November 17, 2009
I awoke today eager to write, however when I tried to start, I found myself quite unable. I was planning on writing my next parry/thrust for the verbal sparring match I have somehow entangled myself in with another blogger, but I found myself very distracted. I have misplaced my notebook, and for me there are few greater tragedies. I would rather, for instance, lose my wallet than my notebook, or a new pet that I liked, but hadn't gotten too attached to yet.
I love writing- for the means of expression it provides as well as the very act of putting pen to paper. I take little joy in typing, staring at a screen, rearranging sentences in paragraphs by pressing down on a small plastic oblong and slowly dragging it across my desk. But the flashes of inspiration, followed by frantic scratching, rushing your hand to keep pace with your brain, watching the page curl from the upper corner as it fills with words thrills me. Scratches, asterisks, arrows drawn, and margins filled, you see not just a finished product, but the very process and evolution it took to get there.
It wouldn't be so tragic if I had just gotten this journal because it takes me a while to get to know and become comfortable with one- like a baseball glove or a guitar. You know it's quirks and have memorized the feel of it. You trust it. Running out of pages in a journal that you really feel a connection with is both a tragedy and a triumph . You feel that a part of you is forever inside that journal, but at the same time, you don't want it to end- because who knows if the next one will be as good?
Each filled tome is a true work of art, not for what it says, but for what it is; a small sliver of someone's life without preface or epilogue, an historic document to be read without the benefit of context which gives you a small window into the mind and time of the person who filled its pages.
Right now, I'm writing in the crappy notebook I use when I finish one journal before buying another- or temporarily mislay my trusted friend. This notebook just never took- or perhaps I never took to it. We never really established a rapport. Try to imagine wanting to tell you best friend a great story you know he'd love, but the only person around is a guy you sort of knew in college. You try to tell him the story, but he just doesn't get it. The words just bounce off him. You soon realize you're just wasting words and give up, walk away.
An unfinished journal is a mystery. Why would someone fill half the pages and then just suddenly stop? Either the journal was lost or the writer was. I do hope I find my journal before I am forced to get a new one. If I were to find it after that, I imagine it would be like divorcing a wife in a coma only to have her awaken to find that I have already remarried... to a new journal. Awkward.