When keeping journals there becomes a place where irony and life's absurdities can gather, where momentary glances at something sad, blurred or treasured out of a car window or a shadow of a thought held from the hard light of day can be scrawled down or deliberately caught in the move of a pen - the color sometimes chosen carefully, sometimes done with what's at hand.
Jack Kerouac said in On the Road that "Somebody tipped the American continent like a pinball machine and all the goofballs came rolling to LA in the southwest corner." And that seems pretty accurate. But what about those who were raised here? Are they the children of Kerouac's tilt, or something else entirely?