Like many, I keep a journal. Irregularly, though I've given it a good crack over the last few years.
Why? Well..., um..., I..., No idea, really. It serves no useful purpose, but I enjoy my time with it.
When I'm gone its several volumes will find their way to the recycling bin.
Meanwhile, Esteemed Spouse, friends who've stayed over, other friends who've checked my bookshelves, strangers in cafés - might wonder what on earth I'm scribbling.
William Stafford had the same idea. It's as if he read my journals! Nothing new under the sun. And check his sensory images!
What's in my journal? by William Stafford
Odd things, like a button drawer. Mean
things, fish-hooks, barbs in your hand.
But marbles too. A genius for being agreeable.
Junkyard crucifixes, voluptuous
discards. Space for knick-knacks, and for
Alaska. Evidence to hang me, or to beatify.
Clues that lead nowhere, that never connected
anyway. Deliberate obfuscation, the kind
that makes a genius. Chasms in character.
Loud omissions. Mornings that yawn above
a new grave. Pages you know exist
but you can't find. Someone's terribly
inevitable life story, maybe mine.
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