Sade, dis-moi: Qu’est-ce que tu vas chercher?
While hurriedly rooting through a drawer the other night (guess which one) for a rogue bottle of, um, something slippery, I came across an old journal that I forgot even existed.
It reminded me of how, throughout my adolescence, I made spastic attempts at journal-keeping, all of which resulted in partially filled notebooks and partially recorded accounts of god knows what, only to be cast aside in frustration and ultimately forgotten. Many probably remain, to this day, lost in my parents’ house or sealed up in boxes of my old belongings. Time capsules.
It wasn’t until I made the switch to the computer for journaling purposes that my writing became much more regular and in-depth. Despite my love of notebooks, paper, pens, inks, markers, pencils, etc. (turn me loose in a stationery or office supply store and you might as well just quietly let yourself out and close the door behind you), it turns out that, in terms of creative output at least, I’m much more digital than analog.
This realization has come as a surprise to me. Yet another reminder that there’s sometimes (often?) a difference between how we perceive ourselves and how we really are...
But this particular notebook was one I started in a high school French class, for which we were required to keep a semi-daily journal that once a week we would turn in for the teacher’s review. Hence, I now have a year-long record of just how many times I went to the movies (le cinéma), went to the beach (la plage), did my homework (mes devoirs) and got tired (fatigué). Fascinating stuff.
What’s even more fascinating is the fact that after the class ended and I found myself with three-quarters of a composition book blank and beckoning, I decided to continue on (in English, thank you very much) and record some of the most uncomfortable, angst-fueled ramblings I’ve ever had the displeasure of reading. And I wrote them! (I must have—it’s my handwriting.)
Certainly, as I turned page after page, there were instances in which I could recall exactly where I was and what I was doing at the time of composition. But there are so many more that stir nothing at all. Which is so scary. The idea that reading my own emotion-ridden words could spark not a single memory or feeling. The more I read, the more I felt like the guy in Memento.
Another odd detail: all of the writings (the English, non class-related ones) are in pencil. What’s up with that? The only times I remember writing in pencil involve geometric proofs and algebraic equations! Perhaps I knew even then how embarrassing these particular writings would one day be, and was therefore trying to make them as temporary as possible.
That said, I’m thinking about posting some of them.
It reminded me of how, throughout my adolescence, I made spastic attempts at journal-keeping, all of which resulted in partially filled notebooks and partially recorded accounts of god knows what, only to be cast aside in frustration and ultimately forgotten. Many probably remain, to this day, lost in my parents’ house or sealed up in boxes of my old belongings. Time capsules.
It wasn’t until I made the switch to the computer for journaling purposes that my writing became much more regular and in-depth. Despite my love of notebooks, paper, pens, inks, markers, pencils, etc. (turn me loose in a stationery or office supply store and you might as well just quietly let yourself out and close the door behind you), it turns out that, in terms of creative output at least, I’m much more digital than analog.
This realization has come as a surprise to me. Yet another reminder that there’s sometimes (often?) a difference between how we perceive ourselves and how we really are...
But this particular notebook was one I started in a high school French class, for which we were required to keep a semi-daily journal that once a week we would turn in for the teacher’s review. Hence, I now have a year-long record of just how many times I went to the movies (le cinéma), went to the beach (la plage), did my homework (mes devoirs) and got tired (fatigué). Fascinating stuff.
What’s even more fascinating is the fact that after the class ended and I found myself with three-quarters of a composition book blank and beckoning, I decided to continue on (in English, thank you very much) and record some of the most uncomfortable, angst-fueled ramblings I’ve ever had the displeasure of reading. And I wrote them! (I must have—it’s my handwriting.)
Certainly, as I turned page after page, there were instances in which I could recall exactly where I was and what I was doing at the time of composition. But there are so many more that stir nothing at all. Which is so scary. The idea that reading my own emotion-ridden words could spark not a single memory or feeling. The more I read, the more I felt like the guy in Memento.
Another odd detail: all of the writings (the English, non class-related ones) are in pencil. What’s up with that? The only times I remember writing in pencil involve geometric proofs and algebraic equations! Perhaps I knew even then how embarrassing these particular writings would one day be, and was therefore trying to make them as temporary as possible.
That said, I’m thinking about posting some of them.
posted by P/O at 6/07/2005 09:23:00 AM
2 Comments:
By my count, I have 5 journals that are a quarter full or less.
I would never transcribe them. I find no value in my teenage whining.
I have considered posting my pre-teen writing, though. All of them are somewhat clever apocolypse stories.
Yes, please do post them. We crave them.
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