Friday, July 16, 2010

Lost Words



This is a semi-complete pile of 20 years of journals, stashed in "my" closet--the last remnant of pure me in the house.

They contain stories, dreams, sadnesses, poems, pieces of art and inspirational quotes from Japan, Asia, Ventura, the Valley, Silverlake and Hollywood. They are nearly indecipherable--even to me--but a perfect record of my emotional state through adulthood. Sparked by "The Artist's Way," these record my life, they are a map to how I digest existence.

I guess the point is, it's not like I page through them very often--though I do occasionally--to see what remains of me, how I have changed and how I have stayed the same, how many of the things I dreamed did come true, even if now they seem ordinary and I take them for granted.

But having them there, hidden away, is a comfort. It is like a filing cabinet for my soul. (underneath is my wedding dress in a bag, still smeared with Baci from our wedding night, and a box of beloved photographs).

The record is complete. Except for one volume.

Yesterday, I lost a journal.

I don't know where. I take my journal du jour everywhere, to scribble down every thought, every great snippet of conversation, every writer's note and inspirational piece of life. It is always stuffed with little mementos that fall out everywhere like snow.

I think I left at the Armenian carwash in Silverlake, where I spent an hour getting my car shampooed after I left a 2 litre bottle of wine in the car, baking in the hot sun, until it got so hot the cork exploded out and the wine poured everywhere, making our car smell like a rolling frat house--the day after a big bash.

I will go by today, in search of my journal.

For a minute I panicked, thinking how every thought about sex, money and life will be bared to the Armenian owners. But they wouldn't care, even if they could read my handwriting.

The worse part is just feeling like I lost a part of my hard drive out there where I can never retrieve it. It is lost. And that is unsettling.

But like so much writing, perhaps it is the act of writing that is more important than the words themselves.

After all, this was not a book manuscript or an article. It was the scribblings of a mad and passionate mother searching for herself in L.A..

And maybe I will find it.

I will let you know.

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