Decanting a Summer Day
My journals are not neat and precise, though I greatly admire such documents. Instead, my journals are a messy collection of impressions, words, overheard conversations and explosions. Opening one of my notebooks can be dangerous, like picking at a scab or skating out on ice that is too thin. Journals are compressed swear words and rants. They contain long lists that were important only in the moment. Journal entries are snapshots not portraits. Their pages record wisps of smoke and bitter sips of coffee. Hence, they are invaluable.