I’ve just had an Advent poem published in Earth & Altar, which I’ll repost over here soon. Until then, give them some traffic: https://earthandaltarmag.com/posts/among-women-blessed

And now, on to what is certainly my most self-indulgent post. I thought I’d share an exercise I’ve been doing on and off for years now. Mostly off, admittedly. I’ve never been great at journaling. In fact, I was quite averse to it—seeing my naked thoughts down on paper, even if no one else would ever see them, seemed revolting to me. (And now here I am blogging.)

Then somehow I started doing this little exercise, writing a short poem before bedtime that simply lists what (1) the lamp beside the bed, (2) the clock, (3) and the window are getting up to. Originally, they just sat there and served as foils for my moods, but over time they’ve become rather active. Some examples:

The window spins around, giddy and disoriented.
The lamp slowly drips out light.
The clock anxiously counts. (September, 2012)

The lamp refuses to be turned off.
The clock is giggling.
The window is oblivious. (February, 2013)

Recently, I was sharing this with someone over on Threads, suggesting it could potentially be helpful as a way back into writing poetry. It’s also a quick way to let out of your subconscious your own observations about how you’re doing. At least, that’s what I think is going on for me. And that’s why I call it “mood journaling.”

I assume it started with my writing a little mini poem that took this form, probably just before turning out the light, as a way to get some thoughts out of my head so I could sleep. I don’t remember the first one, and have probably lost it, but I have some scattered fragments and eventually a proper journal. And I usually write these (when I write them) just before bed. The timing feels right, and it helps me dismiss some of my otherwise brooding thoughts.

Here’s how it works: I simply comment on three “characters”: the light (or lamp) beside the bed, the clock, and the window. I remember the room it started in, with a side table that had a lamp and a(n alarm) clock on it, and just beyond that, a window. Sometimes I picture that, other times I picture my current set-up; but I don’t have a clock anymore. My iPhone has taken on that role.

So I simply state what each character is doing, or describe it in some way. I try not to over-think it; I just write the first thing that comes to mind for each. While they don’t consistently represent anything specifically, I do find that together they give a picture of how I’m feeling about myself OR how I imagine others are feeling/thinking about me (usually, the lamp does this); how I’m feeling about my life/routines (normally represented by the clock); and how I’m feeling about “the world” (gesture as broadly as you like on that one. For obvious reasons, the window tends to be cast in this role). These “roles” can overlap significantly. Occasionally, a fourth character will appear, such as the moon, or a fan. Or me!

So I present a sampling with some limited commentary.

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The oldest one I have, possibly 12/18/2003. Its last line is a Sylvia Plath allusion (from the poem, “Contusion,” where it’s the mirrors that are sheeted.)

The clock reads the date now instead of the hour.
The light beside the bed keeps watch.
The window is sheeted.

This one, apparently written on the same date, is a bit scary to me, in terms of the rather nihilistic mood it implies I was in.

The clock remembers.
The light forgets.
The window stands guard.

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A few from August 2012

The window is shattered, but hangs in place.
The lamp teeters and casts a long shadow.
The clock may be to blame.

(The long shadow to me is a hopeful image.)

The window guards the light inside.
The lamp glows warmly.
The clock registers this moment.

(In the following one, the window seems to have taken on a different meaning than usual.)

The window quietly moans.
The light gently hums lullabies.
The clock is fingering beads.

October 2012

Mood: “Meh.”

The window is glassy.
The lamp sheds light.
The clock ticks.

Incoming: Anxiety!

The clock is of two minds.
The light beside the bed wrings its hands.
The window is busy negotiating.

The window is scanning the horizon.
The light kneels beside the bed.
The clock is parceling out prayers.

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December 2012

Sometimes a couple entries will be in conversation with each other:

The lamp hurls itself out the window.
Time can be heard passing
even in the dark.

Tonight, it’s the clock
that hurls the lamp out the
window.

The “characters” can morph as much as I need them to. Here, the lamp is no longer electric:

There is oil enough for the lamp.
The clock tires of measuring the wick.
The window exchanges stale air for fresh.

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Last night the light burned over-bright; tonight
it glows just enough to see.
The clock is steady,
the window shut.

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March 2013

The window sulks in the corner, refusing to talk.
The light is stretched too thin.
The clock is antsy.

April 2013

Light ricochets
off the window at such tremendous speed,
the clock winds up a month ahead.

The lamp here has been made redundant. Only the light remains, and it’s unclear if it came from the now-absent lamp, or if it’s come in through the window.

