Notebooks

I write random insights into my soul in the backs of notebooks.


It's funny to find an old one and see what extravagant events I was planning or what playlist I was organizing or what costume I was designing. And if you're really lucky you might stumble upon some desperately incoherent poetry. There's something about  that blank page - lines waiting to be filled with my next brilliant idea - that leaves me straining for inspiration. The words at the top of the page are trying way too hard to look cool perched above the inferior chicken scratch. The less legible words on the bottom half of the page are so much juicier. Right around the 4-inch-from-the-top range I get swept away with excitement and creativity and sometimes anxiety and adrenaline (to get the ideas on the page before they slip away to play outside while I am stuck in this miserable classroom) that I completely forego all notions of penmanship and neatness - my mother would attribute this to my lack of enthusiasm for a clean bedroom, I still maintain that no one goes in there, it is at the end of the hall and dammit if that's my biggest disappointment in your eyes, then I'm doin okay - and my dexterity moves aside to make way for sweet, sweet lead-on-paper love making. Ah yes, the miracle of writing. [...Wait, that's not right...] I have horrible handwriting, but its quality is inversely proportional to the joy that caused it (and possibly directly proportional to the bouncing in my chair, also caused by the joy). So for you math majors out there: let Q = quality of handwriting, J = joy and B = bouncing (where higher #'s are better quality, more legible handwriting, exceeding happiness and more frequent/violent bouncing, respectively). Let me just say, if you're still with me - be glad I type my blogs. Because in this notebook... this looks like sh*t.

...scrawled this savory tidbit in my notebook in the last 5 minutes of class a week or two ago. The last sentence was barely legible. And uncensored. You're welcome.