"When dawn spreads its paintbrush on the plain, spilling purple... ," Sons of the Pioneers theme for TV show "Wagon Train." Dawn on the mythic Santa Fe Trail, New Mexico, looking toward Raton from Cimarron. -- Clarkphoto. A curmudgeon artist's musings melding metaphors and journalism, for readers in more than 150 countries.

Thursday, December 31, 2020

Pandemic journal, five months survival

Today closes the pages, 127  of them, written over the last 184 days since August 1 when I began this second pandemic journal, wondering if I'd survive.

It's the second one, the second book, begun April 1, which ended July 31 at 184 pages covering 122 days, missing only one day.

I've never been disciplined enough to maintain a daily diary, though I'm pretty good on journals of trips and so forth.

But this was different. I missed only two or three days in the last five months, and obviously wrote more some days,  than others. 
Some entries are longer, up to two pages, while others are mere fractions of pages. 

 I've gotten in the habit of getting up early, recording my weight and outdoor temperatures and weather. I keep track of paintings, and books read, and comment on every day life, including family happenings, a trip to Colorado, and the pandemic news. 

There's not much on politics, but it's hard to ignore in this crazy election year with the unstable nut in the White House trying to become a dictator and overthrow the election. 

And
I still wonder if I'm going to survive--the question I asked as I began both journals. The new more contagious variant is here in the US., I am aging, and wondering if I'll get the vaccine in time.

I do see personal value in this. I go back and read the earlier pages, a few at a time, marking them up, thinking. It's like reading a personal history book, reminding me of things I'd already forgotten.

Will I continue this journaling? I'm aware I'm following the example of Pepys journal of the plague year in London, though mine is not as bleak, yet.  Probably, but my handwriting is getting worse, and I'll have to find a new book to write in. This one, a journal given me earlier this year when I did a writing workshop for the Oklahoma Pork Council,  has only a few pages left.  

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