July 14th, 2007: Beneath the Furious Pen

I'm going out of town tomorrow so I won't be able to post. Hopefully, I can write something anyways and just post them all when I get back. In the meantime, however:


The word:
Baby curves and adolescent lines. Holding each other, hugging, tails swing happily, lazily wrap back around to feel it's own warmth. Touch it's own holy lips. Born from mud, and clay, made permanent, cut into the earth. That first sacred line. That first finger in the sand. The need to record, to tell, to write, to read, to retell. That's where it starts. The word. The ablity to create, to release. When your head moves faster than your hand yet you prefer the pen and paper because there's something magical about the transition from what I hear in my head and what actaully forms beneath the furious pen. Surely there is much lost in the translation. In the ink. In the process. I tried the keyboard. The clickety-clack is satisfying. It is. But the ink. Oh, the ink is magical. To transform blank, white, empty spaces into scribbles and scrabbles and scratches and scars. To mar the page with marks. Cryptic, ancient markings. And what of your wandering mind? It's almost like an exercise. Put the pen down and don't pick it up. That's holy to me.

"There's no poetry between us, said the paper to the pen." - Gary Jules

While you were copying that, a million different things have run in and out of your head. Some make your eyes squint with a purposeless jealousy and some make your lips curve in a grin. Purpose is an interesting idea. Purpose, meaning, life, love. Get it out. Get it down. Create it. Live in it. Play in it. Bathe in it. You can only hope that one day, the cramp in your hand from speed writing or the headache you sometimes develop from reading in low light or the ache in your jaw after smiling and laughing all night doesn't tire you too much. I can only hope that you never tire of the power of the word.

-353 Words