I can’t write in a notebook this morning. I used up my last page yesterday and didn’t have a new one lined up, so here I am at the keyboard. My journal entries are usually brain dumps of all the things running in circles in my mind, so sorry about that if that’s what this ends up being. I have no plan for this post, I just need to write as part of my daily hygiene, like brushing my teeth or combing my hair.

Life has been kinda stressful lately, which is where the lack of notebook paper becomes a real pity. I’d like to brain dump it all, but on a blog that brain dump would actually be read, whereas in my notebook, it would all flow out and never be read once, not even by me. When I’m journaling, the point isn’t to read it, the point is to write it.

I’ve written before about my 30 years of journals that I continue to hold onto because maybe one day I’ll wish I had them so I can go back and read them. I don’t know why I might ever do this. I’ve gone back and read some entries, and like looking at old photos, the act feels, I don’t know what the word is. Pointless? No, more than that, because the feeling feels dark in some way, like I’m immersing myself in something that is already done and gone, something that was once real and vital and important, but it is over now, and to cling to it feels like trying to catch smoke in my hands. Whatever is in the journal entry, or that I see in the photograph of my children or my young self, is part of my makeup, is inside of me, and it was real and happened once, but will never happen again. Hanging onto it or dipping into nostalgia is tempting and seems like it would feel good to sit with memories, but it ends up making me feel like cobwebs and dust that need to be swept from dark corners, even when the memories are good.

I read a short story recently, Tessa Hadley’s “The Quiet House” that pits these two modes against each other: one character spends all her time in memories and reflecting on the past while the other, Jane, is like, pffft, memories smemories, who needs that?

“When you’re having those experiences,” Jane said, “you think it’ll all matter so much later on, when you’re older. You imagine yourself reading old letters, looking at photographs, reminiscing with wistful tears, that sort of thing. But the truth is that you leave most of it behind you. The present is paramount. It’s always everything… Those old stories diminish and don’t matter anymore. It’s shocking, really. We believe we can keep everything and make it all add up.

The most striking memories I have, the ones that bring a jolt of pleasure or of thoughtfulness, are usually unplanned ones. They’re not ones I intentionally wrote about or preserved on film. That somehow makes them more special and real. There is no artifact; they are uncapturable. They are just a fizzy feeling that I enjoy in the moment, when I feel it, and then let it pass.

Anyway. I’ve got a cat on my arms as I type. She’s purring and I will never tire of cats purring on me. It’s one of the very best feelings. Through the sheer curtains, I see the sky pinking up. I want to move the fabric aside to expose the window and the sunrise, but to do that, I have to disturb the kitty. This is a dilemma.

I’m happy it’s Friday. It might be warm enough to go for a run today, and after work, I can let my mind rest. And go pick up a new notebook.