Time has been flying by lately and I have been thinking or watching for something to write about. It seems that some of it is so common knowledge, I wouldn’t dare post it here. I still find so much of the ordinary as little miracles. It seems so mundane that I would not want to bore the reader (which I have already started).
Then there are the little things that keep happening around us. Anna Nicole Smith died. The Colts won the Superbowl. The Presidential contenders already starting. Snow in New York. Storms in Florida. Sabateurs and terrorists in Baghdad are to be strangled. Pelosi wants a plane. Debate over whether the holocaust happened.
In the little world of Paul, everything marches to a different tone. I suppose I just don’t see the world the same as others. In fact, I seem to have the complete opposite of ideas about everything. Since there always seems to be such a stark contrast, I don’t bother writing it. Perhaps it is the fear of sarcasm. Probably more of looking the fool.
For a note of news. I received my journals in the mail this week. The journals that were taken as evidence in my mother’s murder trial. They were taken for what reasons I don’t think I will ever really know. So, it has been since before 25 October 1998 that I last saw these journals. Opening them, I feel like I am opening an old book from the 60′s. Indeed, they smell like my Great Grandma Jonas’ journals. (Which I am half through her last one)
Wow, I caught a glimpse into the mindset of a boy who turned 18 in the first book. I found a boy who was getting ready for his first big move. The first move from home. The first move from family. I was dying to get out and petrified at the same time.
I read of my wonderful, amazing, loving roommates. They are still my dearest friends even today. We communicate less, but I love them dearly. I see into the mind of a boy who was very innocent and pure. I feel the emotions of a boy who is disowned by his mother. Stressed and devastated by the divorce of his parents. Enthusiastic and zealous in learning a new religion. Eager and a little too anxious after the girls. There is the life of a young man whose stupidity is embarrassing. In the same pages I am astonished by the insights of a boy who I would aspire to be. Some of the mundane details are frightening that are noticed. Yet, as dates come and go, I wonder why some of the most important events of life were not recorded.
I honestly see this person as so far away, foreign, and alien. Yet I feel, somehow, the deepest intimations of the words. Even the placing and style of the words on the page are familiar. It scares me. I laughed, I cried, and my heart swelled. It was interesting to read the entries of others. Some personally placed, others who were dictated to for the daily entry. I read of the littlest events that were huge and read nothing of some of the largest.
Horrifying was to try and decipher what the investigators placed a marker for. Some of the notes were damning to my father. Sadly, some very important details and rumors which put him in a very bad light. Perhaps I forgot them, perhaps I repressed them, perhaps time drifted them with time. Other notes were of terrible destructiveness to my mother. I record outlines of conversations with her on the phone which make me shutter in memory.
There were some events which were so extreme I could not seem to comprehend them now. How after one conversation, I literally wept for hours. My roommates horrified knew the details of what was taking place. My heart broke into a million pieces. My whole life crashed in one night. It was with detail I emerged from that room to find my roommates sobbing as well. They did not know what to do. I sat at the piano and started to play. James sat by me and told me he loved me. I started sobbing and went to hide in my bedroom again. He grabbed me and hugged me in the hall. There I stood, embraced by James, bawling. Within seconds I felt another embrace, and another. Altan, Tom, James all held me tight. We cried together that night. They were my dearest friends and my world at that moment. We all sat down afterwards and read the scriptures. The Spirit manifest at that point was something I will never forget. The love that enveloped us.
I describe my love for Kyla, Jennalyn, Amanda, Trisha, and a whole score of girls. I talk of my heros and greatest examples. Duncan, Tateoka, Christiansen, and Jentzsch families. I had my first personal visit with my Grandparents and came to know them. It was the first time I came to know my Grandma in a new light. My life was beginning to be flooded with light despite the deep darkness hovering in all the pages.
It was a spiritual experience to read these pages. They don’t even seem real to me. Only hours later did my heart swell as wide as eternity in happiness and joy that I was this person. I inspired myself. Yet at the same time, realized what I had lost. I have lost too much of that innocence. I am now too mental, too cathartic, too doubtful, too old. It was with a certain horror to witness what life had done to me and some of the decisions I have made. I must needs repent.
Anyhow, it was a new experience. In the end, I only scanned the last two books. I lost interest and my memory became more keen. It was so much as a story as just rehearsing something I already knew. It is like learning to crawl again. You just don’t have much patience for it after a while.
There were 4 journals they returned. One is missing. The good news is that it was the last. I had just started it and was only into it about a month when it was taken. It was probably 30 pages full at the max. I am somewhat disappointed as I think those would be some of the most interesting. What did I realize as things drew closer. I knew things would break loose. What was my reaction the night Dad told me he was going to engage Meta? What was my feelings the night before the farewell? What about shopping with Meta? What did October and part of September hold that are now lost? The Jerome County Sheriff insists they returned all the journals. What happened to #4? (There was another journal not placed in the numerical order. An apocryphal one if you will. Oh, I am currently on journal #17).
What does the next 10 years hold? Will I read then of now and think similar things. How stupid I am, yet how innocent. How inspired and zealous? I sure hope not. Perhaps in 10 years, I can look back and say I was such a pitiful stig. I complain, think too much, and am pathetic. I have to change a few things to return to innocence.