The importance of books. How disastrous it would be if all our thoughts were saved on computer. In safe little files.
And they were lost.
Picture of a friend, taken with a real camera.
(These incomplete sentences are an essay.)
(Notes from yesterday)
I was sitting outside. The first wholly sunny day in what feels like weeks. Trying to read a magazine. Feeling like I ought to be doing something. Something other than sitting outside and reading a magazine. The Sun, it was. A perfectly good magazine. Thoughtful if not a bit biased in favor of people who have time to sit around and think. Its readership seems to largely consist of middle class liberals and people in prison. Even the busy among this narrow consistency have enough time to consider their busy-ness.
I should at least be drawing. Working. Transforming the lumber in the garden into a chicken castle. I’m really feeling the dark side of my lofty goals today.
I’m hungover from discount shopping in the evening. It was like a wild party, my cart piled high with things that seemed essential at the time, frivolous now. Thirteen dollars for chrysanthemums. Dresses that Olive can’t stand. The fact of these purchases makes me feel queasy in an inspecific way.
This week there is a conference of Mommy Bloggers in town. I am a Mommy, but I try to resist the urge to blog my children’s childhood. I worry that I will begin to perceive them only insofar as their blog-worthiness. They will become characters.
I think I’m coming down with something. My scarf is warm. My head fuzzy. I’m at work. I’m going home.
This endeavor seems to be about more than drawing everyday. However, isn’t everything about more than it claims to be about.
To me it is.