I kept a journal when I was younger. I still do, more or less, but somehow the journals I wrote half my life ago carry a different significance. This vintage text (the first book stretches from 1993-5) isn’t exactly a scribbled, scrawled mess, but some of it is, and it’s all written in different pens, some of which are fading. Years ago now I thought it might be a good idea to retype my old journals. It’s a different experience reading something typed than hand-written. They feel psychologically distinct; the method of delivery can affect the reception, the reading. So I’d been thinking of typing them up for a long time, and I finally started doing it about six months ago. I had not read the journal, beside a rare quick glance here and there, since I initially wrote it, and revisiting these old entries has been illuminating.
One fascinating revelation regards the strengths and weaknesses of memory. I’ve always known (don’t we all) how malleable and untrustworthy memory can be, but it’s so interesting to actually see how this has played out it my own life. My memory is pretty good. But naturally there are things I recall in the journal and then there are things I don’t. Most often I’ll remember some but not all of a situation; I’ll remember events yet be unclear on the context and continuity. The best is when I don’t currently recall something then reading/typing the entry will bring the memory back.
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