Friday night. What a week it has been.
This morning, before class, the Web server at the school was acting muddy, so I traversed from the fifth floor to the second to inquire about the box's health to the server administrator.
Anton looked tired. "I woke up this morning and had the horrible thought that it was still Thursday," he told me. "No, my friend," I assured him. "It is Friday." "Good thing," he replied. He restarted the server. Flow was established again.
So tonight, while rummaging through a box of old journals in search of some research I had done long ago, I opened a book and this picture floated to the floor.
What I know is the picture is 35 mm, and that Ken probably photographed it. What I don't know is the location. Where is this place? I have no idea.
But that smiley sun is urging us to have a good weekend, to have a nice life, to be kind to our neighbor, to be thankful for the silence, the relationships we have.
How often we forget.
I've kept a journal since I was 18. I have boxes and boxes of these writings. For what? I do find snippets in them, say way back in 1986 I saw something and wrote it down, so I have a record. I search for the thought, and it helps me state some recognition. 32 years. That's a long time to write memories to oneself.
My brother Kevin gives me gift certificates to Staples for Christmas. He knows what I like.
I buy accounting Record books. Created for numbers, I use them for this journaling. Hard-bound, with the word RECORD stamped in gold on the front. It is what these books hold for me...a record of life. They last through the years, and I write in them every day. So I am rich in lined paper, these unfilled books, just waiting for me to fatten them with words. And they do put on weight. Something about putting pen to their pages chubbs 'em. Lay a new record book and a fully journaled record book side by side. Compare the bottom of the books, the page depth. The journaled book is always plumper. It's full of life.
Looking back through these, I discover the fact that when I was younger, I wrote in pen. Now I write only in pencil, a Twist-Erase 0.9 Pentel to be exact. Life is not black and white, but differing shades of grey.
As it should be.