It is an enlightening (or stupefying) journey to revisit one’s past life through old journals. I am sorting through boxes in my parent’s place and found today a journal from the mid 1990’s. In retrospect, I have several observations:
- For some reason, (probably related to my university experience) it appears I was attempting to write in King James English. This, in and of itself, would not come across so bizarre if not for the fact that I was not yet wholly equipped to write in modern English. Consequently, I was writing in poorly structured King James English (sort of NKJV mixed with my dialect from West Virginia mixed with a hefty dose of sophomoric aphorisms).
- I wrote in an extraordinarily cramped and elaborate script (it actually looks like the handwriting of a sociopath). This is also probably related to my university experience.
- I would like to publicly apologise to any and all the poor girls who were subject to my attentions. (I can’t say this directly relates to my university experience, but I will go ahead and blame it on that anyway.)
At present you sound a bit like a melancholy romantic who is trapped within an insensitive, perhaps even hostile environment.
—Sid Sylvester, professor, making an observation about my writing
Freud Snack Crackers Just like your mother used to make
Had no black tea. I’m awake. I’m not upset, It’s not that I can’t think on anything. I’m just thinking about everything at once…my mind is like a beanbag; all the bits are there, but [shaken]. It’s all a jumble.
Today is our last day of classes. It’s raining. The Tree of Life plays on the stereo. It rains harder. I’ll stop writing now and gaze out the window.
I feel the need to travel. Sleep on trains. Carry one bag in Victorian dress with a pocket watch and brass flashlight. Write in a leather journal with matching waterproof case.
Why do people assume I’m thinking? Can they tell just be looking at me?
Some fingers feel unnatural in the ear.
What is the present? Even the photograph, the much glorified conquerer of time and record, cannot capture the present. No exposure is short enough to seize what is already beyond reach.
Pathatism: the art of arousing pity
Do you ever dream in fear but cannot call out for help? I’ll often, on morning walks, pass through a web—tearing away the beauty because I did not see soon enough. How the wind—the Breath—blows through beauty as it holds. Where does it root in me? Even dry bones heeded the prophet.
There is a great deal more; but this is not the place for such revelations; how different I was then though. What will the next ten years bring?