And now, as promised yesterday, here’s the rest of the story. Once upon a time, people got their news from papers. Delicate, fragile, tissue-thin and smeary; rich people wore gloves when touching them, after a servant had ironed the pages. These news-papers were cheap and plentiful and vast forests all over the globe were chopped down so that the news could be distributed day in and day out and more than twice a day in big cities.
So newspapers were cheap and plentiful, a proletarian textile.
I’ve been having a hard time doing more than the minimal for the last few days. Each day there’s a small accomplishment, but there have been no grand plans or big projects, and that feels worrying. I must be in a brooding period, a patient wait as the drips and the tocks add up. I feel gratitude for the peace, and I’m not complaining, but almost. OK, a tiny complaint: Trump is driving me mad.
A snowy sunny Saturday, some mending at my side, AM Joy on the TV. January always seems to open a new book, a fine new book … first chapter, first entries … everything is possible, once again. I love January! I enjoy beginning things, and now that I am older, I’ve also learned the extreme joy of finishing things. Sigh. January is always a time for reflection, recursion, rejoicing in solitude. A.M. joy every single day!
I’ve come up with a brilliant scheme to combat writer’s block while getting to work on my own backed-up archives. I touched on this a few entries ago, but I didn’t actually follow my own advice. Instead, I wandered around Medium, reading writers young as my grandchildren describing their own systems for getting on with the job. Those systems involve paper and pen and filing cards, which I’ve been exploring the past few days. And yet here, all the while, the solution was within my own hard covers.
Every January I tend to look over my vast, vast collection of hand-written journals, and this year is no exception. I look from the page to the scanner and back again. Should I digitize each of them? Or, should I try typing them into a computer? Will there be a posterity? Or is that too optimistic? Too solipsistic? 🐔