The rain is drenching the window by my side, cleaning out the sights of the world in coat of hydrogen. Until a moment ago my pen was scratching against a paper bound to my notes, scribbling images and messages with delicious sound and sensation. Even in this day of blogging and typing, I still can't seem to get over the joy of trying out various writing utensils on varying qualities of paper, feeling something almost similar to an artistic accomplishment to see my terrible handwriting intermingled with images and little nothing drawings about various things, like Si gale-gales of the Toba Batak people in Sumatra, and signs of metamorphosis in people and things.
My mind is free to wander from the tips of Mr. Jonathan Strange's hat to the practices of artificial life to the active galactic nucleus to hushed summer dreams of Chagall, each though leaving a footprint of black ink intertwined into various shapes that might be a language or an image or perhaps both. All from the tip of a pen and its contact with a piece of paper.
To me, the digital medium is not quite as free as I'd like it to be.
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