changing patterns
Another bright sunny morning. Today, I am lazy: the thermos is half full of coffee from last night, and I am drinking that, rather than making a fresh pot. I will make a fresh pot around one, though, most likely: I like the ritual, and Jane will drink it during the day. Soren is still asleep, but I will wake him up, also around one, so that I can vacuum the bedroom, and we can move the bookcases around. This has been a lackadaisical project this week for the three of us; one of the advantages/disadvantages of L*I*V*I*N*G I*N A H*O*U*S*E is that there's space to leave a half-finished project around, and thus the urgency to get things back into their proper places is lessened. At least, if you're like us.
At any rate, the bedroom will be neater, with places for laundry, and books easily accessible to Soren, whose computer is in there. We talked yesterday about whether to just put some books in alphabetical order on those shelves, or whether it made more sense to select the ones Soren is most likely to want easy access to, and decided that we would select the ones for the bedroom; that will be another, ongoing project.
I, meanwhile, have been trying to get out a bit more this week. I did a jaunt over/down to the International District, specifically in pursuit of Maruman Boston Note spiral notebooks (unsuccessfully, though I did find another pleasant type of spiral). Since 2008, I have been using custom-made journal books, lovely paper, narrow-ruled to my delight: the current book is the eighteenth one of the twenty I've had made. But I think it's time for a change: my writing in them has become increasingly more precise and delicate, except for when I force myself to write loose and sloppily (or when I'm on a bus or train), and the words...
...I feel as though I am writing in my journals as if someone else were going to read them, and as if I wanted this Imaginary Reader to have the best possible impression of me. And, somehow, the books themselves have felt too fancy to just haul out and scribble in (whether it be because someone might see me and think I'm ever so precious to be using a fountain pen and a perfect bound book covered with hand-marbled paper, or whether the book itself is too delicate to risk breaking the spine, I'm not sure.) As a result, less and less of what I actually perceive and feel is going into those pages. Tiny, precise writing, tiny, precise language, tiny, precise thoughts -- but that's not me.
So, a change. The last two bespoke books will wait a while; instead, I'll use spirals, that I will probably fill within a month, and that I will feel less reluctance to scribble, and spill beer or coffee on them. I always want a compromise between beautiful books that I'm afraid to write in and any old piece of paper: the Japanese spiral notebooks usually work nicely, with A5 being a comfortable size to carry in my bags, and to pull out into my lap, or on a table in a cafe, or on a bar.
I'm also going to read a few of Julia Cameron's books. In the past, I've often been irritated at aspects of her tone (a little too "higher-powery" for my tastes), but she's good at naming/verbalizing elements of creativity and barriers to creativity. (Reading the section on crazymakers in The Artist's Way was mind-blowing to me fifteen years or so ago -- there's a name for this! I'm not imagining it! other people have dealt with it, too! -- and did, in fact, change aspects of my life for the better.)
(I also have to gird up and send at least three pens to Richard Binder for repairs. Woe! Withdrawal! Argh!)
Tonight, Mike, one of the guys who runs the karaoke nights at Changes is hosting for the last time; he's moving to New York (I shall see if I can get him to show up at Marie's or The Duplex). I splurged and got a karaoke CDG of Wicked, and am plotting with Ryan to get the bar to sing "Defying Gravity" with me tonight, and perhaps get two of the hosts to sing "For Good" before Mike leaves. A girl can hope.
At any rate, the bedroom will be neater, with places for laundry, and books easily accessible to Soren, whose computer is in there. We talked yesterday about whether to just put some books in alphabetical order on those shelves, or whether it made more sense to select the ones Soren is most likely to want easy access to, and decided that we would select the ones for the bedroom; that will be another, ongoing project.
I, meanwhile, have been trying to get out a bit more this week. I did a jaunt over/down to the International District, specifically in pursuit of Maruman Boston Note spiral notebooks (unsuccessfully, though I did find another pleasant type of spiral). Since 2008, I have been using custom-made journal books, lovely paper, narrow-ruled to my delight: the current book is the eighteenth one of the twenty I've had made. But I think it's time for a change: my writing in them has become increasingly more precise and delicate, except for when I force myself to write loose and sloppily (or when I'm on a bus or train), and the words...
...I feel as though I am writing in my journals as if someone else were going to read them, and as if I wanted this Imaginary Reader to have the best possible impression of me. And, somehow, the books themselves have felt too fancy to just haul out and scribble in (whether it be because someone might see me and think I'm ever so precious to be using a fountain pen and a perfect bound book covered with hand-marbled paper, or whether the book itself is too delicate to risk breaking the spine, I'm not sure.) As a result, less and less of what I actually perceive and feel is going into those pages. Tiny, precise writing, tiny, precise language, tiny, precise thoughts -- but that's not me.
So, a change. The last two bespoke books will wait a while; instead, I'll use spirals, that I will probably fill within a month, and that I will feel less reluctance to scribble, and spill beer or coffee on them. I always want a compromise between beautiful books that I'm afraid to write in and any old piece of paper: the Japanese spiral notebooks usually work nicely, with A5 being a comfortable size to carry in my bags, and to pull out into my lap, or on a table in a cafe, or on a bar.
I'm also going to read a few of Julia Cameron's books. In the past, I've often been irritated at aspects of her tone (a little too "higher-powery" for my tastes), but she's good at naming/verbalizing elements of creativity and barriers to creativity. (Reading the section on crazymakers in The Artist's Way was mind-blowing to me fifteen years or so ago -- there's a name for this! I'm not imagining it! other people have dealt with it, too! -- and did, in fact, change aspects of my life for the better.)
(I also have to gird up and send at least three pens to Richard Binder for repairs. Woe! Withdrawal! Argh!)
Tonight, Mike, one of the guys who runs the karaoke nights at Changes is hosting for the last time; he's moving to New York (I shall see if I can get him to show up at Marie's or The Duplex). I splurged and got a karaoke CDG of Wicked, and am plotting with Ryan to get the bar to sing "Defying Gravity" with me tonight, and perhaps get two of the hosts to sing "For Good" before Mike leaves. A girl can hope.