Letter to Self

 This letter is the beginning of my London journal, completed a few years ago. I know it's not quite written in the traditional style of a letter to your younger self, but here it is.

Saturday 24th March

I pieced together most of my journal for when I lived in London from the letters I sent to Leah at the time, and from a, somewhat, incomplete journal I wrote intermittently while I was there.

"Oh, I was too busy to be sitting and writing all the time," says 20 year old Christian. "Besides, it never occurred to me to write it all down."

Forty year old Christian looks “directly into the lens” and raises his eye-brows.

Leah gave me the letters a few years ago, after I had asked her if she still had them. I wrote to her nearly every day. She was coming down from Sydney to clean her stuff out of her mum's garage in Melbourne, finally, so I asked her to look while she was doing the cleaning up. She gave them to me to read, after which she said that she wanted them back to re-read them for herself. I think I gave her the idea.

"I'm going to type them up..."

“Why?” said Leah.

“Oh, I didn’t really keep the journal that I meant to when I was overseas, that first time. It helps me fill in the blanks. Besides, it’s good to say hello to my twenty year old self again. It’s the journal I meant to keep.”

“But bubby why? That was so long ago.”

My Forty year old self completely dominated my twenty year old self. No, you’re not going to say that, you’re not going to embarrass us like that. You talk shit, you don’t even write in complete sentences. You use baby language and embarrassing expressions. Everything was “nice.” How about a little description when you wrote about the gardens at Hampton Court Palace. How about describing a place instead of just saying you went there and it was “nice.” Tell us how you felt about stuff. Sheesh. You didn’t make it easy, not a clue as a writer. You only talked about the most banal things, generally.

The sun was shining, the sky was blue.

Hands in the air! Exasperated look.

Twenty year old Christian looks perplexed.

A boy went out into the world to do a man’s job. I would have done such a better job, writing off screeds of beautiful prose, talking about places in fascinating detail. What a waste to send those tunnel vision twenty year old eyes out into the world.

“But you didn’t.”

“Hello, it’s nice to meet you,” says forty year old Christian.

“Yeah, well? Nice to meet you?” Twenty year old Christian smiles nervously. “I’m not so sure,” he says.

So forty year old Christian rewrote passages freely, added details that he remembered to be true. He re-jigged sentences to make them make sense, adding whatever he wanted to.

“If I just added these few words and connect that idea to that idea, and changed this sentence, that paragraph would, actually, then make sense. Because, I have no idea what it means now.”

"But... but... but?"

I have tried to keep within the spirit of the letters, only adding or changing to make what is already there make sense. I have expanded ideas, as I understood their original meaning to be - it's amazing what you can remember. I haven’t added any new ideas or material, which I didn’t feel was already contained in the original meaning.

“But that was my idea,” says twenty year old Christian. “You’re changing stuff.”

“Just making it sharper and clearer, just trying to help, babe,” says forty year old Christian. “I’m just completing your second draft. Relax, it’s in good hands.”

“You make me look like an imbecile.”

Forty year old Christian shrugs. “What can I say, you were.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You didn’t even... you know... with anyone,” says forty year old Christian. “The whole year, what an opportunity you had to taste the flesh of Europe. Away from home, away from inquisitive eyes.”

“I was in a relationship... and... and... and Rachel and I just hung out... she didn’t, either.”

(Ed note - Leah was my girlfriend, who I left back in Australia. Rachel was one of my best friends who I travelled with)

“Well, I’m talking about you. And, you need to ditch the girlfriend too.”

“But, I love her...”

“You always will. But, just not like that.”

They stare each other down, momentarily.

“I never thought about it,” says twenty year old Christian, barely opening his mouth. “You know, sex. It never crossed my mind.”

“I told you, you were an imbecile.” Forty year old Christian snorts through his nose and looks disdainfully at his younger counter part. “Ten years behind, I’ve always said that I was ten years behind and as far as I can see, it was pretty much your fault, those of us who came after you have been trying to make up time ever since.”

Twenty year old Christian looks sheepish.

Forty year old Christian looks stern. (with an itchy arm pit, but that’s neither here nor there, actually.)

"I did my best."

"Best, is a clear misuse of the word."

"What should I do?"

"You should push yourself harder, reach further, write longer, believe (in yourself) stronger, be better, because you are all of those things, are capable of all of those things. You can be anything, do anything... don't be afraid... just don't be afraid."

Twenty year old Christian looks wide-eyed.

"Write more and don't be lazy," says forty year old Christian. "You are lazy."

"I don't like you."

"I don't like you either!"

"Go on, finish all the things I didn't. You show me, since you think you are sooooooo smart."

“Here’s the one piece of information I can give you...”

“What?”

“You are gay! G...A...Y.”

“I am not!”

“Idiot!”