This looks like the numerous journals stacked on a shelf in my bedroom closet. They date back to my 20's , which would have been during the 1980's. Written in Florida, St. Louis, Europe, wherever I found myself traveling.
Most of my life, I've been writing...mainly
in black and white cardboard composition books like the one pictured in my
profile. I have a whole stack of these together with a few fancier, leather or
other journals I've been given as gifts, or caught a moment's whim. The two that
rest in my mind most frequently, however, are not in my closet.
The last time I saw them, they were burning. In the big farmhouse style kitchen sink of the old 1914 house I lived in then, (even though I was about to move...didn't know that at the moment). I set them on fire myself, with my hand ready on the faucets in case the fire got too far gone.
Why did I burn them? At the time, I was trying to keep them from someone, and this was the best way, the only way. These manuscripts would burn, and never be seen again. and gratefully, I don't really remember what was in them. He, even though he was legally barred from doing so, kept sneaking into my house, taking things. I knew it was him because of what he took, not anything of monetary value, like cameras or jewelry or televisions like a normal thief--but my most personal--the things that meant the most to me..only he would know.
One item was my great-grandfather's gold pocket watch,nonworking, with the glass face loose and removed, engraved with his name and the date of his retirement from the B&O Railroad. I knew my journals were next, even though I had hidden them, and knew he would be diligent, knew the secrets of the house.
So, that was the last time I wrote in the formal way, recording the date with a line across the page:
-------------------Jan. 25, 1992-----------------
as I usually did in my black and white books. I was too paranoid about his intrusion in my life, too angry about the invasion of my privacy in such a soul possessing fashion. Angry that he had destroyed a habit that had given me solace for decades.
Of, course, I kept writing, just in different outlets. And now I think I've outgrown the need for the particular service those books gave--I never read them, by the way--the ones I have. I don't write for auto-psychoanalysis, my aims now are more decadent. To indulge in my private concept of the beauty of words, and there I am willing to be more public, hence this blog suddenly seemed the bed for such things.
The last time I saw them, they were burning. In the big farmhouse style kitchen sink of the old 1914 house I lived in then, (even though I was about to move...didn't know that at the moment). I set them on fire myself, with my hand ready on the faucets in case the fire got too far gone.
Why did I burn them? At the time, I was trying to keep them from someone, and this was the best way, the only way. These manuscripts would burn, and never be seen again. and gratefully, I don't really remember what was in them. He, even though he was legally barred from doing so, kept sneaking into my house, taking things. I knew it was him because of what he took, not anything of monetary value, like cameras or jewelry or televisions like a normal thief--but my most personal--the things that meant the most to me..only he would know.
One item was my great-grandfather's gold pocket watch,nonworking, with the glass face loose and removed, engraved with his name and the date of his retirement from the B&O Railroad. I knew my journals were next, even though I had hidden them, and knew he would be diligent, knew the secrets of the house.
So, that was the last time I wrote in the formal way, recording the date with a line across the page:
-------------------Jan. 25, 1992-----------------
as I usually did in my black and white books. I was too paranoid about his intrusion in my life, too angry about the invasion of my privacy in such a soul possessing fashion. Angry that he had destroyed a habit that had given me solace for decades.
Of, course, I kept writing, just in different outlets. And now I think I've outgrown the need for the particular service those books gave--I never read them, by the way--the ones I have. I don't write for auto-psychoanalysis, my aims now are more decadent. To indulge in my private concept of the beauty of words, and there I am willing to be more public, hence this blog suddenly seemed the bed for such things.
By the way, now that all this time has passed, I am glad this dramatic moment happened in my life--made me.
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