Recently at an event someone asked me about how I choose what to write in this journal.
The site started as documentation of moving away from Portland; when I started writing the topic was fairly restricted. Over the years my life has changed, and the journal has evolved, though principally I do regard it as an exploration of leaving home.
This means that many subjects are simply never addressed. I lead a busy, complicated life, and it is difficult to find enough time to work on the projects I find most absorbing, let alone document the minutiae of my existence.
People who know me in real life often wonder why they do not appear in my writing, or are merely listed rather than described. The reasons are varied.
I think that my children deserve privacy (and my son has dictated that I do not write about him). Relationships with various other people, either now or historically, are similarly out of bounds.
My friends are aware that I am trustworthy and capable of restraint – if anything, I am too inclined to keep secrets. I could never, for instance, write a proper kiss-and-tell, and not just because I used to date criminals. The only confirmation you will ever have about my love life is the fact that I named the correct father on the birth certificates.
Anything else you hear or believe might be true – or maybe not.
There are a few people and experiences I feel that I should write about, but resist for fear of stirring up more trouble. One of the most significant is the phenomenon of lost friendship. I know how to talk about my enemies, and about the people who care for me. But what about that other category, the people I love who no longer speak to me?
I’m not talking about people who drift away, but rather friendships based on true devotion that are abruptly severed. I find it wrenching and painful to even think of two of my favorite people, and have no relative grasp of why they decided to hate me.
There are facts, which portray all sides in a negative way, and impressions, which make me think that abandonment (specifically my reckless rejection of projects, plans, places) is the legitimate cause of the problem in both cases. But I would have thought the grievances would fade as time passed. I know that I am difficult, stubborn, and contrary. I’ve made no secret of any of my own worst qualities, and accept and apologize for the fact that I have hurt people.
What I do not understand is why anyone would choke a friendship that is valued, or reject offers of reconciliation that are genuine. Essentially, I do not understand the utility of holding a grudge.
If I had the choice, I would still know everyone I have befriended in the last six years. I couldn’t say that about any other era of my life, and it is confusing to realize that growing up does not necessarily lead to greater social maturity.