I feel I should put something here, since mouse cannot; I find myself at a loss.
My grandad was a larger than life man. We were very close, he commanded his house, yet treated my grandmother as a delicate flower. There was not much delicate about her. She was large, loud, wickedly humorous. It quite possible she was the most indelicate woman I have known. Not to grandad to him, she was a treasure.
One day, my grandad handed me a gift, it was leather bound book of empty pages. I can still recall the smell and how it felt, quite heavy and large in small hands. He said to me that all important men have important thoughts, which must be written down. You will have to imagine those words with a strong, thick German accent.
I do not know what matters of great import were put down in that first journal, well aside from scribbles, crude drawings of guns, tanks, and for some odd reasons cows. I was four at the time and fascinated with the dairy in town. It is entirely possible that somewhere within those childhood scribbles and drawings includes a cure for cancer, meaning of life or the secret to world peace. However it's meaning is long forgotten.
As I grew older, I continued to journal about my life, I imagine it will one day make writing my personal memoir a less daunting task. My mother saved them all, volumes and volumes of them. I hope she skipped the high school and very early college ones, if she ever did read them.
I took a few home one time, curious about what I had written, what secrets I shared to my later, older self. I wrote much about feeling ill, getting vitamin shots. Several a day. I should explain, I was diagnosed around 5 or 6 with type 1 diabetes. Of course my parents did not tell me about that until I had lost a kidney. Well, I knew where it was, or rather where it should be, it just hurt like hell. After the surgery, as I recovered I was finally told.
I wonder where that journal is?
I still journal, each day; well most days. It is strikingly similar as when I was a child. At 10, for example, it might have read. Woke up at 6. Showered and shit. It was firm. At 15, it may have went, Woke at 6 with an erection, shit was firm. At 18, it likely stated, woke with a hangover and a erection. There may or might not be mention of where I woke or whom I was with.
At thirty, maybe a couple slaves sharing the bed, an erection, more than likely firm shit. At 40, I would have woken possibly hungover, maybe with a woman or a prostitute, not much more to say about that, we will move on. At 45, I certainly would have woke alone, and my first thought would have been mouse. She was never far from my thoughts. Then everything else, erection, firm shit, noisy child.
Today, I wake most mornings to the sound of my daughter screaming, mouse practically falling out of bed. The dog snoring and of course the erection, which as I age I thank god for.
I suppose the dream of handing a stack of journals to a secretary and saying, "type up my memoir," is highly unlikely.
I have other journals as well, ones I would not wish for my mother nor my children to see. They are full of scenes, ideas for scenes, copious notes about bottoms, subs and slaves.
And much more about mouse.