Priorities

A caterpillar doesn't morph into a butterfly overnight.

Even those declarations one makes in heartfelt moments when failure refuses to peek out over the horizon --even those can sputter.

It's too early to think about New Year's resolutions, but not too early to set some reachable goals. But what is a goal? Is it arbitrary, a desire of the moment or a reachable possibility?

If I decided to walk ten miles a day-- that's reachable, but to do that something else has to go. That's the rub. Setting priorities. And what's a priority? Is it a have to accomplish, I want to accomplish or a whim triggered by something else.

Several weeks ago I went to see an art exhibit of "small and detailed" art. Fussy paintings or details that bespoke severe eyestrain and a tethering to obsessive repetitive patterns filled the gallery. Most of the work didn't resonate, but several pieces captured (I like that word for its sense of action) my imagination.

One artist using the techniques of the genre of graphic novels created a book that encompassed both fantasy designs and her words. Another artist, a lawyer who traveled the New York City subways, wrote down the snippets of conversation he overheard, or attentively listened to, as he rode the subway.

Then, I assume later on, drew or spun these conversations into dialog bubbles similar to the Sunday comics--no necessary order, but disorder finds its own order and meaning within the reader's mind. On each small page--he was given to an extra extra fine pen --he added an ink drawing.

On one page he drew a woman's leg crossed over her other leg. The ink drawing exaggerated the shoe, but never became comic book style. This leg was surrounded by small-disconnected bits of dialogue.

The leg floated out of the page, connected only to the words by proximity.

Then the same day, or perhaps a day or two later, but connected in my mind to the exhibit, I found a book in the library written for an adolescent audience. Simple premise--writing exercises created in a graphic comic genre--but with collage overtones . No dialogue boxes, no graphic and narrative paragraph. Everything was entwined--language as vine clamoring up the graphics, but distinct.

Now, I thought, here's an idea to run with. At the time I didn't really identify the idea. I was in love with the concept. I immediately purchased the proper sketch pad--one that had paper with enough tooth to accept watercolor, but not enough to cause my ink pen to bleed . I don't like the look of ink that leaves its boundary and catches on the edges leaving a soft line. The paper needed to maintain its flat shape and not show the wave pattern of lightweight paper.

I purchased a set of water color pencils, a case to hold my expanding pencil collection, and two new broader point permanent archival ink pens. All set.

Now to decide on a topic...the anticipation of the finish may dwarf the actual day-to-day work. And am I up to this task?

I've half decided on a topic...peregrinations of an eclectic reader, the roaming reader.

This isn't intended to be a suggested list of must read books. Who am I to create such a list? it isn't another Goodreads. So what is it? It's eclectic. A romp, isn't that a Victorian word and can't you envision someone with a hoop and a flounced skirt, curls, and lacy socks skipping down a path lined with pink blossoms. Or it may be that the word conjures up a less Victorian romp.

Perhaps it's memoir, a graphic journal through my landscape stopping to pick some morels, gaze at an Indian miniature through the lens of a magnifier.

But then my title needs to change--to encompass the polypore. I think I left enough space on the first page to elongate the title or create two title pages. I'm expanding myself as I write..