...and she was bland like the whites of eggs
I don't have much to say today. I know you're not intersted in me describing my soggy salad. (Or, maybe I'm not intersted in describing it. I already have to eat it.) I know. You wonder how, with the change of just one day, I can feel completely different? I know.
Maybe there is something to this whole Gemini thing.
There was this journal I wrote in 2nd grade. We had a little time everyday to write during class and at each night our teacher would take them home and write back to us. She'd ask us questions, How? or Why?. She asked good, solid, thinking questions and gave us little compliments too. I looked forward to her responses.
That little journal was pleasing the way that this one is. I felt really free in those days. Somedays during our writing time I'd write "I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY" in enormous letters that stretched across two pages or I'd list all the the things that I didn't want to write about. My teacher seemed to like this. Sometimes her responses would take up a whole page. I didn't understand why she wanted to show my mother so badly, or why she said she thought I was going to be a writer one day. I thought that was what all of the other kids were doing too. I don't know what hte other kids wrote in their journals, I never did. Our journals were secrets between just the teacher and I.
Sometimes it really feels like I'm in second grade again when I post here. Like you and I have a secret little journal together.
It is pleasing and freeing not to write about my soggy salad or feel like I have to. Don't you agree?
I don't have much to say today. I know you're not intersted in me describing my soggy salad. (Or, maybe I'm not intersted in describing it. I already have to eat it.) I know. You wonder how, with the change of just one day, I can feel completely different? I know.
Maybe there is something to this whole Gemini thing.
There was this journal I wrote in 2nd grade. We had a little time everyday to write during class and at each night our teacher would take them home and write back to us. She'd ask us questions, How? or Why?. She asked good, solid, thinking questions and gave us little compliments too. I looked forward to her responses.
That little journal was pleasing the way that this one is. I felt really free in those days. Somedays during our writing time I'd write "I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY" in enormous letters that stretched across two pages or I'd list all the the things that I didn't want to write about. My teacher seemed to like this. Sometimes her responses would take up a whole page. I didn't understand why she wanted to show my mother so badly, or why she said she thought I was going to be a writer one day. I thought that was what all of the other kids were doing too. I don't know what hte other kids wrote in their journals, I never did. Our journals were secrets between just the teacher and I.
Sometimes it really feels like I'm in second grade again when I post here. Like you and I have a secret little journal together.
It is pleasing and freeing not to write about my soggy salad or feel like I have to. Don't you agree?
posted by j-e-s-s-i-c-a at 12:43 PM
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