Journals

February 8, 1991

I'm borrowing an idea that my boss does on his blog, Like Letters In a Bottle that was previously borrowed from another blogger, The Pen and Paper Blog.  The premise is that these bloggers still journal and write with pens, fancy ink and nib pens on nice paper or in nice mole skin journals. They then take a photo of their writings and post it on their blogs, inviting their readers to delve a little deeper into their blogs to decipher the written words.  It's also a way to stay connected to what is fast becoming a  dying art - writing.  Physical contact by hand to the words in your mind, being put down by human touch.

February 9, 1991

I too used to write with a nib pen in journals, all sorts of journals, since I was a kid up until I was in my 30's.  It wasn't a constant endeavor, there were years when I didn't write and times when I couldn't write - for fear of my mother finding my journals, fear of facing my own voice, not having my own voice, the years when I was in abusive relationships and the pain of writing anything was too much to bare.

February 7, 1991

February 7, 1991, Back of letter that I used to write to a personal ad

There were also years of writing out of frustration and loneliness, as a way to stave off the horrible depression and anxiety that I felt for so many years of my life. In my better, more manic days of my young adult years, I journaled more creatively, making collages as a part of my entries, to further illuminate my life experiences.  It was the influence of famous diarists and artists such as Frieda Khalo, Anis Nin, Joseph Cornell and other influential artists who's work I love that started me on that journey.  I stopped writing about 10 years ago but I occasionally will write whenever we travel - especially if we travel to far off destinations where I really want to capture the entire experience of our trip.  I still enjoy the collage and scrap-booking aspect of my journals and wouldn't want to lose the ones I still have in my collection.  All told, my the journals I have in my archives date back to 1984.  I have about 20 books, maybe more, and I've managed to save a huge cache of letters that were written to me and by me from the early 1990's - a period of huge development in my life.


Delving into my past, I decided to look at some old journals for dates that correspond to this month, February.  I thought it might be interesting to post some pages from similar dates from the past to see what was going on in my life at the time.  I couldn't find the exact corresponding date, but I found a few that were close to the early days of February in 1991; 1998 and a letter that I wrote to a stranger, in response to a personal ad I saw in a gay newspaper.  The over-arching theme of these entries is chronically what I did, who I spent time with, how I felt.  The ad response letter is more telling about me and my state of mind of who I was at age 23 then anything else I wrote at the time.  I did not hear a response back from the person, but now that I re-read it, at age (almost) 45, I can see that if I were a 39 year old woman wanting to meet a special someone, I would not reply back to a 23 year old girl, no matter how sophisticated she wanted to seem!  I'm mildly embarrassed by this letter but mostly, I want to give a warm hug to myself and tell that 23 year old that better days are ahead.  As it was, I did meet someone within days of having sent this letter.  I met, for me at the time, someone who I thought was the love of my life. She was, for a few years and then she wasn't.  But it was the first real love affair I had with someone that taught me a lot and helped me on my way to becoming a more fully realized and whole person. 

February 8, 1998

Nine years and several more journals later, I started becoming much more creative with my writing and journaling.  The collage aspect became a regular part of my writing, more important at times in helping me express what I was either afraid to say or didn't know how to say.  The blogging has taken place of my physical pen to paper writing; my photography is now my visual outlet.  I'm glad I have both but I do miss aspect of the old-fashioned arts.  For someone like me, who came from an abusive background, physical, emotional, sexual, having a diary or journal in which to confide was a lifesaver.  I regret having destroyed some of my earliest writings.  I burned a journal I kept in junior high because my mother had read parts of it.  A further violation of my body and mind.  While the musings I wrote were probably childish and banal it would have been illuminating to me to read it as an adult and parent today.

This project will continue on this blog from time to time.  I hope you will read some of the journal entries I've photographed and please, leave comments on your own thoughts and experience with journaling.

Of Fairy Tales and Family Tales

My grandmother died a few months ago and I find I'm still going through the grief cycle.  As I often tell the newly bereaved that I meet or know from my job at the synagogue, there is no expiration date on grief, we need to take as long as we need to heal and go through the process.  Faye died at the end of August and I spent the better part of a year visiting with her at least weekly, doing her shopping, checking in on her, listening to her stories, reconnecting with her.  Faye was my grandfather, (Poppy) Pete's 2nd wife.  So she was my step-grandmother.  She was a hell of a lot more of a grandmother or relative to me than nearly any actual blood relative in my life.  She was also more of a relative to me than just about any of my relatives, via marriage or through the extended family lines of my life.

