"Oh no, it's not a diary, it's a blog."

I remember in high school starting a journal for a junior year English class. We were to write about school and the farm we were living on and our experiences and thoughts and whatever moved us. The only requirement was actually a suggestion, at least three pages a week. In the wide-lined notebooks we were supplied three pages went pretty easy. We were teenage kids from all over the country on a farm in Vermont for a 16-week semester that would change our lives more than we could have ever fathomed. Trust me, plenty to write about. So on Monday morning we'd see Jack after morning meeting and pass him our journals. Jack Kruse was our teacher, an amazing literary mind and musician, and we looked up to him in every sense of the world. Our classes ran 55 minutes and at half-past five every Monday afternoon Jack would tell us to put our other materials away and would pull out his stack of marked journals. We knew for the next twenty five minutes we'd get to hear great prose, political, romantic, teenage-angstariffic! Jack would simply select his favorite sentences or paragraphs. It was up to us to figure out who wrote what. I remember once writing an entry about a crush i had and how torturous it was when you thought you were making eyes and connecting with each other so well and low-and-behold she's all of a sudden making the same eyes with someone else, forcing you to realize you're not as special as you'd hoped. Ouch. Yet the way I wrote the entry you couldn't clearly tell if it was from a guys or girls point of view. Class let out that one afternoon and someone made a compliment about my entry with all of it's truth and anonymity and I couldn't help but smile and be proud that it worked out to be such an entertaining piece.

The snow melted, spring and mud season came, we made it, we graduated the program, and eventually we had to leave The Mountain School. Jack told us to keep writing and I listened. My journal became a close sidekick for years to follow. Inevitably I would get teased by someone for being a boy writing in a diary. (sigh). I would try to rationalize that a journal was different from a diary, but really, I had nothing concrete to combat the ridicule. Best just change the subject.

So, with all that, I was so surprised to see a woman writing in her journal tonight on the subway on the way home after work. Or wait, was it a diary? I mean, don't get me wrong, I feel like I used to see that a lot. I was surprised that her writing in a journal was such a surprise to see! I guess it had just been a while. Hell, I used to write in my journal all the time when I was first in the city on the subway. I still love looking at those drawings and descriptions. We've left our journals out of our bags because we've found the hippest new thing. We've chosen to blog instead. For ourselves and yet for all to see and read along with. I wonder if Jack has abandoned his pencil and pad for a keyboard. I wonder if Thoreau would have gotten into blogging.