Part 1 of my rejuvenation.

     Can I just say this. I was thinking just now, because my neck is kind of sore and my pillow won't cradle my head right, so it hurts more obviously. I really hate when this happens. Anyways, I was just thinking and reading this Chilean girl's blog, and listening to the Clash and Boston, yes, still, and I was wondering why I just don't write anymore. I mean, I used to write every waking hour when I was younger. Reading and writing. I'd write stories and make up characters. Even songs. Write lists. I always used to love to do that. Not to-do lists, but list lists. Anything. Character lists.
     When Kim used to babysit G. and I, we convinced her to participate in this "spy game" that I made up. I remember it perfectly well. We used to go to DePiero's and eat doughnuts there. Sometimes we ate inside. I remember one time some blue-hair came up to us while we were eating and I was making Kim laugh. She came up to us with the nicest, widest eyes, and was all, "Children, you really are so lucky that you have a mother as kind as this. You're beautiful children and you're so lucky that your mother takes you places like this." And she just kind of nodded to herself and went on her way. Kim thanked her retreating back while she was laughing.
     Recently I found the spy list. I remembered how much I loved making up names. I'm pretty sure I found it one night when I was bored and K wasn't replying to my emails because of the crappy connection or something. In one of my journals in my nightstand. God, I had so many. Always writing in journals. Writing anything. Everything. My lists. Sluggy Dugwerth stories, I loved those. Even in first grade. And I had such advanced writing. Using dialogue and proper punctuation, and paragraphs, and impressive vocabulary, everything. The whole shebang. It's really impressive to look back at now.
     I remember one story I wrote in first grade, about puppies. I loved animals then. Like Charlie does now. I suppose I was the original Charlie, but on a much lesser degree. I digress. In that dog story, everything I did was first-grade impeccable. I mean it. No kidding, I was a born writer. I used this black marker that I had, permanent, probably my first permanent marker. And I had this journal that was white, spiral ringed. Big hearts and, hmm, flower petals all over the cover. I loved that journal. I wrote my stories in it. That was my first-grade journal. I loved that thing, I tell you. I really got so attached to my journals over the years. Even if I only used them each periodically. I mean, I might've had seven journals, but I only used two or three usually. I really have always been like that, and I still am. I haven't found a constant medium for my writing really. (Not that I even write anymore... Jesus. Growing old has done this to you, don't you understand? I miss me sometimes.) Which brings me back to the reason why I wanted to post this originally.
     Remember how I said I was thinking? I was wondering why I wasn't creative anymore. For obvious reasons, K. But... There's gotta be more reason behind it. It can't just be him. And I realized... Was I more loath to write when I got... technology? In elementary school I was almost perpetually euphoric. I used to skip down the big hill on Grand Ave. on the way to school. I used to say I was "flying." I remember I always wanted to fly. My mother says I actually used to get jealous of cardinals and all in our old yard, when I was really young. Because I couldn't fly like them. That's really sweet. That's the kind of kid I was. Jealous of birds. And although there's nothing that I hate more than reading into things unnecessarily, because sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, is that symbolic of me now? I mean, right now I always feel a little stuck. Wishing I was older. Wishing I could travel all over, hike all over. Get my own apartment, at least. Is that why monks appeal to me so much? Being alone with nature? I know that's why I liked The Dharma Bums so much. Their freedom to exist. And that's all K and I talk about. I think freedom really appeals to me. I mean, obviously it appeals to everyone, but... I'm not sure. Maybe it's independence that I like. Again, that's not to say no one else wants to be in charge of themselves, but do you get my drift? I want to fly. Like those damn birds when I was young. Huh. I really hate being "astute" like this, though. It makes me uncomfortable. I don't want to be a try-hard. Especially not to myself.
     Now I'm in a trance. I love it! I love writing. Writing is my fuel. I remember! Taylor, you're right, it was so good! I need to learn from Young Me. Read! Write! Be healthy! Ha-HA! Hoo! (The latter being Japhy's Indian cry.) My god, do I feel happy now. I know it's a good sign when I've tuned out to my music, even. I bet if I put the Ramones on now, I wouldn't even be paying attention. This is the year I lived off of 4shared.com. Quality site. The only MP3 site I trust. And it has most of my music, even La Mer, that week when I was obsessed with it after hearing it on Lost.