While we were not exceptionally close most of my life, I felt a bond with her that I did not feel with any other relative.  She was a special lady to not only her friends and family but to my grandfather and by extension to me as well.  One of my most vivid dreams that I can still remember is of her.  When I was about 6 or 7, I had a dream that was in some ways sort of the backdrop of the story of the Wizard of Oz.  In my dream, Faye was the Good Witch of the North, beautiful and kind, showing me the way to a better place.  This dream, or my memory of it was as rich in technicolour splendor as the scene in the movie when Dorothy reaches Oz and steps onto the yellow brick road.  Nearly 40 years later I can still sense the dream and remember how many times I forced myself back to sleep just to restart the dream.

The story of the Wizard of Oz, as well as the movie are my absolute favorite.  There is something about this young, misunderstood child girl who longs for a world and family of her own.  I've always been drawn to tales of orphans who had to fend for themselves in the cruel world.  My own upbringing isn't too  far fetched of a fairy tale story - complete with the evil queen of a mother, an absent or dead father and many friendly woodland creatures and friends who help along the way.  While I never wanted to be awakened by a Prince who would kiss me and carry me off to his castle, I did, as a young person, want to be rescued and taken away from my hovel.  I liken my life story to equal parts Cinderella - cleaning the home and hearth with only the critters for friends; Snow White because I had a jealous mother who thought she was the fairest of all; Little Red Riding Hood because I was abused by wolves in disguise.  

Faye and I were not in close touch for many years.  We didn't see each other often and there were years that went by when we lost track of each other.  I was to busy living my life, figuring out who I was and what I wanted to be and do.  Faye was working, going to the casino's, taking care of her sisters, nieces and other relatives.  When we did talk it felt as though no time had elapsed.  I was bad about calling her, as I am about keeping in touch with a lot of people.  I also think that given my distrust of family and my problem with trusting bonds, I just didn't want to be connected.  I loved Faye a lot but we weren't about to say it to each other.  I was not openly out to Faye either, so I'm sure that played a big part in my distance.  However, when she called me back in the Fall of 2010, and told me she needed my help, I went to her.  Little did I know how far along she was in poor health.  Faye was this ageless woman; it was a shock to see this frail 90 year old woman. Where did the vital, spit fire woman go that I knew and remembered? Faye had caught up with her body's real age.  It happens.  Her mind, it seemed was still as sharp as could be.  It was the rest of her that started to decline.

For the next 10 months, I would go to see her, talk to her almost daily and hear her tell me stories about my Poppy.  I got to do things for her.  I spent quality time with her, learning about how she met my grandfather; hearing tales about her upbringing on 7th and Washington Avenue in South Philly.  I heard stories of how my mother was as a little girl - just as mean and bitter then as she is now. And I heard Faye lament on how she felt she had failed me and wanted to make it up to me.  I don't blame her for what did and didn't happen to me as a kid.  She was busy taking care of my grandfather and fighting his illnesses and trying to fight my mother were more than she could bare.

My mother would often pit me against my grandparents, keeping me from seeing them as punishment against them.  It only went to spite and hurt me in the end.  My grandfather died with not only a bad heart but with a broken one too.  And Faye went to her grave with a sadness in hers that stemmed from not doing enough for me as a kid.  I guess since she's the only one who ever admitted this I love her even more.  And that's what makes me even sadder about her death.  Just as we reconnected we ended.  The bright spot in this is that I have no regrets.  I don't feel as though I missed an opportunity or that I lost a chance to gather a piece of my family history.  I find it ironic that the story of who I am and what my history is comes from someone who isn't related to me.  Then again, while we cannot pick our family but we can pick out who means the most to us.

Job Confessions

I work for a religious organization, as a bookkeeper.  I've spent the majority of my adult life working in the non-profit sector, mostly in the arts and almost always in the business office, doing the finances and bookkeeping along with any and everything else that needs to be done.  When I wasn't working in an office, or even in addition to my office work job,  I've done a myriad of other things: cheffing, catering, special events; house management, concessions, poster and flyer deliveries.  Ticket taker, soda jerk, house cleaner, baby sitter/nanny, pet sitter.  I've gone door to door selling candy back in the days when it was relatively safe for a teenage girl to do so.  I scooped ice cream, slung burgers and made so many funnel cakes that people would sniff me and say that I smelled like a doughnut. 

When I was 8, I washed car windows at a local gas station, to earn a buck or two, so I could buy a pack of  Happy Days bubble gum cards.  I set up lemonade and iced tea stands.  I styled myself the local girl-detective, in the mode of Encyclopedia Brown.  For that "gig", I hand printed business cards that were the a riff on my fiction hero sneaker clad gumshoe's calling card:

"Gorniak Detective Agency.  31 B Jefferey Road. No case too big or too small.  25 cents."

I put these in all the mail boxes of the apartment buildings in my neighborhood.  I got one "case"; I was hired to find a missing basketball.  It was never recovered and I moved onto other engagements.  Magic shows, fort building, Halloween Parties, solving the case of the mysterious neighbor who were convinces was up to no good.  

