For years, a grid-ruled Moleskine notebook was my diary tool of choice. Most of them are pictured here, but the Moleskines only represent a fraction of the larger collection. I have cracked a few open since the move, but re-reading them has largely been a negative experience. Bewildered naivete is so often trapped in these pages, ragged moths pinned to shabby cardboard.
So many times, I simply could not believe the worst in what was happening around me. Maybe I’m grateful for that part of myself; maybe that is what kept me going.
Do you read old diary/journal entries? Why or why not?
Writing from: my makeshift study in the dining-room. Listening to: Maxine the refrigerator as she chugs and wheezes.