There is a reflective quality to writing, which is why I appreciate having the possibility of writing, as an outlet, as a means of thinking things through, and a hundred other things besides. Much like the previous generation, I am fond of writing, as in the putting of pen (or rather, pencil) to paper, a bit more than typing. Though I am quite married of late to the convenience (mostly, of later access) of a computer. My notebooks stash has diminished quite a bit. And although I do love to buy notebooks, especially those that claim to be made from bagasse (and NOT trees!), I am quite able to resist the temptation, and usually walk away after just a few delicate touches, and a quick flip to judge the quality of the paper.
Lying in my bed, I often think I should equip myself with a writing pad. Last night for example was this thought in my head, which I followed for a while, about my grandfather. My thoughts, when I am paying attention to them thus, and following them and so on, appear in full formed sentences (I don't know if yours do any different, just that sometimes it feels a bit odd that a thought has to be that full a sentence, when there is no pressure on it, so to say, to even make widespread sense). Anyway, my (paternal) grandfather was the theme of the thought. And now looking back at that hour of the night, it feels like pages could have been filled. Pages! Of course, if I honestly look at it, its no big loss, I mean, life goes on, the earth does its thing, and I have anyway thought that thought so from an internal and external view point, the fact that I did not jot down anything is, really, not something to moan about. But still, I wonder if that was inspiration and I should have held its coat tails and sailed away somewhere far beyond, merely by being disciplined enough to have something to write things down when they start going through, ticker tape fashion, in my head.
I bought this set of four mechanical pencils at CVS pharmacy in October (or was it the May before the October? Anyhow). Zebra the pencils said. 0.7 mm lead, they take. Of course, I like 0.7 mm lead the best of all, and it has been years since I even touched anything else. And, in my youth, I would have called these pencils 'pen pencils' because of obvious sort of reasons. I saved the set carefully from the marauding hands of the monster. She insists that Akshay or Akash or Alok or whoever, one of the boys in her class, brings such pencils. Till about a month ago, I would carefully sharpen three regular pencils and send them with her, and though I have stopped that now - one day in a fit of anger I asked her to take care of her business re: the pencil box herself, and we have not yet had occasion to go back on it - I have managed to save my stuff from her. Usually once these things find their way to her classroom, they never come back. And the teacher is quite cool about it - just buy more erasers, buy a box of them, she tells us in those awful parent-teacher meetings we have. Zebra pencil, 0.7 mm lead, a bit smaller than usual, these have been very useful to me this semester. I have reams of notes (for class), and tons of problems solved (not tons, maybe, but a good number anyhow) with the soft lead of said pencil, and I usually stick the pencil in my hair when I step out of my office, for ease of access. Yellow in colour, they are quite the fashion statement, even if I have to say so myself!
There are organised people in the world, I know. They have their work desks with in and out trays and stuff all neatly stacked in book shelves. They have their home study equipped with the requisite furniture and they carry exactly one bag to and back from office. Their laptop does not have files on the desktop, at least not an infinity of them. I know they exist, and are not just theoretical constructs. I want to be them. But I am too far removed. My sari box thing has, since we last talked about it, acquired a blue backpack and the orange stuff is still there. I have myself to blame. Else, I have to find a means of thriving in this atmosphere, and if that wonderful set if thoughts I had last night is any indication, its a possibility. Oh heck. Minimally let me go and clear away the dryer sheets (that is the orange stuff) and put it away in the pantry. "A place for everything and everything in its place" - I think my dad used to say that, now my husband has made this saying his own, and often hurls it at me, like an accusation with its sharp points pointing at me. Let it not be said later that Kenny let a Sunday unfold without taking active steps towards solving a problem that was troubling her for a week. Let it not be said.