This page will appear as a personal journal. It is something new I am adding to the blog for my own creative outlet as well as a way to share a bit of my life that is not about the practice the rest of the site is focused on.
November 1, 2018
I am very excited about this new section of the blog! Back in March I had begun writing a bit more creatively and even posted a few entries on the regular post site. This did not continue as I got back to the academic presentation of my work. However, today in my daily journaling in my notebook, I found myself writing about some memories of my grandparents’ house which I had never jotted down so specifically before. I think the documentation perhaps stemmed from reading last night in the New Yorker about a new volume published on the life of Sylvia Plath. It was talking about letters she had written. I don’t know why this would have triggered anything about my grandparents’ house, however, I do periodically read journals by writers such as May Sarton, Virginia Woolf and Anais Nin and have wanted for a while to find a way to take the journaling process a step further into my professional life. Because I have this blog site I thought it the perfect place to offer something more personal of myself. I will not be editing these for grammar but allow them to flow freely as they do in my notebook.
Here is what came to me in my personal journal today:
I’m in my grandmother’s living room. That combination of comfort and the unfamiliar, unknown, her house. Strange to think my mother and her brother were teenagers there…I never put that together before except for the basement. I guess the pink room was my mother’s, perhaps that comforter…don’t know if it’s the one she slept with or just for the guest bed. I guess I knew the other room was my uncle’s, but to think of her in that guest room I used to sleep in, waking in the a.m., getting ready for high school, that is wild. And when she came home from college. And them all eating in that kitchen, or I guess the four of them in that dining room where I had dinner alone with my grandparents when I slept over…and she made those potatoes. It was such a solid kind of established house with such nice furniture. Now in my apartment, these two rugs, the armoire and the comforter. Also, I definitely knew they hung out in that upstairs den.
Man, I miss that house, way more than the house I grew up in. I don’t miss my own house at all. But theirs was so comforting, and a kind of adventure for me. I remember stealing cigarettes from the little cup on the living room coffee table. Stashing them in that box in my closet. That living room was so formal; it was thus the one room I rarely sat in except for the piano where I actually spent a lot of time. I remember the front door there, next to where the piano was, and those long hanging chimes and those beginning steps to the long stairway that led upstairs. Up and down those steps. It’s so hard to tell what memories are when I was small or older. And that upstairs bathroom. I mean I visited that house often, from birth until I was 33 when we cleared out their house.
That house was a big part of my life. So many spots and pieces of furniture. Not much of the backyard though I’ve had many dreams about that yard. Funny to think how my grandfather took me alone to his warehouse in Brooklyn, the bridge. I also remember my grandmother’s room very well and now I have one of her nightstands and lamps in my bedroom. And, of course, her bathroom where she spent so much time at her vanity…and her large dresser in her bedroom where I watched her dress and put on her jewelry.