Word Sketching

When I write at night, after my computer is turned off, I write in a sketchbook. This started on accident when I had a poem in my head to write down and I grabbed a sketchbook Ryan had purchased and left on the table. I had intended to use only one page, but I really liked the way it felt to write in it. It became my sketchbook. I love the smooth, crisp, white pages and the classic-looking black matte cover. I love writing all slanty in the pages. I love having the freedom to form little word pictures however I want, without lines getting in the way or making it look messy. I love how it makes me feel like a word artist, even though I know I'm kind of just playing at this whole writing thing.

A lot of the things I post on my blog, originated in some form in my sketchbook. Poems especially, but even this post about writing in a sketchbook started on a blank white page. I think it is just another thing in a long line of things I do to try to stay my own person despite all the just-like-everyone-else that threatens to engulf me sometimes. Sure, some things are bigger than other things. That I work full time away from my kids (I hate the term 'working mom' because if you care about your kids and take care of them that makes you a working mom regardless of whether or not you work outside the home). That I have tattoos. That I make time for girls' nights and doing things away from my family. These are kind of big things. But I also like to do little things on a regular basis that I like to think of as uniquely me. And yes, that quote "You're unique! Just like everyone else." does come to mind here. There is nothing new under the sun. I know there are lots of other girls out there like me or who do things very similar to the way I do, but I like to think that there are some things that I do that are not like anyone else. It's okay if I just tell myself that, right?

I read this poem the other day. It is so sad, but I love this line: "what you were will not happen again." I think it makes me hope that, at least in some very, very tiny way, what I am will not happen again. Isn't that kind of what we all hope for?

225 days under grass
and you know more than I.
they have long taken your blood,
you are a dry stick in a basket.
is this how it works?
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows.

when you left
you took almost
everything.
I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be.

what you were
will not happen again.
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.
- “For Jane” by Charles Bukowski