Uncategorized, writing

the book that changed everything

my words are methodically printed on the sheets of this moleskine.  each letter constructed with exact precision.  my secrets are engraved with permanance, my thoughts go unscrutinized by the covers, my aspirations are announced.  sketches of the world around me lay within the boundaries of my journal.  secret messages that i am unable to communicate are enscribed, the possibility that perhaps someday i will be able to mumble these messages to those they are written for remain intact.  my moleskine is home to the inner catacombs of my mind.  tumbling and spiraling thoughts, that tower to the highest point of thought that exists in my psyche.  its waiting to be read…waiting to be explored, but as the author, i am not able to describe what lays beneath the red bound leather covers.  many a times, i’ve imagined losing it, imagined losing my one constant companion.  i’ve realized that if i did end up losing it, and someone found it, read it, and hypothesized about me, then they would, without a doubt, know a great deal more, about its author, than i do.  and of course, i am the author.  i know little about myself, about my inner-workings.  i think i know what makes me tick, what makes me smile, but there are those instances where the sound of a cat hissing, instead of making my head whirl, makes me at ease.  my pre-conceived knowledge about myself is erased constantly and rapidly.  for days at a time, i think i know myself, but the next week i’m in a state of uncertainty.

recently the thoughts going through my mind have circumnavigated around the notion of losing my notebook intentionally.  hoping the right person picks it up, takes it home, and reads it in their dimly lit room, surrounded by tokens of their past, by four walls regulating their lives, by menacing recycled air, and by the sounds of the world where absolute silence does not exist.  this person, the finder of my moleskine, sorts through it, decodes my thoughts, my jargon, my wit, my truths.  they know me without knowing me.  a spark of interest is ignited, and they’re enticed to learn more.  i lay at home in distress, wondering where, oh where could my moleskine be? who has it? and what do they know? but distressed is not the proper word.  its a persona, a phase i go through.  acting one way, when i really am not experiencing those emotions at all.  my therapist tells me that i’m a romantic.  she adds that she also believes i like expressing myself in a variety of ways- one of which is making myself appear mysterious.  creating all these different layers for the “real me” to hide beneath.  for different people, i appear in different ways.  the “real me” is shown to the rare few, and never shown through actual conversation.  the “real me” is expressed through minor actions, and through prose.  those who have witnessed the “real me” can and shall attest to that.

the first time i tried to lose my moleskine was unsuccessful.  i was sitting in a stuffy classroom, that was engulfed by the lights of the fluorescent gods.  chatter was scattered sporadically throughout, knowledge was being hindered rather than facilitated.  it was a dry day in the middle of october.  the guiolltine windows were open, sounds from the construction company working on the building adjacent to the public establishment bellowed in, thus becoming the soundtrack to my day.  my history teacher, a stout italian man, flipped through his notes anxiously.  brow furrowed, mustache loitering, words were anything but omnipresent.  my neighbor whispered to me, motioning at their almost blank quiz, suggesting i give them the answers.  looking down unto my crisp piece of loose leaf paper, i too, hadn’t recorded the answers.  my shoulders shrugged in an almost apologetic manner.  my neighbor sighed disappointedly, and i began working promptly on the quiz.  my right hand gripped my ticonderoga pencil loosely, and my left hand steadily kept my piece of paper in place.  within a few minutes, after my hand was long tired, i refrained from finishing.  only two questions were left.  both of which i knew the answers to.  what had caused this sudden refusal to work? the mocking sound of the analog clock, had appeared louder than it was supposed to.  my eyes drifted up the wall to the clock which was adorned in a minimal way, what with just numbers, tick marks, and three hands.  my teacher cleared his throat, unaware of my short pause in time, and i continued onward to complete my exam.  shortly after i passed my quiz up the row along with two other quizzes that belonged to the folks sitting behind me.  fifteen minutes remained in class, and my teacher announced that we could begin our homework assignment.

