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Thursday, August 13, 2009


Words on paper come easily - whether they are of any consequence is questionable.

I don't think there has ever been a time in my life that I haven't reached for a pen and paper (relatively speaking). To me, they're as natural as breathing.

Journalling, however, has not been an art that I've been inclined towards. Goddess knows, I've tried. But then daily entries become weekly, and weekly entries merge into monthly ones, and the entire enterprise is forgotten. I even buy pretty (and usually pricy) hardbound books, hoping this will induce continued endeavours. Which is why I now have (and continue to collect) dozens of journals with an itty-bit of "diary-space", followed by my regular writing. Apparently, I'm not very interested in the truth (or at least my version of it).

I am, in some small measure, proud of my penmanship. I have, in the past, received favourable comments concerning my handwriting. To me, it seems no extraordinary thing, being, at various times, a scrawl, small neat half-writing half-printing, large loopy letters, and, on occasion, chickenscratch. But there is nothing more satisfying than the right kind of pen (which varies with my mood and inclination) scribbling across the white expanse of the right kind of paper. (Yes, I am a geek - I will feel paper before I buy it; I leave the recycled and the cheap stuff to the students.)

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