The kind of jobs I've had in my lifetime have been interesting and mostly entertaining, with a few stressful and short-lived diversions for organizations that I quickly left.  The three shortest jobs of my life time were - 1) As a bar back/runner for a long gone restaurant on South Street called Mont Serrat.  I thought I was being hired to be a waitress.  I left after one hour.

2) I worked for less than 2 months at a major corporate accounting firm in Center City.  On my first day there, almost every woman remarked to me that my short hair was interesting and that their husband or boyfriends would never let them wear their hair so short.  It was back in the mid-90's when the Caesar/Pixie haircut was all the rage in the gay community.  I heard so many lunch-time stories about diets, dinner with Rice-A-Roni recipes as well as what the men in their lives wanted.  I swear I had stepped into a time capsule from another generation.  The job was soulless  and the working conditions were uncomfortable.  I had to work a 9 hour day and was lucky to have a moment for a coffee break.  There was rampant racism, classicism and the boss was a tyrant who made everyone afraid of her.  One day I came in at about 9:05 am.  She was sitting ON my desk.  I causally and with a chipper demeanor asked what was going on.  She tersely remarked to me that what was going on was work, for which I was late.  This wasn't how she was running her office and I'd either have to shape up and get there earlier or face the consequences.  I resigned within a week.  A few months later a lawyer contacted me on behalf of two other employees that were suing her and the company for discrimination.  As I didn't have any obvious discrimination lobbied toward me, I declined to comment.  Fortunately for me, a better job found me just as I was fearing I'd be unemployed.  I left the accounting firm on Friday and started at my new job, for a theater company, on Monday.  My guardian angel was intervening on my behalf.

3) The other short lived job was for a non-profit Aids organization that was so chaotically run that all good and meaningful medical work they organization did was undermined by a vituperative executive director and an utterly insane managing director.  My job was to go through the medical files and code the clients information into a City run data base to track the progress of the patients' health.  I was stuck in a corner of the office, in a dark area and had to beg to be given a lamp so I could see better.  I felt as though I were Harry Potter, living in the cupboard under the stairs.  The two bosses didn't like me and there was some political unrest within the organization regarding my position and to whom I answered.  Eventually I was moved to a sunnier office with other people but this was short-lived.  It may have been brighter in the office but the woman who worked next to me was a dour back-stabber.  She was in tight with the boss who had it in for me. One day the entire staff went to lunch for a farewell party for a colleague who was leaving.  The girl was a well-liked and pretty with a sunny disposition.  I was the troll left behind in the office, not invited to the luncheon.  After that slight and several other incidents where I was clearly left out and ignored or worse still, not allowed to participate, I quit.  I was the wrong person in the wrong job and it was never going to get better.

In all my jobs, I've often been in the position of knowing stuff about people's personal lives - financial and situational.  It's that childhood detective in me to find out stuff, investigate or just discover things.  Because I'm someone who is self aware and sensitive, I can figure things out pretty easily about people.  I read body language, I hear things, I can sense stuff.  I'm often the person who finds out who's gay, who's had a troubled past, who has had a rough time of it in their childhoods. It's private intimate stuff and I'm not about to spill the beans on anyone.  Sometimes, though, I find that people will tell me things without regard to who I am, who they are and what our relationship is.  I'm easy to talk to and I enjoy talking, making it a natural combination of having personal conversations turn to the private and confessional.  Mostly, I enjoy this aspect of my life, being able to share our personal stories.  The catharsis can be healthy and occasionally, depending on the person, it's a bonding experience.  Unless it's a total stranger who has wandered into my world, virtual or in real life, face to face.  

You could populate a Tim Burton Film with colourful characters I've met over the years in my jobs, on trains, on buses and trains.  I've even "met" on-line strangers who wanted to unburden themselves and tell or write to me intimate details of their loneliness, grief, anger, frustration.  When this happens with someone I like or when we are building a friendship, it's all a part of the relationship building process.  I'm not so sure what it is when a stranger comes into your workplace and tells you their whole life story, warts, bankruptcy and all within the first half-hour of meeting. Nothing like meeting someone who came in to volunteer in the office only to have her volunteer her grief and frustration and then ask for advice on what to do about selling her business and starting one's life anew at the age when most people are thinking about retiring.  I could be flattered that people feel so comfortable with me that they feel they can tell me intimate things about themselves so quickly.  There are times that the information I know is too powerful.  Knowledge is power and every once in a while when that other person realizes you know something private about them, it can have negative consequences.  A person can turn on you.  It's moments like that when I sense that you never know when your number's going to be up, but sooner or later, it will.  Judgement day isn't too far behind you.