"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.

Friday, April 2, 2021

368 pages in a plague year

Yesterday marked a year since I started a daily journal of the plague year--not knowing if I'd survive the pandemic, or if I could keep up a routine. 368 pages later, the answer is "Yes."

I've never been disciplined enough to keep a diary, but the uncertainty of these times, I wanted to start keeping a personal record of our ordeals.

Perhaps the model was Samuel Pepys' 1660 personal diary which also covered the plague in London. It was certainly the idea for this old repentant English major.

When the pandemic first hit us in mid-March, I determined to start almost daily watercolors, hoping to bring some color into a darkening year. My slide shows of those watercolors are complete on this blog, through February, and March has slacked off. But the idea for the journal began in March a year ago.

Here's the record of the pages. April 1 to July 31--168 pages; August 1 to December 31--127 pages; January 1 to April 1--73 pages.

Obviously, I wrote more earlier than I have of late, especially after vaccination. Some pages have only a fraction of a page, others run for two to three pages. What is remarkable is that I've only missed about five or six days in the entire year.

It's changed over the year as well, as I keep track of temperatures, weather, my weight, and the books I've read and paintings. Early writing included the multiple pandemics--biologic, the political nightmare and racism, as well as the ice storm and other worries..

I've started  going back and reading a few pages at a time, and it's like going back in time to what we've endured and survived. 

How long will I continue? Don't know. This morning's notes were brief. I may add some later...it's almost a compulsion now, like this blog, because there are books to read, and paintings waiting to emerge. And Like Pepys' diary, its personal, not meant to be shared. His was discovered and has become a classic. Mine won't--besides, nobody can read my scrawl..