But some of that checking has to do with my addictive personality. When I start following a message board, I become obsessive about checking it as well. I think it has more to do with my addictive personality than my need to know what’s happening on the board. See my comic book collection.

This forces me to revisit my audience idea (again). I don’t think I’ll ever come to a resolution. I seesaw from believing an audience is important to cursing them to ignoring them in a noble pursuit of self.

Chuck Palahniuk in Survivor said, “You realize that if nobody is watching, you might as well stay home. Play with yourself. Watch broadcast television.” In case you haven’t had the opportunity to read (or watch) Mr. Palahniuk, he is helping bring about a revolution in storytelling: he delivers self-indulged, first person, present narrative stories in which his off-kilter characters rebel against society. Think “Fight Club.” Think the failed revolution against our parents’ ideals. For Generation-X (that’s us, in case you forgot), we are having trouble defining that rebellion. Our parents rebelled against the establishment. They’ve left us in a lark. What is there to rebel against now? That our parents are sellouts? That their drug-induced revolution created a more capitalist and immoral society than the society they rebelled against? Been there, done that.

Getting back to Mr. Palahniuk’s rant, his protagonist (which must share thoughts with Mr. Palahniuk, since most of his protagonists have similar beliefs) discusses what an audience means for achievement. This is something I’ve been struggling with. Should I post my thoughts? Does anyone care about these thoughts? If I did post them, what’s the purpose? Would I still write if nobody read my thoughts? Would I go the gym if I had nobody to impress with my monsterhood?

Because I derive my motivation from external sources, for me, the answer to those questions is “yes,” “hope so,” “to amuse others,” “no,” and “no.” My life has been about the pursuit of head patting. The end goal of my writing is to publish something. I’m not sure whether the musings are helping or hindering this effort. That’s what this keeps coming back to. Why should anyone care to read this?

Speaking of external motivations, I had a wonderful taxi ride from the airport. My taxi driver was from New Orleans. Since I visited New Orleans last week for business, we started talking. He’s black, 51 years old, wore brown sunglasses and a black, head-fitting hat, and spoke with a gruff voice. (I wish I remembered his name.) He’s a jazz player, a trumpet jazz player from New Orleans. He carries a pocket trumpet (the tubes are wrapped tightly so the trumpet fits in a small box) in his glove compartment and played a jazzy “When the Saints Go Marching In” for me at the end of the trip.

He went to college and played professionally on the side to make extra money. His other wife (he calls his trumpet his first wife) moved him to Houston against his will (sound familiar?). He left his family, his city, and, most painful, his band to move here. He’s thinking of opening a real jazz club downtown. Houston has a few clubs, but from my brief visits, they are not New Orleans quality.

We spoke about jazz musicians, the loss of the brass section in modern music, and his love of the music. He told me about the brotherhood (and, I guess, sisterhood) of jazz musicians in New Orleans. When visiting clubs, all jazz musicians bring their mouthpieces, always expecting to be called to the stage during a set. He also described a jazz funeral, the favorite place his band played. In particular, when a jazz musician died, a large group of musicians turned out: at least five of each trumpet, trombone, saxophone, tuba, and percussion players. They bring their instruments and play before, during, and after the funeral. The musicians also accompany the casket to the cemetery (if it is close by) in a parade, playing soulful gospel hymns. After the burial, the musicians change their tune and parade toward where the food and drinks are served. They play up-tempo jazz. It is impossible to be sad when they play.

During the conversation, I told him that I played trumpet through college. Not jazz trumpet, regrettably, but a poor man’s rendition of classical trumpet. At the end, he insisted that I pull out my trumpet—something I told him I haven’t done in a year—and play some tunes. And then he said something else. He said that I shouldn’t play for anyone. I should play for myself. Even if I couldn’t hit a note, couldn’t scream into the stratosphere, just play. Play for the joy of creating music. Lose yourself. Find yourself. Play until your head spins and your lips bleed and your soul cries out. Who needs an audience when you’re finding that?