[Passage from my journal 1/2 April 1997]
5:19 m PST—(clear, 3) This is bullshit, but I thought maybe I’d play a little with this journal-writing business—on paper here, right? To be entered into the computer later, revised if necessary. Whatever.
Up today around two or three and got going slowly. I’ve been slower than ever since my father died. I decided that the one thing I could get done today was to take care of getting the Ireland history book back to the library. I did it. I’m still stuck with the North Portland branch, so I started off walking. It was sunny out but chilly—I debated taking sweater but had on a flannel shirt, T-shirt, jeans—warm enough. I was just thinking maybe I should have worn the sweater when I saw a girl crossing Going in front of me—white shorts, thin green top. Bare arms, bare legs, looking quite comfortable.
So, I dumped the Ireland book, put a hold on it, got receipt and picked up Bancroft (History of Oregon volume 2)—it was there though I was not notified. I walked home. The whole trip took fifty minutes (including library time).
I worked on journal transcripts for 1973—added scattered entries in March, October—no continuous stuff. I worked on reconstructing the manuscript history of the first Motor Chums novel.
My brother came by. I paid garbage, storage, and house payment.
Saw the comet—a weird spiky thing, like a crown with a tail.
I watched the first episode of Taxi.