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2001-06-24 / 9:12 p.m. ~Other people's diaries, fireflies, and Bridget Jones~
What's the deal with fireflies? I mean why do they light up? Why do they only light up in summer? Where are they the rest of the year? Do they only exist in summer? I realized I didn't know the answers to these questions when I was babysitting Lilly, a few weeks ago. We were at her house, standing in front of the sliding glass doors looking out at the yard, watching Henry the dog cavort, when there was one, a firefly, and I scooped little Lilly up in my arms and whisked her out there to show the fly to her. "Firefly", I said, and she said, "Firefly", an excellent mimic. I said, "Look, it lights up. See?", and she said, "Why?", and I said, uh, I don't know. Because I don't. Really. I just now parked my car and there was one, and I was reminded of every summer, every time I was outside any summer in my life, times when I was outside a lot, times I was out in the woods, out in the country, living, not cooped up in an apartment in front of a computer or a TV, but really living, outside, where the fireflies are. It's a beautiful night, just coming home from seeing "Bridget Jones' Diary" at the Fabulous Fox Theatre, which is just what it's called, the "Fabulous" Fox, or FOX. Still, it was a good movie, very cute, very funny, very engaging. Renee Zellweger did a fine job, and it's been long enough since I read the book that I couldn't compare it enough to find faults. It was simply a nice, sweet story. Maybe the book was less sweet, and there was a story involving the gay friend, wherein he was beat up or something, but all her friends were very minor characters in the film. There was a line which struck me though, towards the end, right at the end, where Bridget has been caught, her diary has been skimmed by the man who is Mr. Right, Mr. Mark Darcy, and she says, "Everybody knows diaries are full of crap", and I thought of diaryland.com, and my diary. And all the other diaries I've spent this weekend reading. Un-Clean, and Burnoutchick, and most of Not-a-Finger's, today, and especially after reading the last one, I thought mine sucks. This is stupid. Am I writing for other people to like it? Only one person has me linked as a favorite, why not anyone else? I can see every person who stops in, stays a bit, look at my site meter stats daily, but why? This was for me, me alone, and the only other person I've told, yes, you can read it too, I'm glad you do, but what else do I expect? Everybody knows diaries are full of crap. And Not-a-Finger.diaryland.com is NOT a diary. It is a column, a humor column, sort of out of place here, but not unwelcome. It's brilliant, really. Made me feel small reading it, so I had to read my own, bits and pieces, perusing the index, intrigued by my own entry titles, and it's not bad, it's me, it's my style, I'm not imitating anyone, not trying to be anything, just writing, writing as I am compelled to write, now in a disciplinary fasion, daily, just because. I'm tired, and now I feel depressed, maybe it was watching Bridget Jones find happiness with her Mr. Right, maybe it was leaving the theatre, feeling the wonderful cool breeze, seeing the red ball of light that was the sun setting on the horizon, thinking, Red Sky at Night, Sailor's Delight, and remembering all the summers when I was alive, when I had people to be with, when I had things to do outside, with friends, or lovers, when it mattered that it was cooling off and we could be out in it, stay awhile, no hurry to get back home. Maybe I miss my youth, the carefree summers, and being with the fireflies, wondering why they light up the way they do. Cost of the War in Iraq
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