It’s not a diary.

I don’t keep a diary.  It seems unsafe.  Dear diary, today Billy heard Sally tell Jenny that she thinks I’m stupid.  Not worth putting down for posterity.

I have a journal though.  I have two.  Fancy leather covers and nice thick paper.  I use one to take acting notes at rehearsal.  It was an opening night gift from a good friend.  We were in a play together in which a journal played a large part.  The inevitable journal.  The other is the actual journal from the play.  Only the first page was used in the show so there was this whole blank book waiting for use.  It was my prop and I was allowed to keep it.

I use it to record our travels.  My wife and I have been to Europe twice and I did the show just before our first trip.  So I had this book at my disposal.  At the end of each day I would write a page or two about what we’d done.  We take a lot of pictures and the book helps fill in the holes that memory creates.

It’s pleasant to look back on it and recall some of the minutia.  What we had for lunch and where.  Little sights we saw that struck us as funny or odd.  To remember those times that we shared on a particular beach or inside a particular shop.

But it’s not a diary.

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