well... fits and starts.. that's me. Consistent in my inconsistency. I used to keep a diary when i was younger.. i lost it for a while.. found it in my mother's dresser drawer. Yes. I was snooping.. found my Mickey Mouse tee-shirt, and my diary. mmm.. so who was wrong.. me for snooping or her for taking. both i suspect, but lets blame the mother, that's the way of the world.
I had written a lot about her in it too, so it would have made for good reading. I burned it not long after that, and never kept one again. Mind you, i couldn't keep a diary for regular long time anyway.
I only manage to keep my pets alive cos they make enough noise so i remember to look after them. So this is me chucking stuff at my diary again. Which, by the way, i think is a great idea.
I think the benefits of diary keeping aren't evident in the short term.
Its a long term view thing.
Not for 2 or 3 years but for 10 or 15 years.. or more.. looking back.
A video diary would be cool.
To see what you looked like.
How you sounded.
Your views and opinions complete with facial expressions would be best i imagine.
But hey, i am not sitting in front of a video recorder.. apart from the fact i don't own one. Talking to audiotapes is strangely strange enough.
Photographs are so.. not right. One Picture doesn't capture you. Every frame only grabs one tiny moment of who you are. Really fun to look and see and feel the memories open, but really, not very informative. Find a box full of photos and wonder who these strange people are, their stories. I especially think that when looking at old black and white pictures. Like family trees.
Who cares who you are or who you were related to, what you did, the stories you lived, now there's where my interest is. To see those very still, proper photographs, sepia tonings, women really do catch my attention. Wondering what they were really like. How their days were structured. How they managed to fit into their social settings with the social and economic boundaries. Fascinating stuff. Head stones are like that too. Wandering wondering around the old sites and lichened head stones.
Makes me think, about how slight and fragile our lives are, and sometimes too, how they really don't mean a whole hell of a lot. Makes me think that the things i worry about, really aren't all that worth worrying about, in the end. It doesn't matter if you don't get your way with the design of a bathroom, or the right dress for that dinner, or the social graces just right, what matters, in the end, is that people remember you. When your family looks at your headstone, your family can smile fondly, remembering Great Aunt Michelle, who had used to scrunch her toes up when she got excited, and always bought the best birthday presents even if they were two months late. that's what really matters. That your face in those old tattered photographs, is recognised with a fond smile. i want that. that's what i want.