Do we write as a ferret-like means of laying down tracks, notations that we were here now? A kind of graffiti that is (or used to be) welcomed by the public--so long as it was filtered through the gentle, genteel middlemen of publishing?
Do we write to avoid mowing lawns, doing laundry, balancing check books, cleaning toilets?
Or do we write for the joy of it, the compulsion of getting down what burns/yearns to be written?
I would like to be a perpetual traveller, an escape artist. But mine is no gypsy soul.
A woman whom lawn mowers hate. Machines refuse to co-operate with.
But pens, ah, pens. The leisurely flow of ink for my eyes only.
Notebooks, desk drawers.
Debit receipts embroidered with scrawl.
The text-ure of one's quiet hand.
"The texture of one's quiet hand," love it. In fact, it made its way into my notebook, then tucked away into a desk drawer. Thanks, Carol.
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