High Land, No Rain

When living in Los Angeles, it's sometimes a good idea to go over the hill, to 818/626 land. I've spent much of the past 4 years darting between the east and west sides of town, ignoring the potential of the north. But the north has its charms, its hills and valleys, its chips and chairs, its boulevards and back-and-forths.

Between the ages of 18 and 21, I kept a diary in a graph paper notebook. It wasn't an emotionally expressive diary filled with secrets nor a reflective journal filled with insights. It was a journalistic accounting of what I did each day, whom I did what with, and what the top 10 songs of each week were. When I reread my diary now I'm amazed at how much I left out. But interestingly enough, I remember everything I left out. The songs I was listening to in a particular week or a restaurant I went to with a particular group of friends triggers a clear emotional memory. In this way, my spiral notebook graph paper newspaperish account of my early college years proves just as insightful as a flowery diary with a swirly bow.

This is a long way of telling you that I don't confess too much in my blog. But just know it's all there. I do.