Crazy

A sheaf of 200 or more letters I wrote to my parents over I don't know how many years. Saved by them and salvaged by me from the family archive.

I've been writing the book/blog for a month now and a rhythm of sorts had developed. Sort through what source materials there are - photographs, documents, snippets of writing, oral history and memories. Let all this work in me, select and scan the images, draft the posts, edit fiercely then publish; usually along with a vaguely related blip.

At the end of each phase I've had to take a step back, restore some domestic order, walk away for a while, take some deep breaths before diving in to the next phase and its source materials.

I had forgotten these letter existed, they document the version of events I conveyed to my parents through my early adult years (front of house rather than the backstage view). And there are other letters and cards from friends of mine writing to my parents for news of me.

All this is changing the emotional time-line, the story I live with. Since they are not always dated I'm having to read them to put them in chronological order.

It's making me feel crazy in quite a pleasant way. It may be some time before the next post can be drafted. Right now I need to swim to integrate these layers of memory, alternate versions of history.

Very distracting from quality blipping but visiting your journals is a great antidote to this deep dive.

#am reading #am researching #am swimming