I’ve mentioned before that I’ve been keeping a handwritten journal since about mid October. I have been dutifully entering my morning thoughts, story ideas, and poetry drafts into it every day since then. This is the first time in nearly twenty years that I’ve bothered keeping such a book and am faced with a relatively new dilemma. It is running out of pages.
I mean I have another one to go to, provided once again by my amazing friend Catastrophe Jones, so that’s not the issue. My problem is, what to do with it once it is full?
Do I just spend my days collecting piles and boxes of spent journals? If I do that, how many years should I spend toting them around? We are talking about several thousand words per journal. Most of which didn’t bear pursuing in the first place. I wonder what the gross weight of my idle, and nonsensical thoughts would come to after a decade or so?
I could burn them ceremonially on my barbecue grill after a specified, or perhaps very unspecified amount of time, in order to signify some sort of emotional something or other like some angst ridden schoolboy. That seems a bit esoteric for my tastes these days, mostly because I gave up being an angst ridden school boy years ago.
I suppose what I could do I take masking tape and label each detailing the dates they span. If I place the labels on the front cover I could set them up along the top of a dresser like one might do with Christmas cards. I could place them in neat little rows like little tombstones. A tiny cemetery where my unused thoughts can take their final rest.
I think all in all it might be important to keep my journals for reference. There might be the nugget if a story buried somewhere in there that, after some reflection and quite a bit of polish, could be brought up to nice finish. Besides, there’s no telling if my dull and humdrum notes on the day may suddenly morph into a grim survival journal written by conscientious dissenter and serve as a warning for future generations.
In other news I have found my Henry, who has now been repotted and moved from my wife’s collections of plants out in the front of the house and taken his place as a desk plant. He seems very happy to be in his own pot soaking up the sun streaming through my bedroom window. I think he livens up the place quite nicely and gives the space a touch of class. Also, I realize that I continually use the pronoun “he” in reference to Henry. I suppose it could be short for Henrietta, which is some thing that we might all want to take into consideration.
Let me know what your thoughts on the matter are.
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