Such a fortunate fool

Every year, around January 1st, I bring my years journals and diaries to the nearest fireplace and burn them. It's a ritual I look forward to, mainly because I am literally "cleaning the slate" by removing the records of the previous year's raw emotion. Bridget Jones was right: "Everyone knows diaries are just... full of crap." An mine are no exception. Keeping track of your immediate reactions to events and people is, in my opinion, just asking for troule. And, when I achieve a certain level of fame, there is a good chance that someone will want to catalogue the writing of my youth. They can have my school assignments, not my first loves and heartbreaks.
However, while visiting my parents, I came across a journal that I didn't destroy. And it covered multiple years, something I thought I never did. But, there it all is. Joy, anger, frustration, reluctant acceptance, loss; the entries run the gammet of a teenager'sThe emotional year (plus).
Perhaps what I am most struck by is the emotional wieght of all that is written in this forgotten record. Because I don't generally have the oppurtunity to walk down this particular memory path, I rely on memory. But memory, it seems, fades and changes a bit. Rather than remembering the intense feeling of a crush, I look back and see silly fancy. An embarassing story I've told a few times over bears fresh new emotion and feels more life-or-death than I remember.
Every year I start a journal, and every year (around April) I stop writing in it. I never find it as cathartic as I expect. I spend alot of time worrying about who will find it and what they'll think about it. And then I lose interest. It's rather surprising that I've blogged for as long as I have. But then, I know that other people are reading this and respond accordingly. And then there are the pretty pictures....
I didn't burn the journal. Haven't decided if I'm going to or not. Perhaps those young historians need something original. Or not.
You'll be loved, you'll be loved like you never have been. The memories of me will seem more like bad dreams. Just a series of blurs, like I never occurred. One day you will be loved.
~Death Cab for Cutie
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So, why the Cavalier? Not a simple reference to a far off knight in not-so-shiny armor. No, no. I brought Sookie, my '98 pepper red Chevy Cavalier, home this weekend. She's wonderful. And I am mobile again. Let the people rejoice!
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Finally, I've been seeing alot of Andy Warhol's work recently at museaums, on TV, in magazines. So, I thought I'd share.