jiggity-jig

The cat in my lap is frantic. Since we walked in our front door–approximately three hours ago–she has scarcely left my side, repeatedly voicing her frustration at our five-day absence, her happiness at our return, and apparently (as I found later) a apology that she might have accidentally left a mess of vomit in the guest room…maybe.

The day after tomorrow is our second focus walk at school. (If you’ve forgotten what a focus walk is, it is when all the important people from the county office come over and wander from classroom to classroom, asking questions and taking pictures, and sending everyone into a fit of anxiety.)

I have a lot to do tomorrow, to prepare for it.

While home this Thanksgiving Holiday, I found an old journal of mine from when I was 17 or so. I amused myself for a while by reading through it, though really the exercise was more disturbing than anything, as I found myself confronted by the harsh reality that Allis as a seventeen-year-old was a passionate, moody, and widely emotional person. At least…that’s what made it into the journal. By the time I reached the end, I felt as if I’d been on one of those roller coasters at King’s Island, which were always lacking in suitable support and restraint (at least in my memory). 

So I picked up a pencil and added an entry, dated six years and four months later than the last, that went something like this:

Dear myself, six years earlier:

I am glad I’m not you anymore.

Signed,

Erin. 
 

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jiggity-jig

5 thoughts on “jiggity-jig

  1. Anonymous says:

    Journals, especially old ones that we hadn’t looked at for a long time, are an excellant reminder on who we were and where we came from.  It can seem like another person written it.  How’s life treating you by the way?Billy White’

  2. I, too, have had the experience of finding poetry and self-examination papers that I wrote while finishing my last high school years. As I cringed, painfully embarrassed, I wondered how that pathetic mass of self-absorbtion and ever-changing emotions ever crawled into adulthood.  This is both the curse and blessing of being a writer.  You keep stuff like that around to weep over.

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