Thursday, March 3, 2011

journal making

There should be some deep fear squeezing my heart to the point of paralysis, but I'm fine other than the seven seconds it took to write that first independent clause.  When I say, "I'm not too worried about it," I'm not lying through my teeth.  Maybe that means I'm disillusioned, maybe I'm just a moron.  That's fine.  I'm not too worried about it.

Sticky hands.  There's something deeply cathartic about being able to rip apart books and glue them back together in new ways.  I love watching people smashed together in new ways.  I love your eyes on mine.  Mod podge is the smell of someone's childhood - not mine.

"Watch me!  Watch me drink this whole Capri Sun in one second!"  Paul, you just summed up my entire elementary existence.

I love when we get to act like children.  Maybe it's because we are writers, poets, painters, artists, that we cling to the old, the nostalgic.  It's not a longing for the past; it's a recognition that we are still those children, chasing and being chased at recess, learning to play chess in sixth grade math, decorating tri-fold display boards for science fairs; those children are still inside of us, still so integral to who we are and how we have our being.  We are aware of and unafraid to acknowledge that truth.  Rather, we embrace it, digging into our silly side, not afraid to give in to fits of giggles, not ashamed to love dirt cups, unleashed from our need to be adults.

Because we're not adults.  And we're not children.  We're just us.  Maybe you're going home next weekend, or you're getting married soon, and you're graduating.  But you're still just you.  And I love that.

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