June 1, 2001

I was kicking around and reading people's comments about journals. I do get stuck on the same subjects sometimes. I can't help it. I guess every life falls into a pattern at some time. Mine seems to be unable to escape David at the moment. And here I am mentioning him again.

I'm trying, I really am.

My first weekend at the paper, I may be there alone. But that's good because it will probably give me ample oppurtunity to update, sitting around the newspaper office by myself.

I think this means I get a key. Cool. I like keys.

I still have this key I got from my lifeguarding job way back in the day. I think it still works - I doubt they'd bother to change the locks since most of the city works stuff uses the same lock so you can get into nearly anything if you work there and need to. It has its advantages. And the things in the shack aren't all that useful.

I should steal the rowboat. But I would need an accomplice. That's dangerous territory. I think I'll just keep my key and laugh silently every time I see it there on my ring.

I wrote a poem. This is a breakthrough because I haven't been writing much as of late, not in this, not in my land bound journal, not poetry or slash (not that I ever really wrote slash - I've heard of *nsync slash that has two of the band members going at it - ew ew ew ew - and of Angel slash that has Angel and Lindsay going at it. That's still too weird for words.) or much of anything. I had the occasional inspired collab entry (see) but nothing much really. I'm back in a writing mood. I hope that's not a bad thing since I'll be personal computer devoid as of 8 days from now. Eeek!

I'm desperately going to miss this site and tinkering around about it freely. I'm going to miss my html editor, and I'm going to miss my FTP. I'm going to miss the feel of my own broken-in keyboard. I'm going to miss my thumb tendonitis causing space bar. I'm going to miss the feeling of going to bed at night with feet like blocks of ice from this stupid cement floor. Why didn't my parents spring for a better underpad? (Though I will miss sleeping down here on really hot nights when I appreciate the coolness of the floor and the ability to sleep with a blanket - I feel nekked without one.)

I'm also going to miss chat. I like chat, ICQ and MSN messenger (despite the giving in to the nasty thing). Oh well. I guess that's all there is to it, just surviving without chat. Maybe I'll be less dependent. Last summer I got off ICQ and it made me much less dependent on it when this past year. I actually left it off a lot. It was different. I suppose I could get used to calling people and visiting them again. Amazing that.

I watched Billy Elliott with my mom last night. It was nice. Dad made popcorn and we laughed, especially when we couldn't understand the dialogue due to the accents. I guess the British miner accent is beyond me. Then again, so are the people from the north of my province. :o)

Anyway, I'm rambling on without a real story to tell. Do I have one? I wonder that a lot. I wonder if someday my journal will make a story. Not so much this one, but my landbound journal. I expect this might someday just disappear, despite being stored on my computer. That will be a sad day indeed. I just expect that I'll survive it. I have piles of concrete journals, from junior high school onward. I regret that I destroyed some of my earliest ones because my brother read them. Not only my brother, but his friends as well. He let my friends into my room to look at my underwear and screw around with my tapes. I had proof - I had one of them recorded into the middle of a mixed tape and a broken pencil box to prove it. But my parents never punished my brother so I destroyed my journal.

Boys are stupid.

Can I say that enough?

I guess I did have a story to tell today. I think that might explain why I'm a little secretive about my journal [I was just about to tell a David story and stopped. I think everyone should be proud.]. In junior high, grade nine I think, a boy in my class grabbed a piece of paper I was writing on (it was a story, I think, not a journal, but it meant the same to me), called me a dirty bitch and proceeded to tear it. He was a jerk. I think he was a jerk because he liked me, but he was still a jerk. He told me the pimples I had (and still occasionally get) along my hairline in the back were disgusting because they meant I didn't wash. He said I was stupid for writing all the time things that nobody saw. He said I was dumb because I actually wrote a lot in when we were given journal time in English class. Then I saw him in high school (we didn't go to the same school then) and he had pimples on the back of his neck. I felt better, but it didn't make me any less protective of my journal. I can leave it lying around now because I know my parents respect that boundary. They've learned to leave me my space; they did a long time ago. Other people don't understand that boundary. It's different for each person. For me, it's my journal and anything I write down. For other people, it's physical space. I do like my physical space (ask my alienated roommates from first year) and I like it when people respect it. I am naturally curious but I try to respect those boundaries, when I can see them.

I don't know what happened to pimple boy. His skin probably cleared up. He probably got a cute girlfriend who doesn't write anything down that he can't see.

I think back then, in junior high, everything was about control. The boys always wanted control and they wanted power. They saw me as powerless so they tried to assert themselves over me. They tried to read what I was writing. They punched me. Once, this idiot kicked me in the back of the head in shop and got himself permanently removed from all classes that teacher taught. That's a power assertion from the teacher to my advantage. I think that's what causes violence in schools: power struggles. If teachers and administrators acknowledged the power struggle and tried to deal with it, there would be fewer problems. I hate the word empowerment, but that's what it's about. Kids should each get something they can use to their advantage. I wasn't pretty or popular or athletic, but I was smart. I, luckily, had healthy means of dealing with the way I was treated. I cared how they treated me, but I didn't let it get to me. I had other outlets that helped me. The kid who kicked me in the back of the head didn't. The last I heard he was a junkie and hadn't made it out of grade ten.

I don't want to say "poetic justice" - I don't think I believe in it. I don't think any of these things were poetic justice. I am living, and that in itself defeats what those people tried to do to me. I like who I am, and I like my life, and that's better than anything I could have had in junior high. I realize now: why would you want to live your glory days in junior high and high school? I'd rather live them now, while I'm an adult and free to do what I want without some overreaching desire to rebel taking over and making the glory cheap and uncertain.

I want a pack of tarot cards. That may seem random, but I think tarot cards and other fortune telling methods are good for putting perspective on things. You draw up cards and then you think about what those things mean in relation to the situation and it usually helps you gain perspective. That's something I could use more of lately.
© lily keller 2001 back current next

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