In Venice last summer, my wife, my daughter, and I strolled
through the Rialto after 9 p.m., looking for a restaurant.
All the shoe stores and souvenir shops were closed, but we
stumbled into Lyra
Venezia, a brightly lit shop selling beautiful leather
books. I bought this small, handbound journal because of the
way it felt to hold. The hide on the cover has a smooth flaw
that is the exact shape of my thumb and palm when I carry
the book in my right hand.
For several months I found I could not write a single word
on the pages. Nothing really worth saying showed up. Finally,
near the end of September, I went to Chicago's Art
Institute with a group of writing students. Wandering
through a gallery, I heard all the crap I'd told these students
about not waiting for perfection before beginning to write.
So I sat down and wrote about a painting. The subsequent entries
constitute notes and drafts towards stuff I may or may not
revise. But I think of the surreal city of Venice, and of
meeting Paula there every
time I open the book.
Putting the pages on the web with accompanying odd links
was an impulse, inspired by Ro Miller's photo posts
and Eric Westgates's Poetry Lessons. In the last year
or so, I've stopped posting and commenting on poems on various
poetry boards, and other than being busy and lazy, I have
no excuse for this. Posting the journal has become my way
to keep participating a bit in an online community. I've gotten
some of the best support and poetic stimulation of my writing
life from friends at Avatar
Review (and other sites), so I'm glad a few of those folks
find the illegible pages worth deciphering from time to time.
