:: Friday, July 04, 2003 ::

A shift of focus

Back in the old days, in the days of kerosene lamps and horse-drawn carriages, I used to update this daily. Sometimes more frequently than that. I remember (although the Alzheimers makes it difficult) waiting to post, writing drafts in Wordpad because I thought it might appear freaky to post more than twice in one day. Lately though, as you may have noticed, I don't seem to have as much to say.

Is this the case, you ask?

Well of course not, stupid. Try to imagine me with nothing to say. Just try... see? It doesn't make any sense.

These thoughts that I have, all those ramblings, nonsense, attempted altruism and Claire Daines-esque introspection have been redirected into my paper journal. Imagine that... writing on paper. With a pen. Or sometimes a pencil. HB. How exciting!

Once upon a time, we wrote on paper. We carried notebooks of all sizes and colours around with us, and wrote in them when the mood struck us. We could write out in the fresh air, by the ocean, on a bus or in a café. I have rekindled my love for this archaic mode of expression. Don't get me wrong, I've had one all along. But I think I've written in it more in the past month alone than in the whole second term of school. I've filled up the pages lately - so many that it's almost full. And unlike this journal, I can also draw in it, make to-do lists, paste in photos and scraps and beautiful things. It really is a record of my daily life.

Of course, there's the one big difference: you suckers can't read that one. And with good reason. I always talk about what a grandma I am, what with my knitting and price-comparison shopping and my baking of pies. But if you got the chance to crack that cover, you'd discover my real secret: I am a thirteen year old girl.

Because that's how most honest journals sound. After years of growth, education and experience, print journals still sound like middle school. Of course there's differences: the words "holding hands" have been replaced with "sex"; "slumber party" with "bar"; "shopping trip" with "visa bills" and "student loans". But essentially, it's the same.

Perhaps that's why we keep our journals so private... we fear that inward immaturity. Perhaps.

Maybe it's something else though. I had a conversation with a friend about a year ago, and at the time we agreed that journals are a poor reflection of who we really are. They are us, but reflected like a hall of mirrors. They are us at our most emtional, be it bored or sad or angry. They are the ideas and phrases that we try on for size, like a dressing room for real life. They are the things we think before we bother talking about them, before solutions are formulated, before apologies are said. They are heat-of-the-moment judgements and irrational self-consciousness. They are not us.

I'm not sure if I still agree with this. But at the very least, they are not who we are, but the catalyst to who we have become... they are who we were at the time, the byproduct of our experiences and emotions. Does this make sense? I don't know if I'm being clear. But I guess the point is that this journal, like my print journal, is a hall of mirrors. One day you get the tall thin me, one day the short and fat, one day the bent sideways. But I'm okay with that, because if you put all of those things together, you'll find something that resembles the real me. Just don't take any of it too seriously.

And I'm also okay with that because here you don't get to read the part that says "my tummy is fat and this boy treated me bad and this boy is soooo dreamy but he'll never look at me and *insert random name here* is such a bitch i hate her! except i love her she's my best friend!!!! and this is what i want to be when i grow up, no wait this, no wait this..."

Etc.

All that shit is in the black hardcover book that is constantly by my side, with the worn corners and the plastering of stickers on the front cover. And it may be much like my old middle school journals, but this time I didn't bother writing "read and DIE" on the cover... because I'm old enough now to realise that nobody wants to read that shit anyway. :-)


~song~ Elvis Presley - A Little Less Conversation (remix)


:: Katy 2:18 p.m. [+] :: ::



"Can the brain represent twinkling, perceptually, without representing individual twinkles?"

- Daniel Dennett
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