Monday 9 February 1998

EVERYDAY  (Mauve Decade) 

Today I suddenly feel like getting this monumental project off the ground, or digging it up, so to speak—starting over, starting a-new—or continuing—I don't know. It's the kind of day that makes me feel like beginning something, though it's hard to tell why. It's not the kind of day that usually brings up these feelings. It's kind of wintery, but well above freezing, but overcast, and kind of depressing. But still, it feels like the beginning—and it never seems to at the right times. Like, January 1st—terrible time to start anything, except maybe abstinence. Today is like one month and one week and one day or two into the new year—and thinking back, it always seems like right about now, this relative time, is the new year for me, so here it goes, though it may be one another of a thousand false starts, who knows? If I was to worry about that too much, I just wouldn't start at all. Looking back, I think why couldn't I just keep writing a page or so a day—all through these past years with all the ups and downs? Just continue on as I did in 1989, and 1990—and how long? But I didn't and I can't get back now, and now I have to try to piece the pieces together and figure out what approach to take to—not make it all make sense—but to make something out if it. The question, I guess, is: Is there a book in this, and is it called The Mauve Decade? We shall see, I guess, or maybe not. Anyway, let's get on with it.

A little earlier today I had the strong sensations that I often have that seem to be related to or triggered by a smell—more than likely a smell than anything else—and then evoke some kind of memory. It's almost nostalgia, and almost sentimental, and pretty ephemeral, and damn near of no substance at all, yet I'd have to say it's the single most powerful thing I can think of—this ability to enhance and alter moods, conjure something huge up out of nothing. I can't control it—not at all, and often I think that it must mark the descent into insanity. But at this point it all feels pretty good and I'm not going to worry about it. I'm only thankful for these times and days that are enhanced by this fleeting rush of feelings, or glimpses of something at the edge of consciousness. I'm at its mercy, but not a slave to it.

If I am to continue on with this project, I must soon tackle the big question—how to fill in all the spaces since we last touched down. And there's a lot of spaces there, filled with a lot of events and people. The project, if I decide to attack it, is to simply write each day abut everyday things. There is no big ambition except for consistency and longevity. Originally the idea was to type a page a day, and at the end of a year I'd have 365 typed pages. Soon I found that that was not going to happen, and the best I could hope for was to write in a notebook each day, or on scraps of folded paper I keep in my back pocket. Type it up later. And then I found that, really, every day is not going to happen. And some days there would be a lot, some a little. So I certainly wasn't going to cut myself off at one page on a day when the words come pouring out—particularly if I feel at all inspired. There would be plenty of flat and impossible days to make up for later.