Naked writing and emotional artifacts

Oberon hand-crafted. have 1
for my tablet as well. love red.
got this for the Chinese dragon
theme as my first action-adv
book is set in China

10:27, Saturday, Feb 2. Transcribing from my journal, verbatim.

8 months from my last journal entry.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve loved rising when the house is quiet, endowed with the freedom to walk the halls in 100% solitude, no expectations and no chores. No obligations and all the ability to digest all the is around me without judgment or rush.

write first, then transcribe.

There is something alive and magical and living about my fingers pressed against the metal casing of my pen, the movement and glide of the pen tip across and up and down the smooth page. The energy from my body, my heartfelt emotions course to and through the inanimate
device, the process as revealing as being naked in the shower. it isn’t safe, the way typing on my laptop is safe, with the fingers rapping out the words in staccato hits.

In this format, I see myself in the straight lines of the l’s and the f’s and know that I only write that way when I’m trying to be strong. I notice the chopped off ends of my y’s, q’s, j’s and g’s, and it saddens me, for I immediately know that when I’m happy, the bottom curls are wide and round, like a palm scooping up water from a clear, slow-moving stream.

Our log-pole craftsman’s father
made this. end from bullet.

The way I write in my journal is far more significant than what I write. When I periodically decide to review these leather-bound, emotional artifacts, I instantly see myself for who I was at the time of writing. Bulbous, round letters written in blue ink was from my 14 year old ‘full-of’me’ self. My d’s and snowman-belly round 8s revealed I was all that. Small, tight, almost unintelligible scribbles from my 13-year-old self returned all the harshness I associated with being the object of scorn as I felt tall and gawky, my teeth in the full metal jacket of brace and my chest barely able to sustain the smallest cup size available for a person of my height.

Rifle shirt clip, the trigger depresses the
ink cartridge

What a difference a birthday, a summer, a visit with the orthodontist and gaining five pounds made.
The future reader of my journal may wonder a the transformation of both writing and attitude, but I won’t. I knew it from a single glance at my penmanship.

Today’s writing means struggling, resigned determination. Some words are slanted, others upright, the dual of battling emotions alive, the match unfinished, watching me, myself and I circling one another in an arena full of fear. Fear that all the emotions of my brother’s death, the ones I’ve so safely shut inside my emotional chest of drawers will start to appear on this page, in my m’s or truncated s’s.

My hand is cramped now, the strain of keeping it in physically hurting me, the words not so legible. Even so, I feel victorious. I moved pass just staring at the keeper of my past emotions to allowing myself to feel new ones. The thought alone has arched the curve on my S’s, and I know I’m feeling better.