instead of reading our history text, i took out my moleskine, and began writing a poem that i had started the evening before.  the ink flowing out of my pen worked at the same rate as the words emanating out of my mouth.  everything fit together in a satisfactory manner, i felt as though i had just written a poem just as good as any of Longfellow’s, but of course that wasn’t the case.  my serenity was interrupted by a fellow student inquiring what i was working on.  i retored, that i wasn’t working on anything that would matter to him, and he chuckled nervously.  his eyes surveyed my face, picking up hints of sorrow and hints of irritability.  will you ever let me read your poetry? he inquired, either genuinely or mockingly (still to this day i am unable to say which) and to this i responded coldly that i don’t share my writing with just anyone.  this comment of mine had hurt him, so much in fact, that he began to resemble a dog licking his wounds.  i began to regret what i had said, but being the exemplary capricorn that i am, apologies were not in my nature.  i began to pack up my stuff in my green shoulder bag, wedging my US History Book, published by Amsco, between my Honors Biology Book and my Honors Latin Prose Guides.  My ticonderoga rested tucked behind my ear, and my mobile phone was checked, in regards of whether or not i had received a text message all day.  i had not.  on my desk remained my moleskine and my water bottle.  the teacher shouted over the gossip of his pupils that the homework was due next class and to make sure to review for the section test.  no one but me heard his announcement.  he began to add something else, but the bell cut him off.  the majority of the class flowed out of his room, but a few remained.  i remained inside, solely to put my jacket on, and to avoid the rush.  others remained inside to discuss their mediocre grades, and explain why they were unable to pass in the homework due next class.  i lauged at what i heard, but i gathered my bag and water bottle and began to leave the room.  i subconciously knew that my journal was not on my person, but, i suppose i didn’t want to admit that to myself at the time.  i walked through the curved corridor, making my way to the main stairs.  the hallways were deserted, partially because it was a friday, and partially because school was over.  scrap pieces of paper, and graded assignments were littered across the floor- very typical for my high school.  as i started to make my way down the main corridor, to the main set of stairs, i heard the pitter patter of feet gaining speed and proximity to where i was currently located.  the hindered breath was resounded about the hallway, and i turned around, all to find the boy, who had inquired about my poetry, running towards me.  in his hand, was my moleskine.  i had hoped, secretly, that he would have found it, brought it home, read it, and delievered it to me on monday.  hey, you forgot your notebook in class he huffed, mustering up enough strength to speak.  i asked if he had looked at it, while i grabbed it out of his freckle dotted hand.  he shook his head no, and added that he respected what i told him, about only a select few are able to read my work.  i looked at him bewildered as to why he hadn’t read what i wrote.  why he had obeyed and listened to what i said.  he smiled at me, told me to have a good weekend, and then turned and sauntered away.  i stood in the hallway, looking curiously at where he had been standing until a janitor asked me if i was alright.

the next time i tried to lose my journal, was nothing like the first.  i was sitting in the park, looking at the granite fountain and all that it stood for.  my moleskine had just underwent a great deal of beating in the basket of my bicycle.  i was searching for inspiration, a subject to write about, and i had ended up in the park. sitting on a marble bench. alone, and uninspired.  besides me, there were only two other people in the park.  one was a middle aged homeless man, who was alseep beneath a giant oak tree.  the other, was a boy, about my age, riding his skateboard up and down the path.  each time he got to the end of the path, he attempted to land a trick, (i apologize for my lack of skateboarding jargon, but i’ve never really cared to learn what differentiates a jump, from another jump that looks exactly the same).  each time, he attempted the trick, he failed, utterly, or so i thought.  my hand was itching to write about this boy, but the only thing that i ended up scrawling on an empty page, with my long dark-inked cursive was without his hat, this boy would be nothing.  of course, this wasn’t true, but nothing else came to mind.  in frustration i got up from where i was sitting and observing and mounted my blue schwinn.  i kicked off of the damaged concrete ground and began riding east, to make it home in time to watch the beginning of Jeopardy!.  i was riding swiftly down congress street, towards Pearl street, when i realized that my moleskine was laying limply on the granite bench at the park.  there was a moment of hesitation regarding whether or not i wanted to ride back up the hill, but i decided that i couldn’t lose my companion.  my legs pushed down hard on my peddles, causing my speed to increase.  in a matter of five mintues flat, i arrived, once again at the park.  not a thing had changed, other than perhaps another fall leaf had fallen down to the ground from the giant oak.  the middle aged homeless man remained underneath the shielding oak, and the boy was still riding up and down the path.  as i rode towards the bench, i could sense the boys eyes looking me over, and then i heard an erruption of laughter come from his rather thin lips.  i avoided eye contact, but he approached me anyway.  he asked if i had come back to retrieve his number.  i responded that i hated phone calls and dont ask punkers for their digits.  taken aback, and unprepared for my austere response, the boy muttered something about me being a bitch, and skated back to his path.  i approached the bench for the last time, finding my notebook exactly where i had left it.  the rubber band ensuring its security had not been removed, and the words had not been read.  my hands reached down, almost with a disappointed manner and picked up my companion.  back into the wicker basket the moleskine went, and down congress street i began.

