Water Log
“ I let go, I let go to the call of the flow….” A.A.
A prompt. A window. A frame. I love this view. Songs re-ignite, the bitter cold is re-framed, and I have something small to grasp onto each morning.
Water log, 11 Dec 2025: I wake up tired. The ghost tried to unlatch our old door and I awoke much too early with a racing heart. Maybe it was the wind. I heard that too, but when I looked out the window, the trees were still.
Outside, the pond is iceless but the porch reveals ice portraits of fossilized shells and sea horses.
Wordless, I went for a walk to find some. Once warm, I shed my layers — and my awareness — and slipped on ice. I felt my back muscles contract to hold me up. And from here, an opening: There was a piece of slate at my mom’s house that I slipped on religiously. Some falls were so violent I slammed into the old wrought-iron gate. When Jared fell in the same place I laughed maniacally. I remember swimming in the dead sea one winter with a bruise from the iron gate like an oil spill draping itself around my thigh. When the Dead Sea edges offered massage (my first! in a dimly lit room, was it more of a dance?) and pools and drinks and things for humans that weren’t good enough in place and needed to be bagged and bottled and brought home. Now the Dead Sea is a sad and oily puddle, resembling that bruise, and a long walk from the recent ruins that line an invisible edge.
Water log, 10 Dec 2025: Dry, dry dry! Ice cold water on my hands, my face. A tin of sardines a day.
Water log 9, Dec 2025: It is 10 degrees outside, and despite the small rippling in the pond, there is ice on the surface. One morning I shall dive through its thin crust like a spoon through creme brûlée — but not this morning.
Water log 8, Dec 2025: With this new frame, I find so much water and wetness in the music. It positively jumps out now. How I adore this selective attention — I almost can’t take the magic of it. Water is everywhere. And where it is not, I notice, too. (I ordered a much-needed humidifier.)
“but then she took a pen and drew an entire ocean made of blue and in it, falling, were two islands.” A.A.
Water log 7, Dec 2025: The river has burst. The water in it. And the rain. And the swimming.
Water log 6, Dec 2025: Small snow falls this dark morning, landing on rocks and raised things. The sun peeks dimly through the trees.
About and How I Made the Journal:
I’ve been needing a new journal. I go through them every three months or so now with so much rambling. I made one that I shared here — but it was not right. The hinges were too thin (1/4 inch) with the thick leather I’d used. But something else was wrong too. I needed a frame, or a word, or something else to hold it together. Murmur wasn’t right. I found it when waterlog was cut in two and became a kind of command. (Thank you Bev!) And for then being asked, “What is a water log” and for having to explain it. Because sometimes thoughts are so abstract — I think I know what I mean but I may not really. So when asked, I have to find more words.
This book is casebound. Because I had been writing in the text block, I abandoned my first not right iteration and build a new case. The other will find its place, I am certain.
I first cut my covers out of book board. Text block 9x6. Book boards 9 1/8 x 6 (I should have cut 9 1/8 x 5 7/8 for less of an overhang.
I cut the spine from a piece of scrap leather
I glued all three pieces onto a scrap piece of vintage feed-sack cotton. I trimmed the edges to about 1 inch longer than boards and clipped the corners.
I used antique cowboy saddle bags for the front and back covers. I kept the copper rivets by cutting holes through the book board and letting them peek through to the inside.
I glued laser cut letters onto the spine and skived (unevenly) a piece of black leather scrap which I wet and glued, and with weird old tools and my fingers worked into and around the letters for the spine.
I glued the head-banded text block into the case.
Text Black, Headband I added a hand cut copper Dogfish which I made too hastily. I don’t love her but perhaps I’ll bang more character into the shape that is there. No matter. Next time. (ps: my first official job as a teenager was hand cutting jewellery from sheets of sterling — I could draw with a saw and despite my dislike for my creature, the familiarity of that distant past is wild.
Cutting out and Adding my not well-thought out Pearlfish. I also made a water log stamp to accompany me daily, lest I forget. Really psyched for this. Now I have to find a green algae stamp colour.
Water Log Rubber Stamp!
In time I’ll get better at making videos. For now, there is this. Let me know what you think? Would you want to make a journal like this? Is it too. messy? Is the mess the charm? Tell me.
This is the wrong one that I undid. More on this in time, I am sure.
Murmur Undone 
Murmur Before the Undoing
Such a lovely post. Your Making skills are wide-ranging and wonderful, but you are also a WRITER. "a bruise...like an oil spill draping itself around my thigh" - a perfect image & chromatic capture. "The river has burst." --as minimalist and abundant as a line yanked from a poem. wow!
Not too messy. Messy is the charm. For me, at least
+ Always love a rubber stamp! are you able to make them yourself? This is something I've wanted to try.
I simply love this. I love the journal. I love how you wrote about it. I love the old saddlebags and the rivets and making it so they will show. This is great! Oh! and the stamp! How cool is that to have with it??!!