Revisiting Lives Lived

Perhaps it is something to do with my age, but, as I continue the trek toward my late fifties (I am now 57), I note the increased desire to record my history. Perhaps I am beginning to recognize the limits of my own mortality, but , for whatever reason, I want to leave my story behind.

I am the only one who knows what has gone on inside my head for these past 57 years. Yes, I have told stories, gone to therapy sessions and wailed about this or that and shared many of life's hopes and dreams with others, but, really, I am the only one with the full depth of knowledge of these 'conversations with self.'

I have, perhaps, been more prolific than many others in documenting my thoughts. I have binders full of hand scrawled (and some typed) notes dating back to the late sixties. They are full of the angst of a teen struggling with his sexuality. I go on and on about existential struggles with feelings of emptiness. Screaming in my journal back then was my outlet.

What I would like to do, at the very least for myself, is to put my life into some sort of perspective. I want to come to terms with the path I have chosen over these past several decades. It is yet another attempt at self disclosure. But, where to start? Should I transcribe these writings and lay bare these puerile rants? Or, should I simply reflect back? As I recall writing so many years ago, "I want to be known."

One memory I have of this is back in the early seventies. I had just completed university, and was a living out of a small, one bedroom apartment in one of the numerous three story brick buildings of Kingston. I had recently acquired a typewriter of "dubious" pedigree and poured my heart out on it almost nightly. However, I also took to the habit of taping these thoughts onto my exterior door in the hallway. Late one evening I heard the person next door coming home with his girfriend. She made passing reference to my plastered door, to which Peter proclaimed, "Oh, that's Leonard. He puts his life on his door."

So, maybe I want to revisit that process. I want to bring out my binder of scribbles, as well as the poster notes of memory fragments that are floating around between my ears. I want to understand who I am, and how I got here.