the third and final time i attempted to misplace my moleskine, was the most embarrassing as well as least successful.  it was rather recent in fact.  i had met this boy.  a while back, perhaps even four or five years ago.  depending on how you want to start the story, but i suppose the beginning isn’t a necessary part.  overtime, connections with the boy have formed.  interests have been discussed, truths have been told, and in addition to that, admiration has become embedded in my personal thoughts.  i’ve wanted to, for the most part, be able to turn to him, tell him my dreams, my real truths, my history, and surely enough, i suppose i can, but my mind, in all honesty, refuses to work like that.  i am unable to articulate these things through word of mouth, although my writing is overflowing with truths, history, and dreams.  our bond isn’t deep enough for me to write directly to him, my words however, when they should be addressed explicitly to him, are vague, mysterious and only partially true.  i’ve wanted to share this beacon of me with him, but because my mind, works so intricately, works so contrarily, i avoid the common approach, which would be asking him to read it.  instead, i try to lose it and ensure that he is the one who finds it.  i write nervously when i’m in his presence.  he jests with me, jabbing me in the ribs, telling me to stop my writing.  truth is, he wishes that he could be in my position, writing nervously when i approach him.  in response, i grin, and continue writing.  he walks away, shaking his head, in a joking manner.  he makes multiple stops to come and talk to me throughout the night.  when he is in my presence, he bounces slightly, his eyes rarely blink, but they move across my face.  his laugh is heard throughout the room, and my cheeks begin to flush.  he realizes it and laughs even harder.  i pay the bill, well, not really.  i just leave a wad of money and leave.  my bag in my hand, my jacket slung across my shoulder.  as i’m exiting he tells me its terribly chilly out, and i should really put my jacket on.  too bad, i’m halfway out the door to listen to him.  i begin walking towards my home, until my best friend chases me down the street, screeching my name.  in her hand lies my moleskine.  she tells me he handed it to her asking if she could get it back to me.  later that evening i see him, sitting on the cold bricked sidewalk.  his eyes are bleary, his lips are pressed firmly against his marlboro filter.  he can’t see me.  my night continues however, in company with the entire lot of my friends.  i get a message from him.  he informs me he’s drunk.  i tell him i’ll visit him.  when i do conversation flows naturally as it always does.  he gives me a bottle of pabst.  i drink from it gratefully.  he asks if i got my moleskine back.  as i’m inhaling the smoke from our beloved plant, ganja, i nod yes.  i ask why he didn’t get it to me.  he told me he was nervous to look inside.  i giggle uncontrollably.  he stands up, walks to his record player, puts on Angus & Julia Stone’s A Book Like This.  Another PBR is passed to me, the necks of our bottles klink, and he sits beside me once again.  his windows are covered with a film of dust that has a tint of blue to it.  the view is blurred because of the glass and  because of the street lights.  i scoot over, and my back is supported by the metal radiator.  the boy looks at me, smiles.  i ask if i can lay on his bed.  he tells me sure.  he stands up, walks to his typewriter, and begins writing.  the clicking of the keys was strangely comforting.  my eyes looked up at his ceiling, all the different lines going in completely opposite directions.  he was humming to himself, in sync with the record.  every click of the keys made me tired.  eyelids grew heavy, my body layed numb ontop of his unmade bed.  i waited for him to come over, but he was intent on writing his story.  muttering cynical thoughts i asked him for a lighter.  he shook his head meaning he didn’t have one near him.  i looked around on his floor and found a used bic.  rummaging through his bedside table my fingers grasp at a weathered pack of american spirits. i light one, and as i inhale, an involuntary cough pushes its way through my throat.  he turns around, still seated at his desk, his eyes look at me from behind his glasses.  he asks if i mind if he joins me, my head nods no.  he pushes in his chair, walks strategically around his mess, and lays down next to me.  i move over a bit to make more room for him.  he rolls onto his side, props his head up with his right arm and smiles.  my eyes squint, but my mouth turns upwards.  his fingers trace my bare collar bones, my spine is covered with goosebumps.  he then proceeds to jab me in the ribs, his customary way to display any signs of affection.  i contort into a tight ball at the foot of his bed.  he asks where i went, and i reappear.  we fall asleep after a late evening of jesting, and cuddling.  in the morning i begin to write in my moleskine, and i realize that this book not only could but has changed everything.  for better or for worse, its made an impact on my life, on my thoughts, and on my ability to communicate.

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2 thoughts on “the book that changed everything

  1. I got to admit I have never been able to commit my thoughts to a journal. Still every time I go to McNalley’s I end up in front of the Moleskine’s wanting to buy one. Ever since I read Danny Gregory’s “The Creative License” I have a secret desire to start an illustrated journal, however I seem to be too inhibited to write about myself or to try sketching. If I found your moleskine I know I would enjoy it.

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