11.21.99

I'm languishing in oppressed mood. There are no places, no activities unstained with it so I lie in bed under a white ceiling. One would naturally conclude that a life of paralysis would be achingly slow, an eternity of seconds dripping. In fact, there is no sound and the hours on the clock progress at speeds invisible. +++ No chore was going to be accomplished on Saturday, therefore all false aspirations were quickly banished. Instead I decided to indulge an interest in working on the half-finished photo album for the trip we took around the world last April. In September I managed to get all of the photos from Korea inserted and captioned; Beijing, Singapore, Rome, and London remained. I got out the book, got out the pictures. Got out the glass pen I used to address the invitations for Wayne and Mary's wedding...I haven't given it back, but I will. It's just that I know they aren't using it now and I have so much use for it...I got out the gold and silver ink I bought to dip it in, a paper towel, and a little glass half full of water. I dug around for a piece of scratch paper for testing. I got out the tea set and the special pu-er tea Joan brought for me from her latest trip to China. I cooked it up and sipped away the afternoon while licking corners and narrating in gold and silver. And then I felt happy, or at least content. The movements of all these things I love: photos arranging themselves onto matte black sheets; words penned between dips, the effort and thought required to transfer each one to the page flushing brain tubes; and my soul moistened with small injections of earthy black tea.

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