My brother gave me a fabulous little notebook for Christmas. It's handmade and got this wonderful flexi-cover and you can tell it's high class. Ernest Hemingway, in fact, used the type. It is a marvelously special gift.
I haven't even touched it yet.
You see, it's one of those things where you are afraid to use, because you're afraid to ruin it. It's the same to me for Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks. I fucking love that album. Every single song on it. But yet, I don't want to listen to it, because I don't want to take anything away from those raw emotions; I want to feel them every time I hear that album, and listening to it casually and often... that detracts from those emotions, dulls them. So I pull Blood on the Tracks out whenever I can relate, because that's where its power lies--that one moment where it hits you hard. And, in regard to the notebook, I don't want to fill it up with a bunch of shitty ideas.
But, really, I ought to pull this notebook out. You know, jot some of my ideas (albeit shitty) in it.
Am I on verge of change coming?
No, but keep telling yourself that.
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As I start from the beginning.. this is oddly my favorite so far.
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