Scribbling, scribbling, in this time and age.
In keeping with all the ridiculous reasons and nonreasons for things
in this world I sometimes think I became a carpenter because of the big
flat-sided orange-yellow pencil I discovered one day.
It had to be sharpened with a pocket knife and its lead was rectangular
and it made dark bold lines, rich and dark, upon the sheets of paper.
My journal has always been linked in my mind to the sounds of the soft
pencil lead upon the textured paper.
I have a stack of the black notebooks.