Old Shit

I have been slowly going through decades of photos, memorabilia, and very old journals. You just read the intro to a journal from 1974! If you have followed these posts, you may be getting insight that I am in the ‘at risk’ age group for CoVid 19; I prefer not to say old!

In days past, before I ever had the time, I was convinced I’d write a memoir using some of that old journal stuff I.save.them.all. I currently have 51!! Some are already in the trash. I probably will miss some gem entries, but I simply don’t have the stamina to go through them. So far, I discovered how boringly common my day to day was and that I existed in the ‘chronicling of the day’ phase for years. Who I liked, who liked me, what I said, he/she said, who looked at me a special way. I should give myself ‘developmental credit’ and call it sorting out interpersonal interactions of the day.

Then there are the high school years when I was taking shorthand and began shifting to that, now unrecognizable language of lines, curves and loops, whenever the entry got juicy. Did I ‘do it’, did we at least kiss? I will never know.

Journals are no longer my most precious possessions but they are a concrete part of my history, my journey, my shifts in thinking, beliefs. They have been my adviser, my listener. I can tell I am entering a time when I don’t need to see them, touch them, remember every detail. I don’t need every photo, every symbol of what was important in high school, college and beyond. I wonder if I am inching closer to that nebulous concept of ‘self actualized’? That’d be cool! Something is happening. No, it’s not like I am preparing to die or anything. Enough of ‘past’ me is integrated into ‘now’ me, enough of me has led me to ‘today’s me’ and I am pretty damn satisfied with this place.

I don’t need the tangible reminders of the sadness, the joys, the anger, the journey. Everyone needs to decide that day for themselves. I now know, you just know it when you get there.