notebook wank
i had a habit of keeping a small notebook to write my thoughts and other interesting things in, be it song titles, quotes and whatnot, but i have not sustained it for quite some time now. a few hours ago, i bought one again, hoping to restart the practice. i plan to keep it on my person at most, if not all, times; a part-talisman, part-conduit for coherence, or creativity at best. so i now have blank pages to make of what i will, to fill with whatever fantastic thing i can conceive in between washing the dishes and studying parasitology.
not so blank, really, for my notebook is ruled; much to my small dissatisfaction. somehow the innocent lines lay down a vague law at the back of my mind; that my imaginings should somehow go from left to right, that there should be linearity in my musings. But then again, if i go against this imagined law (for it is merely imagined, i have to pathetically admit, or unconscious after a fashion), if i suddenly write a passage that should be read up and down or right to left, would i feel a sort of satisfaction? would i feel exhilaration as if i had free-fallen over a mountain with nothing but a flimsy cable or robbed a bank with a dashing, shoot-from-the-hip outlaw? maybe, for this is how my sheltered psyche sometimes gets its rush - from mundane deviations from the even more mundane status quo. therein lies poetry in an existence, however ordinary.
all this dreck from buying a notebook. just wait till i buy, say, a chainsaw.