Many people have told me that the best time to write in a journal is the moment that I awaken in the morning. They say that is the time to reach over, open the journal and write. It is the one moment during the day of semi-conscious thought before the intellect takes over and smashes the nascent pearls of inner honesty into dust. So this morning I reached over opened my journal and thought, I have to write my blob. That was the exact thought. It’s time to blob.
I knew something wasn’t right, but my discriminating brain had not yet kicked in. Besides, I was supposed to be getting in touch with my deep profound self, with the present moment, and I wasn’t supposed to question the thoughts, just let them go, write them true and sweet. But, there was still a niggling feeling that I’d gotten something fundamentally wrong. And then I realized what it was. It was the blob. Something about a blob that didn’t fit. A blob is something unformed, amorphous, without boundary, without identity. I didn’t think I had one. At least not that I remembered. But I must if I was supposed to write it. Write my blob. So I continued to pen my random unformed thoughts onto the page. And then I stopped. There was a hint of dawn outside my window. My dog had not yet responded to the waking day, but he would soon. My husband snored. My thoughts were more coherent. I looked down at the handwritten page. It had the look of words written, but not many were recognizable to me as such. And then I realized. It was true. Everything they’d said about those early waking moments being glimpses into the deepest recesses of consciousness were all true.
I had thought blob, and here was the proof. I had written a blob.