Friday, September 1, 2000

 

12:00 a.m. Well, here we go -- hold on, because we're all in this together. All of us are in the same boat, dragged by the relentless currents out of August and into September, whether we're ready for it or not. It's a good thing these decisions are out of my hands, because I would definitely cling to summer for most months of the year.

But, I have no choice and so I must move, gracefully, into the next season. If I can keep myself from stuffing myself I will be ok. That's the big plan -- no fearful grabbing of food when the day crashes around me at 5:03 and I'm cold and tired.

I want to be one of the strong ones, one of the model citizens, one of the people whose kneecaps are bony and whose corduroys don't rub flat on the thighs. I want to be strong and fearless and sane and dainty. Stay tuned.

The photo on the front page for this month of September is one that is dear to my heart. It's a picture of my morning place of business, at least on those mornings that I can get away. I didn't neaten up the tables or put away any of the stuff I was working on when I took the picture -- that's the way it looks when I'm putting together a book.

Oddly, I've had to leave my computer office behind for this journey. I've pretty much filled up every available space with things that are less than creative, and my brain isn't coming on when I sit here where the machines are. Maybe I've finally created a right-handed office and a left-handed work space.

There's an old psychological, self-help trick that I think is interesting. You're supposed to pick up a pen in your non-writing hand and then ask yourself questions about whatever is currently troubling you. Then, you write out the answers in the non-dominant hand and voila! A little person, maybe the 5-year-old you, starts communicating with your conscious brain.

Or, at least that's how it's supposed to work. I've tried it, and it's an odd feeling to suddenly find myself fuming about dolls and stuffed animals and forgotten places under the bed. It's equally odd to write in longhand after many years of writing on the keyboard.

I'm left-handed, and I have the trackball on the right side of my keyboard. I'm therefore bringing these words to you, I think, as a right-handed person. But I'm not really sure. I do know that the work routines you establish remain sacred throughout your life -- more than sacred, actually. Sacrosanct. Superstitiously held.

And I used to write the serious stuff in longhand and then type it and retype it and correct it and keep on retying it ... and I now write on the magic screen and merely give the pixels a good shake or two and they magically rearrange. I don't think I know what's the right way anymore.

That's why I'm doing my morning thing in the front room. Pretending that it's twenty years ago and wondering if what I'm writing will hold up twenty years from now. Tense times, for sure.

It sort of makes turning the calendar page easier, I guess. This is, after all, my 625th September. You'd think I might have the routine perfected by now, but I don't. I'm still daydreaming on the boat, trailing my fingers in the water, still amazed by the passage of time.