Digging up the journal

I’m reading Carrie Fisher’s The Princess Diaries. When I heard she’d found old diaries from the time of A New Hope and revealed an affair with Harrison Ford in a book I was curious.

But I probably wouldn’t have bought the book except I was at the Brisbane airport bookstore – returning from holiday to Mount Isa – the same week that she and her mother died. They were all the news.

The book was the last on the bookshelf. I grabbed it and kept it among my lengthy ‘to read list’. Last night I finished Joe Hill’s The Fireman.and realised The Princess Diarist was still in the pile.

I’m halfway through it where she publishes her old poetry, presumably about Mr Ford in the early days of their affair. And I just can’t help compare his mannerisms to my own attitude.

“If you’ve got arrogance and indifference

You can make them pay

They’re the most commercial product on the romantic market today.” 

 

And here’s another one from Ms Fisher:

“I need to write. It keeps me focused for long enough to complete thoughts. To let each train of thought run to its conclusion and let a new one begin…I’m afraid that if I stop writing I’ll stop thinking and start feeling. I can’t concentrate when I’m feeling.”

 

Often I feel I’m getting harder and colder on the outside, and more anxious and insecure on the inside. I tell myself it’s not an issue until I can’t control it, when the anxiety comes out with my interactions with those around me.

These feelings are a cycle. In foster care I was between those times, when I lost control and was punished by DOCS and the education system for it. And I wonder if the key issue, among many, was a restlessness. I lost my purpose.

I never quite told you why I left foster care and what happened after. But those who know me enough now must wonder how I came from the child care system to being in the position I’m now in.

It was a sense of purpose that transformed me. Then in the last days of foster care it was religion, it was a new faith.

And I have no purpose now. I lost it some time ago when I stopped writing.

 

I guess reading Fisher’s diary makes me long for a purpose again, and that’s in writing something meaningful to me. I write daily in my job, I churn out information in the peak of online journalism.  I just don’t write anything for me in the after hours.

There’s no recording of the time I was in foster care. I did write journals but it was infrequent and they’re lost. But I have something from when I started regularly recording, and even that’s something personal I can share. Inspired by Carrie Fisher. Wow. A new hope for me? #Irony

But I’m going through my writing from nine years ago and it’s bloody messed up. I’m embarrassed about my thought process then, but I’ll let you read bits for yourself:

25/07/07

No wonder I don’t have a girlfriend. Its because I subconsciously know that I don’t really like specific girls. Love has nothing to do with it. Love is not the feelings between a man and a woman. that’s something else. A mixture of love and something else. True love is loving people no matter what. True love is men loving other men. Women loving other women. Men loving women. Women loving men. If you think I’m talking about orgies here, then you probably don’t understand and there is no point continuing.
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4/7/09
That was my first clubbing experience and I hated it. Drinking sucks, I suck at dancing and there were a lot of beautiful girls in very immodest clothes on. It’s a place of lust, and if you aren’t interested in picking up someone, its pointless.
There was one girl trying to tell me something, pointing at Amy*, but I
couldn’t hear her.I hated the loud music. I know I sound old, but it damaged my ear drums and I like hearing.
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27/02/10
Speaking of facebook, there’s this questionnaire where people answer questions about you but you have to unlock the answer to find out who thought it. Somebody wrote on there that they thought I was an ‘underachiever’ and I was saving my coins to unlock that but somebody thought I was cute so I unlocked that instead.
Wish I didn’t. It was Rachel, and she’ll know I’d unlocked it too. Facebook will let her know. There’s nothing wrong with it, it’s just…first, it’s weird that people think I’m cute. Second, it’s Rachel. She lives with me and I don’t like the idea that she considers me cute. Not that she’ll think of me more. I know that. She just answered the question. Third, she knows I know and will check to see if I’m weird about it.

Best to forget it.
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27/11/10 
I have a crush on my violin teacher. Something I do not wish to encourage or make stronger by even mentioning it. I shouldn’t have.
21/12/10
Everyone silently tried to make me to their image. It’s how perception works. Yet every image is different, and only the most powerful should triumph, if at all, or I try to be ten thousand perceptions, and each image is a thousand words.
I like Carrie Fisher’s stuff better.

 

 

 

 

 

Welcome back, buddy!

I’m back and it’s been bloody ages, I know.

And I wasn’t sure I was going to come back to this blog. I’m here because I need a friend to talk to and I think it’s you. Don’t feel pressured. You don’t have to do anything except read what I’ve channeled.

There’s so much on my mind right now and I don’t know where to begin. But I suppose we should keep it relevant. See. The theme of the blog was to explore the small stories from my days in foster care. The days I thought I’d left so far behind that I thought I could open them up for public examination.

Vulnerability bruises but I’d go back to write another blog post, and another blog post, and another. It was courage, in a way. I’d write to make sure I had at least 12 blog posts scheduled.

I was caught up by the instant gratification of a couple of WordPress or Facebook likes. But it was getting in the way. I’m a journalist. I wrote for a living. So I had just enough energy for another project. It had to be the blog, or a book.

I chose the book.

There was a woman who wrote me a letter. And in it she said “I love you”. A grand gesture that I related to and had done to others myself. So I knew the energy and courage that went behind the words.

So what did I do to help her?

Nothing. I ignored the letter.

Dr Evil meme.jpg

Shut up Doctor Evil! I already know.

It terrified me and I didn’t know how to answer. I wanted to say I love her too but I knew it was only because I just wanted to make someone happy. Someone deserves to be with who they want. Yet although she was a great friend I didn’t feel that way. “Why not?” I considered. “Why don’t you love her back? What’s wrong with you?”

I procrastinated a day to gather my thoughts, and then another day, and another day, and another day, and another day. And then it must have been two weeks and I still hadn’t acknowledged the letter to her.

Her friend facebook messaged me and blasted me for my rudeness and about how, basically, she was too good for me and that I needed to get over my past and focus on my present and future.

The friend assumed that I felt all this self pity by my foster care blogs. That wasn’t why I was blogging. It wasn’t about showing off that I had a hard background. I didn’t have a hard background! Not really.

So this was the first example in which it felt like publishing my past was being used against me. And I suppose it was an incentive to cut it off. No more blogs.

But here I am.

A few Sundays ago I got really drunk with a hot friend in Brisbane and we were about to pass out on her couch. And she muttered, “tell me a story.”

It could have been any story. But my mind was blank. Blank. Blank.

A terrible moment for someone who feels his only purpose is as a storyteller. I said what was on my heart.

“Tomorrow I’m driving down to New South Wales,” I said. “A place called Kempsey. I’m going to catch up with my foster mother. I haven’t seen her in eight years. I haven’t lived with her in 15.”

Silence.

sleepy|awkward.

“You’re telling me what you’re doing,” she said. “That’s not a story of what happened.” A polite way maybe of saying ‘chill, dude. Way too heavy.’

Maybe.

I guess.

I suppose.

It took days to work out why I was troubled by that moment, which felt like a metaphor or life lesson to take hold of.

I’m a collection of stories.

Not a gatherer of future stories.

I have the past. Why do I need to hold off and concentrate on the future for more stories when I already have what I need. When I haven’t shared all that I can give.

I suppose maybe I feel I need to prove myself from the moment I blanked. For a scary drunken moment I thought maybe I didn’t have anything.

But I do.

Hello =) My name is Chris.

I write not for pity. I write because what happens to me seems to make bloody sense once the actions are channeled through my fingers onto this.