It's been a bleak January. Of course that's to be expected in the middle of winter after the holiday bacchanalia. (I wonder if my altered ego in New Zealand will be making somber notes in the middle his July winter?) Still, winter feels like the breath of death, especially with Joe Folberg's passing. Even G. B. Carnegie & Co. and its three standard linear stoppages are gone, replaced by snow and debris.
I am generally happy with this notebook experiment, even in winter. The pressure of doing something daily keeps me out of hibernation, and the necessity of doing something daily takes off the pressure of making Great Art. On good days I think of Oscar Wilde: "I never travel without my diary. One should always have something sensational to read in the train." On bad days I think of Enoch Powell: "I do not keep a diary. Never have. To write a diary every day is like returning to one's own vomit."
At least I'm always thinking.
