After her father’s death, wild child Rosie Dwyer
is introduced to journaling. She initially calls this writing form cliché, but
eventually a cathartic obsession begins.
August 17, 2012
Hey, Journal,
That “Dear journal” shtick is
overused, so I’ll address you with the word “hey.” Hey, journal. I usually
write exclusively on scraps of paper. Underneath my bed is my literature’s habitat
and the paragraphs are seldom about anything. Last year, I discussed career
goals with my high school’s counselor. Once my writing aspirations were
revealed, Counselor became giddy and asked about my writing style. She said,
“I’d love to hear about it, Rosie.”
“It’s disorganized,” I said. Then
she handed me this ginormous journal and I witnessed a disgusting
“I’m-a-cool-adult” wink.
This is the first time I’ve cracked
you open.
Time seems to have decelerated. The
slowing of time is the only gift August 2012 has coughed up. There’s been a
drought, among other eyesores. I’m beneath our backyard’s oak tree, its
gargantuan arms stretching far, shade encompassing the entire lawn. Many leaves
are dehydrated. It’s as pleasant to lie beneath as Magic Mike is to watch.
Allow me to explain that analogy. The film’s previews had me expecting a
rollicking rom-com...something less serious. It differed from the ads. Still,
every scene featuring scantily clad men made it worth the cash. That’s what
happened with this shade. I’m below it, experiencing a full body itch, but it
could be worse. Due to lacking rain, the ground isn’t summer turf in the
slightest. Imagine wearing a pantsuit crafted out of hay and sandpaper. The
shade is nice, though. Makes me able to bear my eyes being open.
Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick. I kid
you not, as I placed the period after “open,” a bird landed in my eye line and
inched toward me. Soon, it was atop this journal. I thought, Birds are flighty.
Timid. Not this one. Its eyes were a familiar mess. I was confronted by the
undeniable fact that birds were my dad’s favorite animal. I blinked, eyelids
capturing wetness and holding it hostage. Moisture subsided and the bird was
all kinds of nowhere.
I wonder what it would be like to
sprout wings. To be gone. My pencil is begging me to release it from my
monstrous grip and my legs are screaming, “Let us run far away, Rosie.”
I’ll do what I do best and let my
impulses win. Run until I get scared and retreat. Run until I realize it’s not
the same as flying. Run.
August 18, 2012
Hey, Journal,
I’m not counting the days that have
passed since it happened. When a person starts counting the days following an
event, it becomes part of a timeline. Then, by consequence, it is cemented in
reality. I’m fortunate. My brain is still too immobilized to visualize random
numbers floating in space. I’m unable to make numbers relate to each other,
events, time or anything at all. Because of this, I don’t know how long it’s
been since he died. It’s messed up, but I prefer this ambivalent uncertainty.
I’ll speak of something I know for
sure. Today’s bike ride destroyed me. August is going too fast. It’s only the
18th, but it feels like the month is nearing its conclusion. The weather is far
too chilly, honestly. Deflated bike tires carried me down the sidewalk of my
street. I normally ride in the road, but I haven’t been in the mood to care
about the well-being of pedestrians lately. Those tires were spinning, moving
like the earth’s orbit around the sun, constant and circular, at least
seemingly so. Home was in sight. My eyes were on the trees above. I was
gliding. Gliding. The leaves were rustling. The world was unsettled. God
attached a handle to the South Pole, stuffed the globe full of beads and shook
this planet like a giant rattle. God’s infant-like cries resonated and the
wheels came to a screeching halt, all because the malicious fates placed a
tiny, dauntless bird on the sidewalk of Kale Avenue. I ran over the motionless
bird. Accidentally. Then I pried my fluttering hand from my mouth and threw my
wheels into the street. Seconds later, a police car demolished the bike and
veered to the roadside.
Fun.
The uniformed man shot out of his
vehicle, completely uncentered. There was a restricting quality to his aura,
accompanied by an unprecedented ability to snap. Light brown is the color of a
traditional rubber band, and when it comes to auras, it’s a color associated
with discouragement. His body language was discouraging me the second he exited
the car.
No, I’m not a psychic. I don’t see
colors framing the forms of people. However, I do see people for who they are
and enjoy describing this reality I perceive with the same language aura seers
use. I heard all about auras growing up under the care of parents who lived to
study metaphysical concepts. Much of the gobbledygook they taught me is too
much for my logical brain to handle. Both my parents underwent past life
regression, for example. Listening to my dad talk about his life as a
Vietnamese peasant girl creeped me out. But auras? I was somehow able to get on
board.
While laying eyes on me, the
uniformed man eased. He’s one of the cops who came when my dad’s body wasn’t
doing things it should be doing. Like, you know…living. I was the girl the cops
found in the disheveled garage, after I found… Nope. No. Nope.
AUTHOR BIO
Colleen June Glatzel is a writer from Waukesha, WI. She writes
mostly fiction, but is interested in exploring other categories now that her
first book, Hey, Joey Journal, is
published. When Colleen isn’t writing, she deals antiques, acts, performs
improv comedy, makes collages, paints and spends time with her family.
KEYWORDS
teenagers,
mental illness, suicide, Bipolar Disorder, journaling
SOCIAL
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