On the Disappearance of Journals

I no longer find unused journals at thrift stores. The well has run dry at last and that saddens me. I now have to purchase all my new journals and for some reason that irks me. I always loved finding new weird ones for a couple of bucks. No more.

First a dearth, then total disappearance a few years ago. I haunt the thrift stores of Coos Bay on a monthly basis and not a single journal for sale.

It is my belief that the great age of giving journals as gifts at Christmas ended 25-30 years ago and the stock naturally ended over time. I also believe that there was a fad in therapeutic circles to have clients “journal” as a means of reflection and healing, which was a great idea, better than talking to some dipshit charging you an arm and a leg for pablum. But writing in a journal with a regular routine takes, time, discipline and honesty. Most Americans ran out of these qualities a long time ago. Now chat bots for homogeneous, regurgitated advice, not writing about your unique life on paper and trying to figure it out, “plucking your own heart string” as Emerson called it. Thanks fucking Christ Thoreau never went into therapy!

I remember in the 90s when students would give me journals as appreciation gifts when they graduated. I received one rectangular bamboo paper volume that had deep grooves in the brown pages. I cherish that volume.

Over the course of my teaching career, I must have passed out a thousand of the classic black and whit speckled composition books to my students. Always for free. I wonder if any of those students are still writing in paper journals as an adult. I made them do it for a grade, as my high school journalism teacher made me do so in 1979. It made all the difference in my life. I just don’t think that kind of thing happens today, although I hope I am wrong.

My most recent journal is nearly filled up. I bought a sketchbook for $11 and it just didn’t seem right.