My head feels leaden and my writing reads leaden and the
sky looks leaden and the cat, silhouetted against the outside
light in the open front door is lying like a puddle of lead on
the carpet, the lead color carpet with the occasional
patch of lead colored cat fur which I should have vacuumed up
but I didn't because my vacuum cleaner is made of lead and I
can't lift it. And the pictures I took at the family party
look like lead. And I think there's lead in the water and in
the pipes and maybe at the bottom of my bathtub and in the
No. 2 pencils I have sitting on my desk. And it is a next
to the last Friday in the month of July Friday and they're
always made of lead.
Some of this is because I must pack tomorrow and Sunday for the move
into the new apartment on the 8th of August. Repeat, for
the slower, less well tutored sections of my brain: "Brain, we
are moving. Two weeks, brain! Fifteen fucking days! God
will not descend from heaven and pack our boxes for us at the last
moment because we haven't been to church in 40 years, brain, we've
been sleeping in on Sundays and carousing with our rowdy friends
who are all dead now thanks to liver failure due to lead poisoning
and automobile accidents so they can't help with the packing either,
brain, not that they'd have helped anyway, the swine. Brain? Are
you my brain or you not my brain and if you are my brain, why are
you not listening?"
Brain is not listening. Brain is thinking thoughts of lead. We may
have to go on with the packing and leave brain behind. A bit like
Part of this lead business is a reaction to my falling in a rut.
I'm not good at doing things the same way day in and day out and
that includes the routines I've developed in writing this journal
every evening, looking up street fairs and events in the paper
every Friday so I can load up the cameras and go shoot pictures like
some clockwork mechanism. Same with my work. I need things with a
beginning and an end. I've been good at setting things up and
getting them started, but then it requires a different kind of
personality to take over the project when the nails are in place.
Routine is not my friend. If I were younger I'd be working for
some god awful web technology company living on Coca Cola and
sleeping under my desk. I'd be cranky, hyped, weird, oversexed,
tired, working hard, undersexed, happy, unhappy and satisfied.
Satisfied is the prize, nothing much else is worth the effort.
So I just have to mess up my mix a little and see where it leads.
I'm happy with the journal, but I need to push it and bend it a
bit. I'd like to spend more time thinking about design and changing
my graphics, particularly on the journal page. I'm going to get
tired of poor old Holmes pretty soon, so I'd like to have a decent
replacement. Decent replacements take time. I can make time. My
progress is glacial, but it's progress, none the less. My cyber-friend
Mr. Post has been futzing with a web ring called On Display
and appears to be having fun with their collaborations so I will play
with them myself now that they've kindly accepted my journal into
their ring. Change the mix. Their current topic is desire.
Perhaps they'd like to try something on lead.