So, beside me I have a stack of my notebook journals stretching from early elementary school to about a week ago. I’m relieved I’ve kept so many of them, mostly. Who knows for whom they were intended on an entry-to-entry basis, but I’m happy I have them here this moment to re-read and interpret in tonight’s light.
The time has long passed when I remember writing everything in these pages. Was there really ever such a time? Now I can go back over them for seemingly the first time.
It’s an odd feeling of self-referring vertigo, really.
Here’s a small, leather volume I do remember carrying around, covering June of 2008 through October of 2009. This should be by an author with which I am still familiar, then, but even so there are some passages I find surprising:
I remember that no matter where we lived, the hours of night before sleep were spent calmly listening to traffic and footfall outside, and watching the streetlamps or moonlight.
-July 17, 2008
That right there. That was the tone I’d like to find eventually for all of my childhood memories.
I flip back through a few more pages, discovering:
A samurai, a Buddhist, and a worldly master walk into a bar.
“What are you having?” the master asks the others.
“My hometown produces a first-rank drink,” answers the samurai. “But I will keep my wits about me.”
The Buddhist replies, “I’m good right now, but thanks for offering.”
“You’re both right,” nods the master, ordering three samples of the bar’s local beers. “No obligation,” she adds.
-July 12, 2008
I forgot that I sometimes cram other things into journal entries: sketches, story ideas, and . . .comedy material? Maybe sometimes it’s okay to forget.
All of these words might end up making a contribution for someone. They might not—or only provide me with some peace and understanding. . .
-July 27, 2008
Continuing through the journals, with all of their mundane and personal details, I think I see what I was driving at. There is a peace for me in knowing so many of these moments got themselves recorded. And re-reading them every so often from a different age is gradually bringing a new understanding of not just where I was, but where I still intend to be.
Whether or not I share more of these orphaned excerpts, that last one may as well be attached to everything posted on WREADITOR.com.