commence journaling

Okay, I have dipped my toe into journaling. On Saturday I bought what I consider the perfect journaling notebook - unlined, spiral bound, plain cover, medium sized - so that I couldn't use the excuse that I didn't have the right notebook. Yes, I am a such a control freak that I must have just the right notebook. My mom offered to make one for me, but she hasn't done it yet and I'm not going to wait forever for that to happen.

However, the Perfect Notebook sat unused for the next three days. Yesterday I watched the documentary Unknown White Male (yes, I am a giant film nerd who watches a ton of documentaries) and it brings up so many questions about identity and knowing one's history. The main character Doug, who suffers from complete amnesia, has to have his history reconstructed by family and friends. He talks about how this history he is given is somewhat tainted by the way each person remembers the events. If Doug had had journals that he had kept, he could have gotten his own version of each memory. I have written previously how writing our own histories is important for future generations, but now I see how truly important it can be for ourselves. Not that I didn't think it would be for my own benefit before, but now I've realized what the most extreme case could be.

Of course, for my part, in last night's journal entry I wrote stupid things about hummingbirds and chickens and the moon. I wonder what will be important to me someday. I'm not trying to belittle myself, but I want to embrace the simple, lovely things in life yet I wonder if anyone else cares. I don't much feel like recording the details of my work at the gallery or other crap out in the real world. Hopefully the bias I build into my journals will still make them valuable to me and to others in the future.