Friday, June 29, 2012


I am a horrid journaler. I always have been. I think up new, inventive ways to journal, in attempts to keep my attention and remind myself of the worth in recorded thought. No sooner have I conceived such ideas than I begin to accept the fruition they'll never see.

I record my thoughts to get them out of my head. All I want, really, is somebody who will take them from me. I don't need to write them down; it's all mercurial and transient and nothing sticks. It sticks to paper and nothing else. As I continue to mull over and evaluate McCandless's proposition that "happiness is only real when shared," I find myself oscillating between the all and nothing approaches. Nothing is real unless shared. Everything is real, even when un-shared. Entire philosophies have been built upon each.

I'm digressing.

I don't want to keep a journal. I want to think my thoughts and lose them as they leave, the same way I lose everything else. They will survive inside of me until I forget them, or inside of those I tell.

Too much of me looks over my shoulder, where I imagine the someone I'd love is waiting for me to turn around.

Why can't they just catch up?


I am a linear thinker, but not lately, and it's messing with me. Can you tell? Of course there's worth in recorded thought. To posit anything else meets immediate scrutiny. Something to do with its lack of basis.

What have I been doing here for five years? Recording thought. Its worth spans a vast spectrum, but everything that isn't nothing is something.

Blah blah blah.

This is all aftermath of my sudden suspicion that none of my bones are writer's bones.

True, they're no one's but mine.

But what are they for? If not writing, if not higher learning, if not befriending, if not traveling, if not loving...

Well. They're for some of those things. Must be, if I say so. I am their only judge.

They're for, perhaps, a little bit of everything.


In another life--the one in which my uncle makes clocks and I collect old, mismatched spoons, the one in which my favorite series is Anne of Green Gables and I pepper conversation with in-context passages of Thoreau's Walden, the one in which my brother's been gone for years and I never learned to whistle--in this life that's not my own, I grew up near a marina. I can tie seven reliable boat-docking knots, and I know how to scale a fish. Every local fisherman and fisherwoman knows my name like they do their boat's, and they cast their nets like I cast glances--with the careful precision expert risk-taking requires. I've never ventured from home. I've never had reason more pressing than the paradoxical desire of a dockbound gypsy. I embody the domestic adage "grown and groomed," and I don't resent it often.


The towels are in the dryer and the Saab's oil is fresh. Your mom called. Your dad won his match. Nancy said Dan is re-staining the deck next weekend, and would you be willing to help him? I didn't speak for you. I watered the mums on the windowsill, but I fear the tomatoes are past repair. I unsubscribed you from Men's Health and TIME. The library carries new issues within the week of release. I wonder if you're on your way. It's alright, Mr. Kim said they're catering an event tonight and so it would take a bit longer than normal. I called Paul back and told him we went a different way with the molding, and he said it was fine. Did you remember your brother's birthday? The card is next to the toaster. There's a special on tonight I thought we could watch. It's about that man who killed all those people in Minnesota. Something about the mind of a killer. Can you imagine? All those people. I can't imagine. There was a story in the news about a little boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, he killed his neighbor's cat. They say that's how it starts, those killers. I say it starts when someone didn't raise them properly. Too many parents working all the time. They've got to put food on the table for those killers of theirs. I ran into Martha at the store today and she said Mel is retiring as soon as they figure out which route to take from here to New England. On their boat! Can you imagine? I've never been to New England. I wonder if their winters are as bad as they say. I do hope you'll be home soon. I have so much to tell you.