Esotropiart

Thursday April 10, 2008

Since I'm now only journaling about journaling, I have something to write about today. I was about to ask something of Kim at work, or perhaps I was standing in her cubicle, waiting for her to do something: the details are lost in time forever, and some day when (if) these sentences are revisited, the reader (you!) will wonder why I included such a pointless detail that adds absolutely no value to the story and opened the opportunity for a pointless tangent. I better go back to the first thought and complete it, right? Such literary irresponsibility! Good thing no one's reading this trash! If these rambling words do have an audience, I apologize in advance: You have chosen to take in the words of a crazy man! Did you know what you were getting into when you flipped through these pages? I think not, my friend!

Am I on the verge of blindness as I speak (write)? Or is there another, not-so-physical and scientific explanation for these sudden sporatic flashes in my peripheral? Perhaps it is insanity knocking at the door. Shall I answer the call? I think he's already home. I don't want to answer, for I am the new tenant here. There's no room for two. How's that for psycho-fodder? Have you painfully caught your lip on my baited hook? I certainly hope not, for I have not the strength to reel you in. Your fate is to bleed until you close this book and stop reading! If you only knew I am writing to fill a book, recording/chronicling whatever comes to mind. If you knew that secret you'd not so seriously ponder the meaning of my words. But then, you might miss something... like the bus! Turn around in time to see the noisy engine flame on, like the human torch. Such tragedy this paragraph. Perhaps now we have come full circle. Truth be told, I am indeed writing to fill a book. I tire of this one and generally wish a new beginning to see a new writing surface... and new pens... NOW WE ARE GETTING SOMEWHERE!

Ironically that brings me back to where I started: journaling. Speaking of that, I hope these words don't fade into oblivion. That green one didn't have a good start, and all these pens are already old (though suffering from severe neglect until now). More support of the inner looping sub theme element of needing (wanting; needing excuses and justification) to buy new, spiffy pens... like the ones I saw Kim got. What? Have I returned upstream? Am I finally back to where I presented myself with two options: the straight and narrow, and the tangent broad and destructive path to oblivion?

The answer to that particular question is most assuredly and excitedly "NO!" (with exclamation, both implicit and explicit [what does that even mean? {I don't have the foggiest notion}]) Actually, that excitement may have been premature or uncalled for because the answer afterall may be a resounding (or reserved, unsure, embarrassed) "yes." However, if I have indeed returned to the decisive fork of streams, clearly I have echoed my former decision and have reinitialized the hopeless cycle... but hopefully neither toward oblivion nor destruction, but rather to hope... for an end... which is now in site... or is it? sight - oops, I'm a web designer, what can I say? (apparently a lot!) LOOP WHILE 1 = 1.

Speaking of cruel jokes (who is? Am I? Is this?), wouldn't it be a dreadful tragedy to somehow infiltrate an acclaimed writer's repetoire by way of an insidious gift? What if this gift was a pen? This writing instrument is perfect in utility and appearance. It is a joy to use. The ink flows. The grip comforts weary fingers. It was clearly an expensive gift! "Clearly" is the keyword and the tragedy here, for the gag is this: the chemical life of the specially formulated ink is only a handful of years in length. So as the renowned writer pours out his heart and soul into thousands of pages of inspired literary accomplishment... revisited some years later the pages reflect the empty stare and cold realization on the face of the writer... The gift of delayed reaction invisible ink.

So it is with me: I hope my words last long enough to count for something. Shall I start the inevitable? One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, IX, X, XI, XII, XIII, XIV, XV, XVI, XVII, XVIII, XIX, XX, and so on... Does that count? I guess it counts for something. Hurrah and sunny days ablaze, my words lasted long enough to count for something! Now i just need to figure out what "something" is. Apparently something is a mix of spelled-out English numbers and Roman numerals. Now that I got all that figured out, I just need to explore the reason why I incorrectly forgot to capitalize the "i" a few sentences back! Isn't that something!? I guess it is. No wonder Roman numerals are scarcely used anymore. I probably earned myself twenty spam points with all those "X"s in proximity back there! Surely this journal will be blacklisted in this digital age!

All that to say (streaming technology) it would be sad to invest all this time writing only for it to be lost into oblivion or destruction. Perhaps in a round about way this is all a cry for attention, in hopes that Someone out there is listening, reading my thoughts, searching my dreams, re-recording them all on the everlasting, archival, lignin free, PVC free, acid free pages of His heart. If He takes notice, I am free. Burn the rest, take all of me. As I am, poor and unqualified. Hopeless and full of things that separate. Write in me, my pages are empty. For all I have written is corruptible and already fading. Write in Your own hand, even if it means writing in Your own blood. Seal me in it forever, I am Yours. I, who am lost and crying, undone and dying. Your love alone can rescue me. I too can live forever if You only say it is so. Your words are like silver refined seven times. Your words, unlike mine, last forever.

Finally, after looping seemingly forever, I am back full circle where I started. Again I am presented with a choice: will I somehow choose the straight and narrow path, "The Road Less Traveled"? Hmmm... more pages filled... and then all to dust! Perhaps for once one will not equal one, and the cycle will be broken, and all the ineffective and lifeless rules cast aside?

I suppose what I'm saying is that I need to (want to, need excuses and justification to, deja vu?) buy those same cool pens that I saw at Kim's desk. Their spiffy, fine lines and variety of bright colors may not hold the answer to my life's endless questions, but they may come in handy as I parse the doubts, fears, joys and celebrations along the way. Lofty goal for a set of Staedtler Mars pens, I know. But if I can spell THAT name correctly from memory, there's hope yet!

So the completion of the story goes like this:

Today I saw some Pro Art Sketch Books and Staedtler Mars pens on Kim's desk at work. That vision sparked a conversation after discovering that Kim is considering to start journaling. I told her that I used to journal a lot in earlier years but now struggle to motivate myself and make time.

I explained how I really like the results of the investment, but I wish there was a shortcut solution, since hand writing takes HOURS! I was reminded of my handwriting font I made a number of years ago. I don't remember now, but it wouldn't surprise me at all if I originally created it as a hopeful compromise/solution to the problem of hand written journaling taking so long, but a remaining appreciation for the less digital, more organic and spontaneous results of old-fashioned, time-consuming journaling.

In the end, my honest revelation to Kim of my journaling frustrations and history may have contributed to discouraging her from starting. I certainly hope not. Journaling is not for everyone. But for me, Mrs. McCormick's famed words, "Write down your ideas, " may very well sum up the very story of my life. Whether that story is one worth telling or hearing remains to be seen.

So thanks for the conversation, Kim. I may not be back to regular journaling, but I certainly have filled ten pages that would have otherwise been blank for a while. And maybe those spiffy pens will inspire a few more writings! I won't mention the amount of lost sleep because of this X pages (a tribute to the Romans).

And thanks to Timmy, the McWorthless Water Heater, for once again waiting until after I'm done with my bath before offering nice, hot water!