A note i came across on Facebook worth a re-blog. [ on mine of course.. got a good feel to that ]
Before I ever had my part-time relationship with this computer, all my writing was done in a spiral or leather-bound journal stuffed with supplements of receipts and bar napkins, post-it notes laden with good bad ideas and bad good ideas – real tangible scraps of thoughts that could be easily lost if the wind blew the wrong direction.
Since the integration of personal computing into my life, the chronology of journaling has somewhat lost its order. Were I to die and someone were to try and connect my literary dots, they would find themselves going back and forth between hard drives and the myriad oily books stuffed in boxes and those crammed into bookshelves that no longer have any more space for cramming. A few toys, tokens and awards from the random adventure adorn these shelves as well almost blocking the books in a way, serving as tiny security guards, protecting the notebooks from dust, cats, and curious fingers. While I would prefer to see the shelves more organized, it’s been the way it’s been for so long my mind reads the space as it would wallpaper – in 2 dimensions. Therefore it seldom occurs to me to reach out and move something. The clutter then becomes a comforter and I just carry on.
Recently, and partially due to the over-preparedness in forcing a new creative cycle, I have been traveling with both computer and sketchbook. Some places I’ve been haven’t offered a connectedness to the web or even electricity for that matter – such as a car or plane or Ghana for instance. Thus, wielding a pen has proven better for songwriting and listing the order of things, especially on-the-move, but it offers less space for blogging and/or speaking to the masses. Rarely have I transcribed something from a handwritten journal to the screen.
This is likely due to almost-fact that the patter I position on the computer is largely planted in a café, or at the breakfast table, or a hotel desktop – places that invite to me sit down and write, and/or places generally known for conversation. For some reason the intention of writing in the space for chatter creates something in and of itself that often becomes a public share in the form of a blog or on-stage anecdote; whereas the pen and paper and “on-the-go” writing style stems more from the soul; a real extension of the body – perhaps longing for a place to connect, someone to be with, a space to reflect – though within a book, works remains quiet until introduced to music. I resolve by being so grand as to say that using a pen is to truly write by the hand of God, the Universe, the all-knowing unknowable, etc.
Then again, I wrote this on the computer. So what do I really know?
This view is nothing more than a momentary result of sitting at the breakfast table with a laptop ready to spoon-feed the keys my daily dose of bullshit. I could have written about the butterflies that bounce in and out of the kitchen from the back garden – Or the cat dancing with them all, reaching out with flared claws in hopes of finding a partner. Perhaps on paper this is what would’ve happened – poetry and imagination over rhyme and reason. Yet, the true matter of either is that it’s just entertainment really. My thoughts, and certainly the way they are organized are first and foremost for my own pleasure. In writing I see my life birthing before my eyes in real time. Each letter unfolding one after another – 26 letters arranged in ways that seldom repeat themselves when expanded into words, sentences, paragraphs, pages, and themes. Like my favorite way to describe surfing, writing is a Great way to waste time.
Well, perhaps surfing is a greater waste of time. At least writing may align your thoughts and interests with another and help them to fill a hole in their soul. Surfing may align you with nature, but it’s otherwise solitary unless you’re into going tandem. In the water you can certainly fill your own void, and you can hope that someone else is watching you achieve something in your style, but odds are, the other surfers are focused on their next wave already. By writing, so long as that person speaks your language, you have a great opportunity to inspire emotion, transformation, education and possibly some kind of action. Other than that, all work truly deserves to be tossed in the recycle-bin as it was just the writer’s way of filling time at the breakfast table before heading into the studio. Had you seen him picking his nose while drinking an odd concoction of tea and instant coffee, I doubt you would’ve given him this much of your morning.
While this entire entry could’ve been posted in parenthesis, suggesting the non-action of its type being merely an aside to the author’s great life work; that which eats its own tail. I remember now that everything is valid and somehow we do serve a greater purpose. If anything, the dancing cat had his audience of one while I sorted this out. And you, well – you gave us the space to share it.
So the cat and I, and the butterflies and smaller insects that remain alive, we thank you.