It is said that “a picture is worth a thousand words”. Well, maybe. Sometimes. I think that, often, the words are actually worth the words. They excavate deep feeling and understanding. They create impossible images in our mind. They force us to remember.

When I was small, I wanted to be an archaeologist. I don’t know why. Why does any youngster decide at such an early age what they want to be when they grow up? I had a lot of books about dinosaurs, books about old temples and buildings that had been unearthed by archaeologists, books about the Egyptians and the discovery of King Tut’s tomb. It was with endless fascination that I looked at the pictures of old civilizations and tried to imagine what it must have been like to live so long ago, to look at those long-gone animals with wonder at how big they were. I have always been amazed at how many youngsters are still also fascinated by dinosaurs, how a three- year old can so easily say those complicated names and know what they ate and when they lived. Is it, perhaps, a molecular memory that we all possess, buried deep inside us, that our past lives are still so close to the surface when we are very young? Ask a small child of three or four “What do you remember?” Don’t prompt them and listen to what they say. I’ve done it a number of times and am always confounded by the clarity and assuredness of the response. As time goes on, we lose that connection to the “past”, to what we remember.

In 1966, I began my Journals. Don’t know what prompted me to do
that, but I did (actually I do know but that’s another story). A few days ago, I decided to go through some old boxes in the storage at my house. On my computer, I have about 500 pages dating back to June of 2005, but I wanted to look back at what I had written over the years. It took a while to dig out all the Journals. They were scattered through dozens of boxes and that is what brought the title of this entry to mind – I was unearthing the past and having to work for it. My back can attest to that! Above is a photo of the result of my digging, thousands of pages, some handwritten, some in dot matrix (when was the last time you used that term?) written on and printed from my Commodore 64 (!!) and the rest from my laser printer.

As you can see here, the early Journals, the first ones from 1966-67, are much the worse for wear. They have been through a lot in the half century since the entries were made – a flood or two, multiple cross-country moves- and they now reside in a Ziploc bag so they won’t deteriorate any further. Opening them a few days ago was like handling the Dead Sea Scrolls. The pages were brittle and broken and partially disintegrating, but then I began to read – from the beginning. None of the entries were dated back then, but I knew the time frames from the events I had referenced.

I honestly don’t know how to describe the feeling that began  to well up inside me. It was a combination of embarrassment, humility, humiliation, surprise, compassion, curiosity, anger and, above everything else, oddly, fear. I found myself, with great trepidation,  gingerly turning pages to learn what happened next. While I remember most of what I read, I didn’t remember the order in which events had happened. I was reliving a part of my foggy past, some parts of which I didn’t want to relive, but I read on anyway and that’s where some of the embarrassment kicked in. I have long since forgiven myself for ever being 21 but, from this chronological  distance, I got pissed off at my naivete,  at my lack of perspective and process. Of course, all those reactions were from the “me” now and I had to realize that these words were the words of an honest, young and inexperienced me in those long-ago moments. They were important words then. That was the humbling part, to realize that I have come a very long way since.

There were the crazy, heady days of Expo ’67 in the middle of the St. Lawrence River one glorious summer. The remnants of that event still stand in the middle of Ile St. Helene. Nostalgia wells up inside me whenever I think of that time. I wonder what happened to all the close friends I made then. I know some of them are gone now, sadly. But we move on. After Expo, the Corporation sent us, free of charge, to anywhere Air France flew. We started in Paris and spent a month darting about the continent! More nostalgia.

Then to the West Coast and a new life in Vancouver after the FLQ began putting bombs in mailboxes in Westmount. Years of performing in Burlesque at Isy’s Supper Club on Georgia Street followed (bet a lot of folks didn’t know that about me!). Then to Portland Oregon and the incredible years at Portland Civic Theatre. Then to New York and Lincoln Center … as a Tour Guide, not a performer, unfortunately. Then Winnipeg (for 27 years) and finally, now, to this beautiful city. Squeezing 50 years into a couple of paragraphs makes one aware of how small we are in the great expanse of time that surrounds us. But those are just a few sign posts. It is the myriad of details, large and small, secret and public, that give dimension to a life. What is our mark? What impression have we make and who have we affected by our existence? I’m glad I have saved this record of my little time here. The question now is what becomes of my words? Who really cares to know all the details of my life? What does it matter? Should I burn the Journals or should I give them to someone? But to what end?

I think I’ve become cynical as time has gone on. I have found myself beaten at times by my own impatience, my own dishonesty and by ageism (and that’s a hard one to get my head around). I have misplaced the enthusiasm and vitality of the long-ago-me, and mourn that loss. But the unearthing of the past in those Journals brings a perspective on the present. The luxury of remembering lessons recorded along the way is something we don’t always have. Merely blundering through an existence can’t be all that rewarding, I would think. Having tangible connections to remind us who we were and how we have changed is, I can report hundreds of thousands of my own words later, deeply rewarding. “I am what I am”, ‘Zaza’ says in “La Cage Aux Folles” and I am grateful to myself for keeping the Journals. Whether long ago or yesterday, I’m all there for the reading!