It’s a mixed blessing that I learned how to post YouTube videos here to LiveJournal. I promise that I will do my best not to post them just for the sake of filling up space. (I’m guilty of that with the holographic diary. Each time I begin a new composition book, I tell myself I’m not going to make it double as a scrapbook–it’ll serve only as a journal, damn it!–but it never seems to work that way. By the time I retire the volume, some 200 pages later, I have several pictures, newspaper clippings, cartoons, and other memorabilia Scotch-taped inside.)
To inspire me to be a better diarist (I started the current volume in mid-June, and I’m down to its last 25 pages now), I printed some reproductions of the Robert Shields diary (scroll down a little ways for my thoughts on his death), a retired Washington State pastor who kept a meticulous record of everything he did, dreamed, bought, excreted, or ate for over 30 years. He was, I think, a case of OCD mixed with hypergraphia, but it’s better than I’ve been doing lately. I printed five pages of it and stapled them to the back page of the current composition book.
Today is one of those cold days where facing into the cold actually gives you a headache. I went shopping at Aldi this morning, and came home $127 poorer. It took us awhile to put away all the groceries, but the larder is well stocked… at least until next payday. Since I was waiting for Rent-A-Center to open (to pay them their every-other-week pound of flesh for the dryer and oven), I killed some time in McDonald’s drinking Diet Coke and eating a Big Breakfast (their eggs are atrocious). I read Bobby Fischer’s obituary in The Columbus Dispatch–when Steph texted me yesterday when the news of his death, I jumped to the conclusion that it had been suicide. He was never the picture of stability to begin with, but he went even more insane the last 10-15 years of his life.
I used to think that writing poetry was like riding a bicycle; once you’ve learned, you know it for life. It doesn’t seem to be the case this week. After washing dinner dishes and taking out the trash this week, I twice retreated to the blessed solitude of my study and sat at the typewriter with several poem ideas going through my head, but–with only two exceptions–all of my product went straight from the typewriter carriage to the trash. I wrote a poem about my love of hanging out in cemeteries when I was a child, and also one about Sleepy, a morphine addict who owned Clock Billiards, a pool hall in Marietta, when I was a teenager. After putting away the groceries, Steph and I watched the first 30-45 minutes of Pulp Fiction, but stopped it when Susie got back from the library. (I hope we’ll resume it again soon–it was the first time I had seen it since it came out, although I listen to the soundtrack quite often.) Steph plans to show us Great Expectations–all three hours of it–tonight.