Last night (or was it yesterday afternoon? Or this morning? Time blurs when one’s days become a bit too crowded), while feeling that my days have become a bit too crowded (the repetition of the phrase, in this instance, mimics the absentminded repetition of small tasks—checking the lock on the door twice, walking across the room to look again at the clock one looked at just a moment ago—that occur when short-term memory shares the complaint that the days have become a bit too crowded), I fantasized briefly of a certain kind of day, or days, spacious and ready to be used in a comfortable way, that I would like to have at hand: days set aside for each of several pleasurable prospects. These as-yet-imaginary days might be devoted to such things as reading (an entire day for, perhaps, browsing in art books), writing (an entire day for sifting through half-written manuscripts and augmenting them with new scrawl), drawing (an agenda-free rejuvenation of the youthful art of doodling), or music (to listen to, and learn about, the works of classical composers). I might add to my calendar too another “Read Comics All Day… Day” (the clever brainchild of the more-than-clever artist Kevin Huizenga) or set aside an entire day for dipping into only nineteenth-century American literature—or, or, or—the imaginary days proliferate as I consider, and relish, the possibilities. If to envision such designated days is a form of self-nurturing (and I believe it is), to genuinely act on the concept is even healthier, a source of intellectual and creative development as well as fun—and in its quiet way, an almost magical act: the transformation of imaginary days into real days of immersion in the imaginative. I feel I’d like to devote, whenever possible, a Saturday, or at least a Saturday afternoon, to a theme of this sort.
(Image by Onsmith; detail from cover artwork for the second issue of The Folio Club.)