Packrat Tendencies

I've lost a journal.

Correction: I have temporarily misplaced a journal of mine. This is devastating to me because I write myself real in my journals and chronicle myself in my language privately in ways that no one should dare to read me because understanding does not follow.

I feel misplaced, and I am frantic to regain the pieces of me that have gone missing.

There's always the other journal that I kept for even more scrambled half-formed thoughts and reminders to myself that I rarely look over. But it isn't the same.

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Oh my goodness! I've found it. It was hiding under my bed. I wonder how it got there, but I won't ponder that little mystery too much.

This well-loved and well-protected journal is orange with red curlicues dancing on the hardback cover. I've recently started writing in red ink only in this journal. Or sometimes orange. I like these vivid colors that burn. Perhaps that is because I have been mulling over everything too much in this strange latemid summer heat. Perhaps it's influenced by the idiot arsonist that's causing the most ruckus Cupertino has ever known in its recent histories with hisher marvel-at-my-ability-to-cause-chaos fires. Everything around me is smoldering. I'm writing in the red of blood and my journal is flaming and bleeding inside to match the outside.

Part of me is found and I am happy.

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I am still not writing the way I want and as much as I want. I'm sad and slightly frustrated with myself, but I tell myself that I can be flexible and that I have time. Words stumble and bottleneck and I choke on them. They cause a stroke and don't come out. I suffocate because they aren't coming. There's no satisfactory release of tension. Something's going to burst. Perhaps I'll have to resort of color-coding my sad, little empty-word meanings to give them some depth that seems always to be conspicuously void.

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I'm working my way through two entrees: Pedagogy of the Oppressed by Paulo Freire & The Mindful Leader: Ten Principles for Bringing Out the Best in Ourselves and Othersby Michael Carroll

I'm greedy still.