The Visible Woman...August 15, 2003

The calendar was blank. I was up early. This could bode well for getting things done. For actually writing something.

When the calendar yawns blank and I am up by six...shouldn't I get a lot done? Let's just say I displaced. I went through pictures that I had brought from my parents house. Bad landscape shots, pictures of Dad and I and Mom, too. Postcards. A few double-exposed rolls. But some priceless shots, too. In a way.

If I displaced, then I wouldn't have to write. Wouldn't it be better to clean up the mess in my office? To be totally organized before I wrote a word? Shouldn't I read the paper, through and through?

And that's where the day went. I sorted through pictures and put the ones I wanted to preserve into archival sleeves. My mother looks happy in these travels and the earlier the trip the happier she looks. I wonder what the purpose is of traveling to all fifty states and several foreign countries and then dying. Of course, what is the purpose of doing anything? But travel. While you are alive, you have your memories. What remains when you are no longer? Snapshots. Brochures and ticket stubs and postcards you saved. Still we travel. My mom did it. I want to do it still.

I think how 1997 was a stellar year in travel for me. Probably even retired I'll never have a travel year like 1997. Theoretically you couldn't carry over vacation at that job. But they made an exception. I spent three weeks in South Africa early in the year. Then ten days in Russia in the summer. Then I got a free company trip that came with vacation and got to go on the QEII, the Eurostar from London to Paris, the Orient Express from Paris to Venice. And I got to ride the Concorde back from London.

While I am cleaning Forrest asks me to look for a videotape of his dad and I don't find it but I find a box of old journals and stuff and in it is a short story that is clumsy and ill-formed. That's not going to encourage me to write.

Friday, August 15, 2003

A Journal from Austin, Texas. A Project of LBFFP Stealth Publishing.
food	reading	writing	time	exercise	health and mood

Mom and Dad visiting Scotland in 1997	choking on nostalgia The calendar was blank. I was up early. This could bode well for getting things done. For actually writing something. When the calendar yawns blank and I am up by six...shouldn't I get a lot done? Let's just say I displaced. I went through pictures that I had brought from my parents house. Bad landscape shots, pictures of Dad and I and Mom, too. Postcards. A few double-exposed rolls. But some priceless shots, too. In a way. If I displaced, then I wouldn't have to write. Wouldn't it be better to clean up the mess in my office? To be totally organized before I wrote a word? Shouldn't I read the paper, through and through? And that's where the day went. I sorted through pictures and put the ones I wanted to preserve into archival sleeves. My mother looks happy in these travels and the earlier the trip the happier she looks. I wonder what the purpose is of traveling to all fifty states and several foreign countries and then dying. Of course, what is the purpose of doing anything? But travel. While you are alive, you have your memories. What remains when you are no longer? Snapshots. Brochures and ticket stubs and postcards you saved. Still we travel. My mom did it. I want to do it still. I think how 1997 was a stellar year in travel for me. Probably even retired I'll never have a travel year like 1997. Theoretically you couldn't carry over vacation at that job. But they made an exception. I spent three weeks in South Africa early in the year. Then ten days in Russia in the summer. Then I got a free company trip that came with vacation and got to go on the QEII, the Eurostar from London to Paris, the Orient Express from Paris to Venice. And I got to ride the Concorde back from London. While I am cleaning Forrest asks me to look for a videotape of his dad and I don't find it but I find a box of old journals and stuff and in it is a short story that is clumsy and ill-formed. That's not going to encourage me to write.
JUST TYPING One must be careful. Of looking back too much. One may find. Oneself there. Naked and ugly.
		Food Diary. *About 9:30* a little cereal with half and half and a packet of sugar and a ripe banana *About 1pm* a Diet Dr. Pepper and a bunch of nachos (chips, cheese, onions, jalapenos) *About 6pm* couple of small bowls of salad greens with chopped green onions and yellow squash, carrots and zucchini; a small serving of tiramisu *About 9pm* some white wine and cheese and six crackers
		Time flies.... Up early. I got finished working out early, too. It's surprising how much time you can waste reading the newspapers, sorting photos. I know I'm displacing. But it's not like I have to write or, for that matter, do much of anything.

		Reading. From the Journals of M.F.K. Fisher. It's amusing to read these entries..MFKF talks about trying to write, writing in her head. With this difference: she actually ends up writing something. I read the papers pretty thoroughly while not writing.My office is a little tidier, too.
		I scribbled in my journal. I made a list there of things I'm not writing. I also reread some old paper journals. That made me a little sad...I'm pathetic thinking I have anything to say, I think.
		Exercise One hour on recumbent bike. Lower back abs. 25///20/20
		Physically felt a little out of sorts on digestion. Managed to depress myself emotionally. Sitting amid old photos and journals will do that by making your life seem to not amount to much. 113/71 72