It's the season of office holiday parties, seeing old friends, renewing connections. The kids and I watched "Love, Actually," the British romantic film. I suppose they are too young to see sex scenes (they covered their eyes during those parts anyway), although I've never been much concerned about censoring that kind of content. It's horrible graphic violence that I abhor.
Julia's been carrying an old phone around lately, appearing to be deep in conversation. When I asked whom she was talking to, she said, "Bob. He's my imaginary friend." Sometimes, friends just vanish. I guess you could those people imaginary friends. Memory, as I've often noted, is at least partly an exercise in imagination. Even when teaching memoir writing, I find my own memories don't rush forth without sustained, focused imagination.
Some of us have to imagine our past because we cannot remember it very well. Fortunately, my lifelong habit of journal writing serves as a resource when I want to explore my past. Though, I threw away my childhood journals, unfortunately, I've retained a steady record of my life since I was 22.
The writing in most of them is uneven (some things never change), and I wish I'd been a bit more emotionally aware acouple decades ago.
Lately, I've been remembering things from when I was around ten, eleven. It was a harsh world to me eyes when we moved to Bay City, Michigan. I was outside the local circles of farm kids and city kids, fitting in nowhere. Much of the time, I lived in my own world. I stayed too much inside my own head.
Many things, actually, never seem to change. The conditions and the scenery change, but the essential struggle goes on.
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