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Am back to typing up my journals from high school, again. Sometimes it's interesting to see those little snippets of things I'd forgotten about. I laughed aloud at a passage I wrote concerning a haranguing which I was overhearing my stepmother giving my father. I feel so sorry for my Dad, living with this woman (he still does), but I had to laugh, looking back, at the way he was winding her up even more.
Over the weekend she had taken her kids to a concert on Saturday and on Sunday they went to sing at a church. Meanwhile Dad took me and my brothers canoeing, and to a movie ("High Road to China"). Basically she was giving him hell for us having had fun, and I wrote something like "it's impossible not to have fun when they're gone" - along the lines of banging your head against the wall feels so good when you stop. But I heard her ask him if he _liked_ canoeing, and he responded "Well, yes I do, I find it rather enjoyable." And I didn't write down the tone in which he said that, it could be said in all sorts of sarcastic ways, but I could hear it in my head when I read it, the very mild, vague tones he used.
But mostly it just reminds me of what a truly miserable writer I was, and how incredibly caught up I was in my illusion of my own brilliance. Fragment after fragment of stories that just really really suck. Ack.
Over the weekend she had taken her kids to a concert on Saturday and on Sunday they went to sing at a church. Meanwhile Dad took me and my brothers canoeing, and to a movie ("High Road to China"). Basically she was giving him hell for us having had fun, and I wrote something like "it's impossible not to have fun when they're gone" - along the lines of banging your head against the wall feels so good when you stop. But I heard her ask him if he _liked_ canoeing, and he responded "Well, yes I do, I find it rather enjoyable." And I didn't write down the tone in which he said that, it could be said in all sorts of sarcastic ways, but I could hear it in my head when I read it, the very mild, vague tones he used.
But mostly it just reminds me of what a truly miserable writer I was, and how incredibly caught up I was in my illusion of my own brilliance. Fragment after fragment of stories that just really really suck. Ack.