I think I know now how I will die. I will be buried alive under mounds of paper, of all shapes and sizes, and in a multitude of forms. Books, loose pages, tablets, notebooks, memo pads, forms, scrolls, banners. Sadly, I think that most of it will be blank paper, acquired by me with the intent to put words on it, good words of a good life lived well, but I being too chaste and doubting to commit that which would be idle, trite, foolish, forever amateur and thus unwritten.
My mother, who complained incessantly throughout my childhood of my tendency to hoard paper, would not be surprised.
Thus, I sit here tonight, largely a quiet night, doing nothing of any great consequence but rummaging through papers of mine. On the behest of a friend, I bought a nice lined Moleskine notebook the other day. I've wanted something like this for a while, and early in July, when said friend and I were visiting another friend down in Southern California, he whisked his Moleskine out as we sat drinking coffee, and was immediately greeted by my eager eyes and interruptions asking him where he got it. We all chatted about it a bit, he gave me some details on where to purchase them, and I promptly began lusting for one.
The friend who I went with ordered two online a number of weeks back. Only recently did she find a store locally that carried them, which happens to be near where we often have lunch. I popped in with her and bought their last one, and we conversed with the store owner about how often shipments come in, whether or not we could buy a case form him, etc.
They are very nice. I quite like mine. The question now is, what to write, and to a lesser extent, what to write it with.
At the same store, I bought two pens, the make of which I haven't seen for years and remember liking. They're nothing special as far as pens go, I suppose, except that I think they're very well done for what they are. "Le Pen", Japanese, ultra fine point hard tip markers really, and cheap.
The romantic writer in me wants to scribe Great Things in the Moleskine with my Mont Blanc, and only my Mont Blanc. I swear, sometimes I have no idea where these odd urges come from.
Mind you, I've been writing various bits of what you might consider a "journal" on loose leaf paper from legal tablets and in text files in XEmacs. I have a composition notebook mostly occupied with keeping ideas, thoughts, notes, and random blather on technical and software matters. I have another text file I edit almost exclusively in XEmacs named "ideaspace" that captures the odd project notion as well. And now, I have a nice Moleskine to fill. The indecision. The agony. The pointlessness. I should just write something in it already.
Much the same problem I have with this web log. There is a reason I named it "This demands work".
My mother, who complained incessantly throughout my childhood of my tendency to hoard paper, would not be surprised.
Thus, I sit here tonight, largely a quiet night, doing nothing of any great consequence but rummaging through papers of mine. On the behest of a friend, I bought a nice lined Moleskine notebook the other day. I've wanted something like this for a while, and early in July, when said friend and I were visiting another friend down in Southern California, he whisked his Moleskine out as we sat drinking coffee, and was immediately greeted by my eager eyes and interruptions asking him where he got it. We all chatted about it a bit, he gave me some details on where to purchase them, and I promptly began lusting for one.
The friend who I went with ordered two online a number of weeks back. Only recently did she find a store locally that carried them, which happens to be near where we often have lunch. I popped in with her and bought their last one, and we conversed with the store owner about how often shipments come in, whether or not we could buy a case form him, etc.
They are very nice. I quite like mine. The question now is, what to write, and to a lesser extent, what to write it with.
At the same store, I bought two pens, the make of which I haven't seen for years and remember liking. They're nothing special as far as pens go, I suppose, except that I think they're very well done for what they are. "Le Pen", Japanese, ultra fine point hard tip markers really, and cheap.
The romantic writer in me wants to scribe Great Things in the Moleskine with my Mont Blanc, and only my Mont Blanc. I swear, sometimes I have no idea where these odd urges come from.
Mind you, I've been writing various bits of what you might consider a "journal" on loose leaf paper from legal tablets and in text files in XEmacs. I have a composition notebook mostly occupied with keeping ideas, thoughts, notes, and random blather on technical and software matters. I have another text file I edit almost exclusively in XEmacs named "ideaspace" that captures the odd project notion as well. And now, I have a nice Moleskine to fill. The indecision. The agony. The pointlessness. I should just write something in it already.
Much the same problem I have with this web log. There is a reason I named it "This demands work".
