February 23rd, 2002

Ex-Protestants of the World, Unite and Take Over

I've been doing it. I promised myself I wouldn't. This journal will be different, I told myself. But I buckled, folded perhaps not quite as fast as Superman on laundry day, and now I can barely stand to look at my own words here, because I know as only I can know how many of my words aren't here.

Partially, I know, it is due to the slight yet significant move upstairs. See computer less, write less. Times when I can't access the comp turn thoughts or feelings I've been aching to expel into so much dissipation.

Of course, there's that little tiny issue of the knowing of the people who are reading, and my clinging to the desire to keep as little relegated to "friends only" as I possibly can. After dwindling nearly down to nothing, I'm facing that and fixing it as much as I am able. The P&P writing I've been doing will be duplicated to the best of my ability, after it's.. done. Not done. But soon.

I've remembered what actual handwriting looks like though... and I have to confess, I like it. I enjoy seeing the words breaking across the page in subtle variations of my own personal font. I can turn a page and instantly know if I was drunk, or sleepy, high, or angry.. And more than this, I miss other people's handwriting. Deciphering and recognizing. Knowing it. Feeling it. Looking forward to it and wanting more of it. Papers folded in envelopes and all the pageantry that goes with it.

/sigh
  • Current Music
    Sleater-Kinney - Write Me Back Fucker