Weird to have "started a blog" only to discover I've nothing to say. Huh.
But then I've always had a weird relationship with journals. Who's my audience? Future me and...posterity?
Really loved writing for my sophomore HS English teacher, Mrs. Gowlett. She genuinely seemed to love reading what we wrote.
Years ago, digging through journals and high school keepsakes, I was mortified to read my scandalized journal review of the HS production of "Grease," which -- the review opens by disclosing -- I didn't see. "Tickets were sold out. But I know the story. It's about a girl who TURNS HERSELF INTO A FLOOZY!" Gads.
Here's hoping that upright, uptight twit has flown -- for good. There are times I wonder.
Some nights it's good to go back -- not quite so far in time -- to pick at the scars and look at the trail of breadcrumbs. For every tune-June-moon in a poem or laughably anguished journal entry, there's a moment of pluck, a turn of phrase, something to like about that person who was me before me.
It's like finding a penciled note in a library book. What was she thinking? Why did she write that? Do I agree with that? Johnny. Well, like, who's Johnny? There was one guy named Johnny, but he was...
Time machine. A journal's like a time machine. Except a time machine that takes you back to July 23, 1779. Just an ordinary summer day, nothing to see here, move along. I like the internet for that quality too. An ordinary-day time machine. It marks the snapshot moment in time, speaks a truth, shoves in a bookmark and moves on.