For Better or for Worse, the Journal Turns 48

Today marks 48 years writing in my journal. What started as a thrice-weekly assignment for my 10th grade English class turned into a juggernaut of words.

There are all kinds of writing. Fiction, poetry, technical, journalism, therapy, scriptwriting, theological, philosophy, comedy, tragedy…

Having good pens and journal books seems like a simple wish, but it really does matter to me.

And then there is the journal. How would I classify my journal, in total, over a 48-year span? Self-indulgent mental masturbation? 60 pounds of paper and 60 ounces of ink? The insane ramblings of a madman? The source code for the Matrix?

It’s all of that.

One thing my journal is NOT: it is not a daily log of dishwasher cycles and oil change appointments. I will sometimes mark those in the margins, where they belong, but the meat of the pages is full of my intellectual and emotional gymnastics as I navigate this mortal coil.

The writing nook was a good idea. I find myself in there morning and night, with a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, writing and reading and exploring, instead of watching television.

The Carnival is Over

I walk a slow pace up and down the carnival midway, photographing the spinning rides and overcooked hot dogs.

I watch dirty feet in dirty flip-flops kick up dust as boys win stuffed animals for girls, and little kids look back at their proud moms as they ride ornate horses on sticks in circles.

I hear thrill screams from above all around as the kids get tossed up and down, or pinned by centrifugal force against the walls of the whirling rides with names like the Death Defier or The OMG.

I listen as kids beg their dads for two more roller coaster tickets, or as the over-dressed, slightly slutty-looking 13 year old girls deliver well-practiced giggle flirts.

The summer sky above is deep blue and amber, and the first stars are showing. The brightly-lit rides dance and flash. Smoke from places that sell footlong corn dog or funnel cake fills the darkening air.

There are mirrors. Some are comical mirrors that make people look fat or wavy or ten feet tall. There are haunted maze mirrors that misdirect and distract. There are long hallway mirrors that make one person look like infinite people.

They are all oddly more satisfying, and maybe in some way far more honest, than the mirror at the end of my hallway.

The next day I find myself driving to town for groceries, and the dirt and gravel parking lot that hosted the carnival is once again just dirt and gravel, but now with more spilled soda and cried tears and acrid vomit than before.

The carnival is over.