from the journal
I wrote a lot in my journal while spending the thanksgiving holiday with my boyfriend. I rarely write in that venue anymore, so it's interesting to look over it. I found that many times I was writing fictional plots that used my current disposition as a base. I only once actually wrote "i", and instead referred to myself in situations as "she." Perhaps it was a way to disconnect myself to look objectively. Here are two excerpts that I thought were especially interesting.
Lying on her side, she lifted her body to support her weight on her hip and left hand that she placed on the bed, in front of his slumbering chest. She studied his face for a moment; he always looked older and less attractive when he slept. It jolted her romantic tendencies, but she loved him regardless. Sometimes she didn’t know why. Leaning her lips to almost brush the tiny hairs on his ear she whispered, “So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.” As planned, it didn’t wake him and she gingerly crawled over him to place her feet on the floor, to walk away, and to work on her own writing.
There were some traditional manners she would never understand. When he opened the door to his house, she walked in and was left to stand awkwardly in this strange environment, to make judgments on it without his intervention. The house smelled like cigarettes, not the aroma that creeps across the restaurant table when sharing a meal with a smoker, but deeper. It was ingrained and stale, worn into the walls, the rugs, the furniture, and the sheets. Mixed with this were the remnants of a large complicated meal. She could smell a hint of onion, garlic, and the gas from the stovetop. It occurred to her that one could judge a man by how his house smelled: not the cobwebs in the corners, the piles of books on make-shift shelves on wood planks and milk crates, or how his clothes piled on the oversized chairs in front of an aging computer. From this point forward he was the smell of stale smoke and onion.
Lying on her side, she lifted her body to support her weight on her hip and left hand that she placed on the bed, in front of his slumbering chest. She studied his face for a moment; he always looked older and less attractive when he slept. It jolted her romantic tendencies, but she loved him regardless. Sometimes she didn’t know why. Leaning her lips to almost brush the tiny hairs on his ear she whispered, “So close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.” As planned, it didn’t wake him and she gingerly crawled over him to place her feet on the floor, to walk away, and to work on her own writing.
There were some traditional manners she would never understand. When he opened the door to his house, she walked in and was left to stand awkwardly in this strange environment, to make judgments on it without his intervention. The house smelled like cigarettes, not the aroma that creeps across the restaurant table when sharing a meal with a smoker, but deeper. It was ingrained and stale, worn into the walls, the rugs, the furniture, and the sheets. Mixed with this were the remnants of a large complicated meal. She could smell a hint of onion, garlic, and the gas from the stovetop. It occurred to her that one could judge a man by how his house smelled: not the cobwebs in the corners, the piles of books on make-shift shelves on wood planks and milk crates, or how his clothes piled on the oversized chairs in front of an aging computer. From this point forward he was the smell of stale smoke and onion.