9.1 retro  

the other day i visited this journal's archives and found that many of my older entries were not available because some moron had not correctly linked to them from the month pages. well, never mind all of that. most of the problems are now fixed, i think. but i couldn't help looking into some of that old stuff.

boyo, he was an ambitious bugger back then: twenty-three entries apiece for the first two months - july/august 99 - twenty-one for that september... but down to eleven by december. the following july finds only 9. then july 01 and 02 six each. a predictable downward spiral as the novelty wears off (even took a big break last fall). and, of course, you only found three entries last month.

this journal was born at a wild moment back in the summer of 99. i'd just been booted out of joliet and cast into the strange new world of mundelein. i was feeling sorry for myself, sure, but i was also kind of intrigued by the possibilities of this new place. there were all of these discoveries to make. it was a time of personal and professional upheaval that just happened to coincide with the beginnings of my so-called life on the web.

i had known nothing about online journals until i stumbled onto steve b.'s misanthrope.org. at the time, he had a list of online journals that were organized according to the high school graduation years of their authors. since i had just posted my own actual journal from my senior year, i submitted it and he listed it. but it was an odd bird there - real history, as opposed to the current events of the other journals, which i read around in. these got me to wondering if i dared to try it myself.... and then the storm broke..... and i needed an outlet.... and a way to stay in touch with some folks back in joliet and elsewhere... so this journal came to be - titled, just like my cat, generically, to mark my intention to follow an ordinary path and avoid the spectacular melodrama as much as possible.

one friend was puzzled about why i would care to put myself out here, given my generally introverted personal style. he worried that i'd say too much, reveal not only my own secrets (such as they are) but things about other people's lives that shouldn't be said. well, time has shown that i've never really been tempted to let it all hang out here... though i have engaged in substantial self-censorship on some matters. that's everyday real-life, too, isn't it? aren't we constantly selecting what to show and what to conceal? one online correspondent scolded me on this point, felt i was being duplicitous, a phony, and stopped reading. but this was my quandry: i'm a high school teacher. there are many significant events (tempting to write about) that occur every day that i just cannot describe here because they involve confidences and that brand of relationships we call politics (what do i REALLY feel about this that or the other adminstrator or policy? you'll never know). and, i suppose, plain old good manners dictate that we all keep a lot of stuff to ourselves. that is perhaps a function of my age.

if not for this journal i would never have known jacqui or allie. and erin and amy would have faded away. if not for this journal, my own best of all possible moms would have a much higher phone bill.... and a small but precious bunch of former students, now friends, would have to resign themselves to knowing me only in the distorted golden cracks of memory.

so i don't regret this journal... moderately embarassing as some past (and future) posts might be. it can't be all things to everyone... or even to me, but it is a good enough thing. and i'm content to let it stumble on for as long as it likes. still, if yr not my mother, i don't know why you bother coming here... but i'm happy enough that you do. whoever you are.

moon dust


An identity is questioned only when it is menaced, as when the mighty begin to fall, or when the wretched begin to rise, or when the stranger enters the gates, never, thereafter, to be a stranger. . . . Identity would seem to be the garment with which one covers the nakedness of the self: in which case, it is best that the garment be loose, a little like the robes of the desert, through which one's nakedness can always be felt, and, sometimes, discerned. This trust in one's nakedness is all that gives one the power to change one's robes.

James Baldwin

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