Notebook notes

Morning pages: Sometimes they are incoherent, sometimes I sound unhinged, sometimes they contain Julia’s vein of gold. Sometimes they are sad, and at times obscene. Louise Bourgeois’ fear and anger. I would have forgotten the dreams if I had not written them down. The red letter days are breathless. The repetitions, the obsessions, are annoying while interesting. Like in therapy, they are also saying what they’re not saying.

Field Notes: My tiny writing, like the Brontës. The page space for squiggles, shapes, spirals. The way I always carry it, small enough for my smallest bag. The way it fits in my hand. Looking, especially at art, is different when it is in my hand. Anxiety about the end, having to break another one in. Its lists are like small poems.