Life During Wartime

There is something about working in the writing center that makes me want to bite my lips raw.

Today I was writing in my journal during class when I heard something odd, heard words that sounded familiar. I looked up slowly, shyly, and listened as Mary read from my show and tell essay. My hand, almost unconsciously, began to scrawl the words "heart attack" over and over in my journal. Later, the essay was handed back to me, Mary's loose cursive filling up the margins:

Kathryn, you've one of the most sophisticated syntactic styles in class -- readable, compelling, smart. I loved this first piece because it bodes extremely well for the term's writing. Hooray! Mary F.

I have been exploring old journals, examining my development over the years, seeking for signs of the "syntactic sophistication" that Mary believes I have. So far, I have had no luck.

However, looking through old journals has helped me reconstruct the past. In February of 2002, I saw Kiddo, Yo La Tengo, Holly Golightly, Of Montreal, and Frank Black and the Catholics. I am 99% sure that I don't really remember any of these shows, that if I didn't keep a journal, I wouldn't even know that I had gone. I also wouldn't remember that this was a time in my life that involved a near offensive overuse of the word "rad." There is a lot that I don't remember anymore, but sometimes it comes back to me in flashes. Last weekend I drove to Cincinnati with Karen and Shiree and had to fight back tears at the sight of a billboard reading, "We buy ugly houses!" The strangest sights can evoke the saddest memories.

Sometimes I think I keep a journal to remind myself of why I am the way I am; I keep a journal to remind myself of why I flinch when someone touches me, why I can't look anyone in the eye, why I run.

Here are two journal entries about two different nights with two months between them. In real life, they're like two separate worlds. On paper, they don't seem so different.

From my journal, April, 2006:

Last night was bad music and good friends. It was walking around barefoot and sipping fizzy orange punch. Last night was trying to sneak photos of Brenton sipping out of his flask and listening to Craig tell amazing stories about his band performing at a kindergarten graduation and how he would intimidate other kids in his high school's marching band. Last night was sort of dancing and mostly lurking and spending hours in Hilary's room being stupid and doing teenage girl things. Last night was singing along way too loud to "Lola" and "Jesse's Girl." Last night was piling into Shiree's car and sneaking into the art building so that Hilary could show us her Dream Box. Last night was sloppy introductions and my heart beating way too fast. Last night was thinking "I have to call April so that I can tell her how lame and beautiful all of this is." Last night was ginger ale and toasted rolls with powdered sugar. Last night was buying Fruit Stripes gum and putting the tattoos on our tongues and arms and collar bones. Last night was Davida going "No, you have to wear this dress and stripping all of my clothes off while I squealed "No, don't!" and hoped that no one would notice all of my freckles. Last night was footless tights and open-toed shoes and Hilary giving us all fake moles with a brown eye-pencil. Last night was planning for next year and talking about how amazing things are going to be. Last night was talking with Craig about Young Adult books and how amazing it is to write and read about kids and how it's so grown up, but no grown ups seem to notice. Last night was sweet and shy and sort of like a John Hughes movie where Hilary and I lurked on the sidelines and danced awkwardly and teased each other and everyone around us. Last night was Brenton opening up his umbrella and saying "Are you two being catty? Can I be catty with you?"

From my journal, July, 2006:

Last night was cruising the dollar bins at Target for presents. Last night was running through the rain to get to the car and parking so close to the trees that I had to climb over the seats to get out the driver's side door. Last night was hundreds of bottle caps arranged in a mosaic reading "Thugz' Mansion" on the table in the back room. Last night was Paul T. jumping out of a second story window and bouncing high up into the air on a well-placed trampoline. Last night was Skippy leaping off of the stairs to land between me and Alex, as acrobatic as he was in high school, but not as cute with his head shaved. Last night was getting out of the car and hearing Matt Lee shout: "We bought you root beer!"

Last night was Kayla, half drunk, shouting: "Do you know what was on tv last week?" and then both of us screaming: "Valley Girl!" Last night was talking with her so fast about so much that Skippy just leaned back with this bemused smile on his face and said, "I'm just trying to figure out what the fuck you're saying."

Last night was Kate passing out in Kayla's mom's bed and Paul saying something, I can't remember what. I just know that I said: "I'm not sure if that was incredibly noble or extremely callous" and that Paul responded with: "Yeah, I've been reading a lot of Hemingway lately."

Last night was drinking blood orange soda from a giant bottle that Alex had labeled sXe and feeling so hot that I couldn't stand to have my hair on my neck, which made me think of Bob, scowling in the summer sun and saying: "Don't touch me. It's hot," every time someone came near him. Last night was making plans for a John Cusack movie marathon and shouting lines from Empire Records. Last night was pretty much epic.