I find my old journals endlessly fascinating because while I can to an extent identify with the girl who wrote the entries, I find some of it just pure, wild, crazy shit.
I wasn’t the sort to keep really depressed paper journals full of maudlin drawings. Mine were overly sincere, hand to heart, effusive explorations of all my tender feeeelings. I mean, I still blog that way in my private Live Journal but I guess there it is a little more jaded. The years add a tone of worn out cynicism. And there’s more sex.
But anyway, I thought I’d lift and share some of the more strange or revealing parts that show just how far I’ve come, or conversely, how much I’m the same.
Here’s a few tracts from the earliest paper journal I can lay my hands to – I was 14 years old and the entries date to 1998.
June 16, 1998.
‘Well. I have been working all night on an art assignment, and I just found out I have a maths assignment to do. YAY. NOT.
Sam and Chris have the chickenpox, poor babies. I know how frustrating it is, trying not to itch.
It is really late, I’m really tired, and really frustrated and really pissed that I coudn’t go to Sal’s slumber party. Oh well. I’ll live. I suppose. Okay bye bye, before I die from exhaustion.
From the sleep deprived –
Sarah.’
June 25, 1998.
‘Well you know how I had the chickenpox two weeks ago? Yes well that sort of crashed my immune system and now I have got the flu. Damn! I have missed out on doing the rest of Bugsy [a play I was in at school]. I only got to do two matinees. What a big bummer. Well I’m trying to be cheerful even though I feel like shit. I am pretty lonely too because I have just spent the last two days in bed by myself. …
On the news, some plane got highjacked and someone shot Bill Cosby’s son Dennis ages ago and they found new evidence or something.
Yesterday I read a couple of books. I was SO BORED.
We are going on holidays to Yamba soon. It’s great because no-one there knows me, so I can do whatever I want and not be embarrassed so I am going to be a hippie and sit on the beach and paint and wear a nosering or an eyebrow ring and wear blue and purple and look dreamlike and wear eye makeup. FREEDOM.
(picture of me sitting on the beach doing some of these things)
BYE NOW. Sarah.’
June 27, 1998.
‘Oh friggit friggit friggit. The worse thing has happened. We can’t afford to go to Yamba.’
June 27, 1998 (later that day, apparently).
‘We can!! Mum and Dad changed their minds!! Phew!!
On the other hand, Dad really pisses me off. I was looking at a magazine and it has a girl in a crop top. I said it was gross and Dad gave me some mouthful about how it was art. ART MY ARSE. That’s all I have to say about that!!!!
Bye then. Sarah.’
Mostly Snarling - ists. isms. uppity backchat. 
July 12th, 2011 at 9:19 pm
No worse than you would see in art was the statement I made to my overly prudish 15 year old daughter … but not art for art’s sake, which was your counter argument. A significant other reminds me I also suggested you keep an open mind as in ten years you may change it.
Somewhat …
I wish I had journals of my growing. All I kept were exercise books of cricket scores and match reports from backyard cricket which I finally threw out when you were born in belief if was time for me to grow up. It was but I wish I had kept the records. It may be sweet and sour but it must be lovely to have a record of your changes.