I have kept these journals for years—as I wandered the dusty streets and marketplaces of Central America, as I travelled across Siberia. I wrote in them when I lived in Paris and when I was under house arrest in Havana. On the inside cover I always write “Reward,” but I have never lost one, though once in Spain a young man raced off a train to give a journal back to me and I kissed his hand. And on the Vltava in Prague a boat vendor accepted one as collateral so my daughter and I could rent a pedalboat.
Mainly these are working journals, but inside of them I also keep a diary and paint. I cut and paste boarding passes, snapshots, local flora. What happens around me, what is said. The bizarre, the inane, the weather, the everyday. I write it all down here. I jot in the margins and paint the pages in the colors of my moods. I almost never keep them at home, but when I am on the road I am working in them nonstop.
From Mary Morris, The River Queen: A Memoir (2007).
Isn't it great that the boat vendor understood the value to her of the journal that he would let her use it as collateral?
ReplyDeleteI haven't visited your blog for a while... I am sorry I have been out of touch. Then here I am :-) This entry reminds me of Bruce Chatwin and his traveling Moleskines. :-) Cherrio!
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