There is no reasoning with this clock.
The light pools up beside the window, sulking.

The light shrieks in a shrill tone.
The clock shrinks away, ticks backward.
The window is a thin, pulsing membrane.

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About a year went by before another entry. I must have been scrawling them somewhere. It was a very difficult year, which included a mental breakdown, a job loss, scrambling to finish my comprehensive exams, my lease running out before I could leave, and moving back home to Detroit.

This is my first entry back home in Detroit. I read it as an expression of both frustration and cautious hope:
June 13, 2014

The clock seems just out of reach.
The light beside the bed is ambivalent.
There’s a twinkle in the window’s eye.

And then the journal has nothing until:
September 23, 2020

The lamp’s been replaced with a strobe light.
The clock is hissing at me.
The window yawns.

…which was after my next big breakdown (having never fully recovered from the previous one), and after having been laid off from yet another job during the pandemic. It was a rough stretch. Although by now I had the title, “Dr.”

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In March, 2022, I bought my first (and hopefully last) house. It has a lot of windows. I’ve never been a huge fan of windows, but I like them in this house. I still need curtains and curtain rods for almost all of them. Mostly, the paper shades from the realtor are still up!

I moved into my home in the middle of June. Here is my first entry after that:
July 1, 2022

The light
is a figment of the clock’s imagination.
There are too many windows to count.

and (same day) the clock morphs a bit.

The window is crawling toward
the light beside the bed.
The clock has been replaced by an iPhone.

More from July 2022

The clock and the window
are constitutionally incapable of understanding why
the lamp beside the bed is giggling so.

The lamp beside the bed can’t come up with the right word.
The window fell out of its casing.
The clock is sweeping up.

Here comes a new character! In a cameo, at least. There literally was a loud fan going in my room. It was a hot summer night.

The lamp beside the bed ticks through each second
while the clock hangs half out the window
which isn’t sharing any light.
The fan is howling like a hurricane.

The lamp beside the bed retracts its light.
The clock contemplates defenestration.
The window is entirely ambivalent.

The window won’t stay closed.
The light is dim.
There really is no clock.

The light beside the bed is staring at me, blankly.
The clock blurts out a mocking laugh.
The window will not intervene.

The lamp beside the bed moans and rocks.
The window broods.
The clock is unsure which moment comes next.

Something was going on last August…
August 2022

I think the lamp might be radioactive.
The clock is glowing.
The window bursts.

The clock is stuck on the number ninety-seven.
The lamp beside the bed offers prompts: “Eighty-one…”
The window keeps singing the alphabet song.

The window’s never been so flighty.
The light beside the bed gives up on trying to focus.
The clock ticks out of spite.

The lamp beside the bed is spinning precariously
although it’s the clock that has vertigo.
The window is trying to waft in fresh air.

October 2022

Here’s an example of one I can pretty clearly read the meaning of. Whereas normally I think the window represents the wide world, full of wonder and possibility, here it seems to just refer to the social order, and the clock is its middle management or something.

The lamp is tethered
to the clock.
The window is in charge.

A few nights later, the window was back to its more usual meaning.

The lamp beside the bed
wants to be the window.
The clock will not allow it.

Another character—Sirens! (The kind on police cars, not the Homeric sort.)

The clock appears to be broken.
The lamp will not shed light.
The window is stuck shut
but lets the sirens through.

November 2022

I’m thinking of replacing the lamp
and the clock with a wood-wick candle,.
Its reflection in the window gives the illusion
of a world outside.

December 2022

The clock keeps clocking.
the lamp isn’t sure what to do.
The window may or may not exist.

Daylight melts through the window.
The lamp beside the bed is spinning yarns.
The clock is AWOL.

At the end of July, 2023, my choir went to England, where we were in residence at Ely Cathedral, and also sang at St. Alban’s and Southwark cathedrals. I had brought the journal with me, but hadn’t written in it until the last night there (as if to justify having brought it). You can tell I was feeling content. The trip had been like a refreshing parenthetical moment in time, where the normal routines of life didn’t matter at all.
July 30, 2023

The light beside the bed dissipates until the whole room glows.
The clock forgot to keep counting.
The window is singing to them.

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Finally, a couple recent entries, which seem to reflect how busy and tired I was.
November 14, 2023

The window is tucked in snugly.
The light beside the bed is asking too many questions.
The clock ticks, not to keep time, but to seem otherwise occupied.

November 26, 2023

The light from the lamp beside the bed tastes bland;
the clock ticks dully;
the window lets a whitish light seep in.