coming back to myself
. . . at least a bit.
I'm writing in my journal (the notebook one) more, and having fun with it: pasting in inkjet .jpgs of people, using my rubber stamps and stickers, sitting in bars with music and hearing, perhaps imagining through the ambient noise of conversation and glasses shifting, the faint sound of the nib gliding across the paper, watching the ink go from glossy to matte as it dries, and revelling in the words flowing again.
And, I must admit, some of it is that I am writing about people. One in particular, another amazing, bright-burning creature, who has entered my life, and is gracing me with their time, attention, and presence.
Today, there's sunlight coming in through the western windows by my desk, butter-yellow roses and flame-hearted tulips at desks nearby; my keyboard makes crisp clicking noises as I touch the keys; I have cold water to drink; we've gotten some amazing work done lately here; and I am oddly delighted with my life, and where it has brought me.
I'm writing in my journal (the notebook one) more, and having fun with it: pasting in inkjet .jpgs of people, using my rubber stamps and stickers, sitting in bars with music and hearing, perhaps imagining through the ambient noise of conversation and glasses shifting, the faint sound of the nib gliding across the paper, watching the ink go from glossy to matte as it dries, and revelling in the words flowing again.
And, I must admit, some of it is that I am writing about people. One in particular, another amazing, bright-burning creature, who has entered my life, and is gracing me with their time, attention, and presence.
Today, there's sunlight coming in through the western windows by my desk, butter-yellow roses and flame-hearted tulips at desks nearby; my keyboard makes crisp clicking noises as I touch the keys; I have cold water to drink; we've gotten some amazing work done lately here; and I am oddly delighted with my life, and where it has brought me.