I was at work today and had all these cool, sexy thoughts going through my brain. Lately, I have had very little thoughts that were anything other depressing and sad. I stopped writing because I was starting to annoy myself with the sadness. But today was different. They weren’t thoughts of my past experiences with Sir, digging up feelings of loss and heart ache. They were stories about other people and places and things that were happy and fun and exciting and sexy.
I decided to grab the moment and reached for the computer. Clicked on my blog and poised my fingers over the keys… of my work laptop! Yep, my fulltime paying job that probably wouldn’t appreciate how I was about to use their Wi-Fi. However, I am no quitter. I reached in my overstuffed work back pack and pulled out my trusty mini note book. I’m not a fan of writing on a smaller laptop but it will do for now. Or not. The damn thing isn’t charged.
Of course, all the thoughts would come when I am unable to capture them and take advantage of my brain giving me a break and a gift of free-flowing thoughts that weren’t depressing and sad. Damn it!
Now, I am from an older generation. I can tell you I remember working in investment banking and having the computer tower, monitor and mouse installed at my desk. We were given free access to “practice” using the mouse for a month to get used to it before they required that be our only means of writing our descriptive memorandums. I also can remember taking a typing class in high school. I was the fasted in my class, a claim to fame that I am still proud of. I’m pretty good at typing with my thumbs too, but I enjoy flying across a keyboard with all ten digits.
If I go a little farther back in my childhood I remember writing letters, notes, lists, and even Christmas cards with pen and paper. I remember cursive writing. I remember having a handwriting style. I’m left handed and I remember how hard I worked to write like a “right hander”.
I had to search around for a pad of paper. I found a fairly new one and went back to my desk. The pad was yellow with lined paper, 8.5 x 11. Some of the pages were wrinkled and the corners were curled up. I found a pen that I liked. It flowed easily over the paper. It didn’t skip or smudge. It wasn’t high quality, but it was smooth. It was the third one I tried.
Armed with Pen and paper I turned off my monitor and tuned out the rest of the office. My thoughts filled the page, then two pages, then three. I lost track of time, track of where I was, track of even who I was. I wrote fast, sloppy, neat. My slants went left then right proving how long it has been since I focused on hiding my left handed tell. My thoughts were jumbled. I didn’t stop to read what I had written. I didn’t stop to edit what I had written. I simply wrote. Five pages, six pages, seven. One story become two and three stories. Some were outlines some were actual intros to stories I wanted to finish later. It was a dump of my brain. There were sad, happy, sexy, lonely, exciting, erotic thoughts. I knew it wasn’t making sense and I didn’t care. I let it go.
It felt good. It made me nostalgic for past rituals taken over by the times we live in now. In several of my “worlds” being older isn’t a cool thing. It is always about the latest and greatest and the newest and highest tech out there. But today, sitting at a desk, my shoulders curled over a yellow lined pad of paper with a drug store pen felt like home. The musty smell of the paper mixed with the smell of real ink reminded me of the time when I realized I enjoyed writing. Coincidently, I sit here now at my laptop, propped up on a stand, laying on my bed, smiling at the irony of this post.
I don’t miss a lot from my past or even my childhood. I do miss pen and paper.