I wrote my first story at 5 years old. I was embarrassed by my first story at 6 years old. The reason I shy away from keeping daily recount style journals is because of my inevitable urge to destroy evidence of my past self. When reading Virginia Woolf, Joan Didion or Frida Kahlo’s letters to themselves I’m inspired by their words to recount my own words and feelings at a particular time in my life. However, a year or even a few months after reading my own journal entries only inspires me to attack them with fire, scissors, scribble etc.
Just then, I talked myself out of going back through my old posts and deleting the posts which I felt weren’t ‘mature’ or that I didn’t feel really fit the person that I’m trying to present myself as right now. Though it makes me cringe I want to try to encourage myself to preserve the evidence of me as I was, as cringeworthy as it is. With time comes distance (I hope) and one day I might appreciate and find it more funny than embarrassing, more endearing than disheartening to remember what it was like to be me at a certain point at time.
My emotions are running high right now. I’m typing with the force of an ad-man in the 1950’s (typewriters?), or my doctor who for some inexplicable reason pushes the keys like she’s angry at them. I don’t think it’s unfair for me to want to see my own culture represented in media. Are we crabs in a bucket, people???
hello there dear blog,
we haven’t been in touch since january and i apologise for that because it’s entirely my fault. it’s been so long that i forgot my password! i am a dingus and a dilweed of the highest calibre. especially because the reason for my return is partly the fact that i miss writing but also because i have an exam that i should really be studying for….
the point of this quick post is to keep me accountable! as soon as my exams are over i promise that i’ll start up on this baby again. or at least try to! because unlike my diary(!!!!!), blogs don’t get lost😦
now i’ve got some intense studying to do…. but i’ll probably just go watch more taylor swift music videos. despite my distaste for her (i just can’t see her as anything other than contrived), her music and fashion really speaks to me. love is complex.
an impromptu post to let you know i’m still thinking of you and i hope that the start of your 2015 was everything you wanted it to be.
new year, same me, same lowercase love. i think my “resolution” for this year might be to try more things (not necessarily wild, crazy things but even little actions like saying “hi” to someone standoffish, in a bid to create moments that wouldn’t have happened if i’d remained passive) but it’s something i’ve been working on since late last year which i think is a good sign. if you really wanted change you wouldn’t be inclined to wait for the new year, right? and feeling less guilt. i think resolutions and working towards self-improvement and self-fulfilment is great and wish everyone luck with their goals for this year.
packing for anything is awful. i’ll a list of things to bring, which never seems to be complete. and ticking off the items one by one takes a little of the thrill out of going on holiday and almost makes it a bit more of a chore. for me, packing takes some of the romance out of going away. it’s hard to feel too excited when you’re in the chemist stocking up on supplies in case you get a stomach bug. if only i was a character in a romantic comedy who makes a last minute decision to get on a plane to be with her soulmate, packing her bags in a delightful frenzy. deciding how many sets of underwear you’ll need to bring is not delightful.
but unpacking might be just as awful. returning from the holiday and coming back to the real life where everything feels the same except now you don’t have a trip on the distant horizon to anticipate. sleeping in your old bed and working at your old desk which feel the same even though you now feel like a different person who just got used to a different, more carefree lifestyle. so you book another trip and it starts all over again.
Beautiful little film/poem.