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Jun. 12th, 2005
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Jun. 12th, 2005 10:26 amI have been writing more in my paper journal lately. Not sure why - it's not as if I am needing to work out any particular angst or private moment any more than I have been. I think that a good portion of it is just having something tangible, and something that is mine alone. Words that are nowhere else but on the other side of that page, or scrawling in the margins. This is the only place you will read about X, and get the real truth behind Y, as relatively boring as that may be to anyone else but myself.
The current paper journal has hard backing, and a pocket in the back which I just realized was there last week after having the extra postage and air mail stamps from my trip to Scotland keep falling out from between the pages for days on end ... I've also taken to taping little notes and receipts and scribbles of things to the lined pages themselves, which makes the book toe some sort of crafty line between diary and scrapbook.
Typing out online documentation of one's life tends to make the handwriting suffer, so even when I put pen to paper when I feel the slight pull of scribbling, it looks a mess, and feels awkward. It was taking too long to write out thoughts and get them arranged in any sort of coherent form.
It just takes practice, I guess, since Friday night I had the overwhelming urge to sit on my bed in the quickening dim, the window wide open, the curtains blowing in the slightly cooling air, and write longhand about all the current events pinging around inside my skull. A thunderstorm was brewing, and I realized that one of the things I absolutely love about living in this city, in this apartment, this neighborhood, is that when the rain begins, the traffic from the noisy cross street still reaches me, on the non-street side of my apartment. There is a corridor running between this building and the one next door, and the sound wends its way down it, the slick of tires on pavement, the sound of yelling and buzzy motor scooters from the gang bangers, the wheeze and clank and automated voice from the CTA buses.
So I sat with just enough light to write by, the sky outside fading to blue-green, the thunder rolling across, over my head, through the floor, and the scent of green and rain and limestone, the single dropped degrees hitting my skin like a temporary balm. I wrote until I got tired of myself, and then I laid back on propped pillows and let the air wash over me, flexing my feet lazily until I dropped into sleep.
These are my exciting Friday nights. My solitude and glamor. The lone scribbler, the narcoleptic rain girl.
The current paper journal has hard backing, and a pocket in the back which I just realized was there last week after having the extra postage and air mail stamps from my trip to Scotland keep falling out from between the pages for days on end ... I've also taken to taping little notes and receipts and scribbles of things to the lined pages themselves, which makes the book toe some sort of crafty line between diary and scrapbook.
Typing out online documentation of one's life tends to make the handwriting suffer, so even when I put pen to paper when I feel the slight pull of scribbling, it looks a mess, and feels awkward. It was taking too long to write out thoughts and get them arranged in any sort of coherent form.
It just takes practice, I guess, since Friday night I had the overwhelming urge to sit on my bed in the quickening dim, the window wide open, the curtains blowing in the slightly cooling air, and write longhand about all the current events pinging around inside my skull. A thunderstorm was brewing, and I realized that one of the things I absolutely love about living in this city, in this apartment, this neighborhood, is that when the rain begins, the traffic from the noisy cross street still reaches me, on the non-street side of my apartment. There is a corridor running between this building and the one next door, and the sound wends its way down it, the slick of tires on pavement, the sound of yelling and buzzy motor scooters from the gang bangers, the wheeze and clank and automated voice from the CTA buses.
So I sat with just enough light to write by, the sky outside fading to blue-green, the thunder rolling across, over my head, through the floor, and the scent of green and rain and limestone, the single dropped degrees hitting my skin like a temporary balm. I wrote until I got tired of myself, and then I laid back on propped pillows and let the air wash over me, flexing my feet lazily until I dropped into sleep.
These are my exciting Friday nights. My solitude and glamor. The lone scribbler, the narcoleptic rain girl.
