there is not very much room left in
this notebook now. (who uses notebooks anymore
anyway?) i have used it much for
various things; it is close now to filled, scribbled with inks of
different color, different density, different
viscosity i suppose, though i never studied inks
enough to know if that word applies. on some pages i was
taking notes in classes (the
subject matter of which i no longer need for my
profession), on others outlining books that i
never completed (in some cases
never even began), even occasionally dabbling in
drawing, though art was never really much of a
strength for me.
you read sometimes of some lost journal
found among the tattered belongings during the
post-wake post-media cleanout of some famous artist’s house.
Inside could be scribbled lyrics left sadly sans music perhaps; or the
manuscript of some great play that never quite
wandered its way to the stage; or even a passionate discourse on
some pertinent topic, like human rights or something
important like that.
this notebook is destined to be
no such journal. its sad white gyri are bloated full, their
contents distinguishable only by the mercy of
narrow blue sulci, deep cavities dark and secretive like
unexplored caves by
the shore of the
“write something today.
this probably isn’t good, but i am out of practice. we shall see if that can change.