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Cripes, I am kicking myself. Very hard. Only this morning was I inspired to dig out my old hardcover journals, the smaller ones that I wrote in during the late nineties. You see, I was having a hard time working my way through the little memo pads, as well as the loose-leaf pages that I kept in binders, that I was using for my journal from the early to middle nineties. And my time is almost up. This really is looking like my last weekend. And I knew that my writing was a bit more elevated in those hardcover journals. I though I might enjoy those more.
God, I forgot that I was writing at my best in those journals, as good as I ever have, as good as what is in my more recent full-size journals. I didn't have a word-processor, but I did rough-draft the entries. The little extra efforts makes a big difference. I'm not claiming to have reached Proustian heights, but it is at least worth reading, which is more than can be said for the rest of the Old Journal from the nineties. What makes these journal entries even sweeter is that they do contain the home-life with both Teri and Arthudo. It still wasn't a happy home, but I can see that, with elevated writing, it can be made to be more readable with a little more humor and some stylistic distancing. To think, I could have been reading these for the past few precious weeks!
I also regret that I was not inspired to keep my journal in this way from the beginning, instead of just dumping my thoughts directly onto paper. I called it my 'spill journal' for a reason. I just sort of threw up on paper. Beyond simple laziness, I can only think that I fancied there was always a tomorrow beyond tomorrow, so that I effectively figured that I would always have time to do something better 'later'. In my twenties I was unable to appreciate that there would be this time when there was no more 'later' and my tomorrows are about finished.
God, I forgot that I was writing at my best in those journals, as good as I ever have, as good as what is in my more recent full-size journals. I didn't have a word-processor, but I did rough-draft the entries. The little extra efforts makes a big difference. I'm not claiming to have reached Proustian heights, but it is at least worth reading, which is more than can be said for the rest of the Old Journal from the nineties. What makes these journal entries even sweeter is that they do contain the home-life with both Teri and Arthudo. It still wasn't a happy home, but I can see that, with elevated writing, it can be made to be more readable with a little more humor and some stylistic distancing. To think, I could have been reading these for the past few precious weeks!
I also regret that I was not inspired to keep my journal in this way from the beginning, instead of just dumping my thoughts directly onto paper. I called it my 'spill journal' for a reason. I just sort of threw up on paper. Beyond simple laziness, I can only think that I fancied there was always a tomorrow beyond tomorrow, so that I effectively figured that I would always have time to do something better 'later'. In my twenties I was unable to appreciate that there would be this time when there was no more 'later' and my tomorrows are about finished.
