[page 2]…I had, fortunately, taken my keys out of the bookbag just before turning into the courtyard. I ran into the building completely shattered. I called Susan [a mistake, she was unhelpful] and told her what had happened and cried and then realized how absurd it was. I called the police and they arrived very quickly and the interrogation began.
It wasn’t the mugging that has stuck with me all these years–in fact, without the second journal entry (above) I’d hardly remember it (it was not the last time, either.) What has survived is the abject loss of the journal. My first years in Chicago were difficult/exhilarating/frightening/introspective. That first journal captured daily moods/dreams/conversations/strangers/friends/beauty/death, all word images meant to assist my acting, my dancing, my life. It was all about my growth, my maturation, my entry into adult life.
With the second journal (segments of which have been previously published here) I tried to capture that same freedom, but I was crippled by the loss of the first. Who would want it? What would they make of it? What benefit could they possibly find in it? It was so intimate, such a precise recording of my feelings that its sudden loss has reverberated throughout the intervening years. I tried to vanquish its loss by telling myself that it got tossed as useless by the thieves.
Words don’t fail me. It is a rare moment when I don’t have something to say about anything (sometimes piquant, sometimes not.) But the recording of those words is just now beginning to flow again–in a completely unexpected forum–and I’m feeling the liberation that comes with that expressiveness.
Looking backwards in order to move forward has always been a mantra of mine. My psychic friends–Freud/Jung/’The New Journalism’/ all insist on it. A prescient intuition whispers quietly in my ear — “Express yourself.”