12 months of goop

I bought twelve notebooks the other day.

They are to catch my drippings, and keep my face out of my phone.

I'm a chronic jotter-downer, and like any obedient creator, my desk and pockets are littered with notes on old electric bills and CVS receipts.

I've also been power-using Keep, Google's checklist/todo app to keep track of the things I need to keep top of mind for the day.

But I need to keep my face out of my phone.

And I need to feel the tactile experience of holding a writing utensil in my hand. Preferably a hand-sharpened wooden Number 2 pencil.

So I bought 12 notebooks.

But these aren't for daily todo lists or grocery runs.

These are to catch drippings.

These days, I never really get the Scary Sundays. But I do get a strange kind of vulnerability from time to time that seems to wash over me right around Sunday dinner prep.

Wordless contours of feelings and memories of people I miss, time that's draining away, experiences I'll never have again.

A kind of existential saudade.

Things I need to trap in some kind of field notes apparatus, capturing colors and the general shapes of things in goops of pliant, malleable words.

It's an experiment, like all the others.

From this moment forward, one of these books and a short bowling-alley pencil are at the ready for that strange wash that seems to happen on Sunday afternoon.

Happy Monday, everyone.

May you be well.

May you be happy.

May all beings be well.

May all beings be happy.

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What I’m reading: Weird Walk (various authors)

What I'm listening to: ストエデンへのパス (Nmesh)

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