When you decide to move to another country for a year, you are forced to look at your past. Packing up a lifetime of shit will do that. And in an age of perpetual digital distraction, I have discovered that it’s not Instagram or Facebook or SubStack alerts or memes about Trump or Kamala, it’s my actual past that takes me out for an hour at a time when I should be sorting and wrapping and boxing and taping. Those pesky journals are the culprit.
I have a LOT of journals because I never finish one. The journal journey always starts off with much promise and potential: I would regularly write for about a month or so, then it would taper-down to every few weeks, then every few months, and then it would sit in the drawer of my nightstand collecting dust. A couple years later I would spot a shiny new one in Papyrus or what used to be Kate’s Paperie (remember Kate’s?!) and buy it, only to start the cycle all over again. But you should see my “Artist’s Way” journal. Now, THAT one almost made it to the end. Wait, I hope that isn’t a reflection of my music career. Shit. Maybe I should finish it??! Or not. Will finishing it mean that it’s over??? Now, I’m procrastinating from packing by having an existential dilemma on the universal law of attraction and why I never became the next Madonna.
The most fascinating part about reading old journal entries is how you have remembered something, only to find that the truth of the occurrence was slightly different. The bits are there in black and white from the day that it happened and there’s no denying it. Which is why I had to sit down when I came across my journal entry from June 10th, 2010.
It was Father’s Day and I have recalled this moment a few times to friends and my partner. In fact, my partner Tor and I have had a running joke every father’s day where the first thing he says after he wakes up is, “It’s MY day!” Over the years the story has gotten diluted to the following: ‘“blah blah blah, something about narcissism, blah blah, breakfast in bed, blah blah…and then my ex screamed, “Today is Father’s Day! It’s MY day!”’ And then I would probably continue the conversation with the rest of the downward spiral that was my marriage inflating or deflating the intensity depending on who I was talking to, of course.
So, you can see why I would be surprised to have read the actual account of that particular day as being much more, let’s say, “filled-out” in the details. And instead of writing about it, I decided to just share the actual pages. Why the hell not?! I can do whatever I want with this Substack! (Actual names have been scratched-out to protect the guilty.)
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