I’ve started rereading my journals by looking for today’s date one year ago, two years ago, even three, four years ago. This means I’ve been keeping a journal, sporadically, for a long time now. (This might also mean that I think I’m pretty interesting).
When I first moved to San Francisco three years ago, I wrote a lot about moving, about writing in coffee shops, and the sounds of this fogged and hilled and palm-shaded city, and how they differed from the sounds of New York. My journal was a notebook, like what you might buy in the hot still days of August, before school started, along with a pencil case and some new gel pens. I guess, after all, that I’m in the freshman year of life. (Me, September 2012).