My journals are peculiar things. Absent are chronologically ordered entries. The scribblings within are dated; not in any order though. I don't even write in them from front to back, sometimes I open to a page at random and begin to write...
The writings they hold dear play out much like my thinking, sort of all over the map. Whatever catches my fancy at the moment ::
{notes on a scandal
the last king of Scotland
Persian poets, a sacred affair
who exactly is, Yves Montand?}::
...see where I'm going with this? It could be a sentence that I just love. It (the sentence) doesn't even necessarily relate to anything, it could be the start of some new poem or short story. An entire tome could be crafted around it, as if it were some bewitched seed waiting to cultivate worlds yet untold from the soils of my imagination. It could just be words by themselves. Written onto a page of their very own (as though they own it) like small works of intellectual art::{cupid, organic, garnet, caravan, betwixt, genteel, scripture, white-washed-beach-house}:: Just the word, and white space.
Lastly, and my personal favourite, I will write down the loved lines from a screenplay or a book that resonate with me long after,"So long, Sweet Lime."
Daydreams I find, are wonderful muses. (I daydream a lot. If socially appropriate to do so-like when riding a bus or waiting in line for frozen yogurt with fresh smashed up cherries.) I don't mind this about myself, as I've learned when and where it is alright to do so. I'll take a notebook out of my rather large bag {camera, organic coffee-flavoured Shea butter lip balm, red wallet, butterscotch candies...} and jot down the niggling idea no matter where I am.
Some of the best journals are very inexpensive , but I do like tan leather, a lot. Notebooks and journals of all descriptions draw me like a moth to a flame, and have done, since childhood. I would pen my most intimate {and embarrassing sometimes} thoughts and fears onto the glossy white pages. Later, to my regret, I would throw them away...afraid they would be discovered and read {because there was nothing I despised more than someone reading what I had marked private.} So now, I can only guess at my former self, wishing in vain that I had some sort of record of it. My actions pain me to this very day. (I talk myself into keeping things now, I'm cultivating sentiment.)
During pregnancy, I committed to paper my physical symptoms, mental state and hopes for my unborn child. One day I will give her those notes. She may end up going through something similar to what I did, and she'll glean her mother's first hand knowledge. I did notice that one thing had changed however from childhood diaries to pregnancy logs---I now did not care who read my writing. My feelings on this changed once I came to the realization that anyone's judgments about me are really about them. It was this realization---that set me free. I journal. Therefore I Am.
Placed carefully within my journals {like small treasures} you will find business cards of restaurants I've enjoyed, postcards from various journeys and travels, stamps, foreign currencies{Egyptian pounds} and little maps of places I've been {L.A. marked out with little stars... the Santa Monica pier, and the two hour drive to Palm Springs...and more}.
So you see my journals are a lot like I am, wildly chaotic. A hieroglyph of myself that really only I can interpret. I remember an elderly librarian at my elementary school, she was "anti-dog earing" and "anti-margin notes". Tapping her spoon shaped fingernail on the books cover, she would say to me {rather loudly because she was a sea monster}, "Have you ever heard of a bookmark?" (Well, I for one love making margin notes and love dog earing the best parts of a well loved book. So there.)
*Note to self; perhaps not all childhood memories are lost. Just held in trust until something stirs them to life once more.* See, this cultivating sentiment stuff is working. Maybe it will unlock a few more star-kissed past moments for me yet.
xo
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