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viewsPossibly Creative, Perhaps Crazy
By Brenda G., Friday, September 17, 2010I keep a journal in my black messenger bag that I lug back and forth with me to the office. I am not a journal-er, but I write every day in e-mode. But, I want desperately to write in a journal using my sexy hunter-green Mont Blanc or my blue-red Cross fountain pen that is heavenly to hold. It's a commitment that is difficult to keep. My handwriting is all loops and dips, it angles left and right, and is a combo of printing and cursive. I'm sure an expert's report after a cursory analysis would see the word 'QUESTIONABLE' stamped in red by a rubber stamp at the top, and below the stamped word, also in red, the hand written words ‘possibly creative, perhaps crazy, but not certain without more analysis’. This is why I use my trust 64bit Toshiba to store all my secret words.
Still, passions to keep a hand-written journal run deep and have ever since I read the essay by Joan Didion titled, Why I Write. Since, I've yearned to write by hand with my pretty little pens in a journal. (The pen obsession came about when I fell in deep feeling with letter writing, Par Avion Air Mail types of letters on the cobalt, feather light paper.) Passions are fleeting (sadly) and so is this one, which has led me to buy journal after journal only filling a page or ten before abandoning the exercise all together, until now.
Several weeks back I stumbled upon an old-fashioned stationary store in the City. Old fashioned because it’s not in a warehouse sized building in the burbs. It’s dimly lit and the isles are narrow and stacked to the rafters, and the ladies that own the store are gray on the outside but sharp with their words and know things, deep things about life and stationary. My new found treasure trove has oodles of unnecessary paper items, fine stationary, standard office stuff—paper clips, ink cartridges, staples—three rows of pens of all shapes, sizes, and colors, ranging in price from $.99 to the too expensive for me-Asian fountain pens. (I longingly drool over said pens every time I go into the store.) Some women covet Jim Choos; I'd swap my husband in a New York second for one of those pens.
My first visit I lingered too long over the pen case and ended up with a new pen that I had no need for, but a girl can never have too many I convinced myself. I paid and headed for the door excited to go back to the office and write the name of my lost lover over and over on the notebook I carry around to meetings pretending to make notes, but really, it's rare that I write anything about the meeting. The path to the exit was blocked by a woman with baby stroller built for two, so I veered left and boom there they were, alone and waiting for only me, one endless row of blank journals. Journal frenzy.
Time slowed, my body swayed like a bamboo reed in the breeze, miniature beads of perspiration assembled over my lip, and my heart skipped over beating and jumped to palpitations. In the back of my head, I heard a faraway voice telling to keep walking. Walk out that door-NOW. No more journals, you have at least twelve at home. Of course, I argued back, but none like this one…. My hand quivered as my fingers leafed through the pages.
It wasn't even sexy or pink, nor did it have colored pages, or quotes by famous people. It resembled the gray-hair ladies that ran the store. It was plain, not even more than ordinary, but it had style. At the back of the blank pages I found a handy grammar cheat sheet, measurements, commonly misspelled works, maps and gosh, just about everything I have no need for but just had to have at that instant. I pivoted on my heals and marched to the counter and laid my cash on the counter. The beating in my chest slowed to a simmer. Calm restored. I had my fix, a pen and a journal.
I could hardly contain myself and nearly skipped back to the office all the while thinking that every day I would turn the page and write something…. Oh, just something I promised. It's been six weeks and you know what, I am. I write every day in my crazy script. The first day I turned the page I stared at the black page willing the words to come. Tick Tock Tick Tock. Then without thinking my hand found it’s way to the page and scribed at the top of the page My Dearest…..
It turns out that I need to have someone to write like in those old Par Avion letters. Every day I turn the page and start out the entry to my lost lover.
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