Dear Diary-12/13/03

In an effort to start a new essay I’ve been reading through my old journals. I have at least six not even half-filled journals and consult with them when the essay well runs dry. Sadly I have never been a prolific journaler, in fact ever since my Mom found (and read) my diary back when I was in 9th grade and discovered I wasn’t a virgin, I have never been able to fill a journal again. I was afraid of writing anything down. Funny how times have changed.

Now on the cusp of turning 40, I just randomly opened to the above date and read my stream of consciousness entry written when I was a mere 27 years of age. Here it is unedited:

I have this new infatuation w/ the artist Jean-Michel Basquiat which I must whole-heartedly credit to having seen Geoffrey Jeffrey Wright’s (along w/ David Bowie’s) picture on the cover of the video. The movie Basquiat was so good!!! I went on-line today and researched him a bit-surprisingly I found “Life Doesn’t Frighten Me” an  a collaboration btwn. Maya Angelou and Jean-Michel Basquiat–supposedly a children’s intro for poetry and art including small bibliographies. Did they come together

 Who suggested this? 

I’m finding that other people’s points-of-view spew all over the place-forming ideas and framing lives. Not feeling comfortable in your own skin can cause misguided trust in others like an interviewee with a journalist. People form their own opinions to fit suit their view or

Nebulous: indistinct vague


That’s it, I end my entry with the above definition and dangling thought. I’m still into the story of Basquiat the man. I am always inspired by those who live and breathe their work. Sometimes I wonder if I’m truly a writer since I haven’t abandoned everything in my life to throw myself upon the page.  

I’m glad I wrote the definition of nebulous. I appreciate the sounds of this word. Reading this entry doesn’t make me cringe, it just reminds me of things forgotten and now I’m revisiting them. I plan to post some more diary entries soon. 

Do you ever read old diary’s or journals? If yeah, do you feel uncomfortable or find unexpected treasures that reveal a forgotten part of yourself? 

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