I must first say a little something about pens. I may have already, but I don't care. I'm going to say it again. I'm obscenely particular about the things I write with. My usual weapon of choice is the Uni Ball Signo RT Gel 0.3mm microfine. You would see I like a fine point so's I can write very small. They are great for making notes in my scriptures. But, anyway, I have taken this interest in writing, journaling, and recording, story telling, messaging, poetizing, scripting, and jotting down words. These fancy little characters that leap off the page and into your brain, infecting you with my imagination, my experience, my take, my slant, my opinion, my story. I plant a see (not misspelled) of myself in your eye with every scratch of this steely ball against this paper, this page of dried and pressed tree meat. My ink, bleeding onto your mind. Through the study of my ancient history and my ever present, you will come to know I really am a man, a magician, and a god. Understand me. Get to know me. Accept me. Don't accept me. Laugh. Cry, or not.

Know that somewhere amongst the cogs and chains of this process I am learning myself. By learning myself, I mean ~me~, I am learning me. I will be going back (from time to time) year by year, regurgitating the fading details of my time spent. Sure, I'll do some of that. You are going to see a part of me, this, this part of me that only the pen knows. There are very few who have ever really known "Jake of the pen." Two, I can say, have understood and accepted me fully. Perhaps even more than my own mother. Mom doesn't know that much about Jake with his pen in his hand. She's always been proud of sister and me. Our talents as artists, writers, and sisters music.

I haven't ever let mom in though. It scares me a little, for some reason. I don't know why. Two people, so close as mother and son, yet as far away as two people at odds and evens. . It's weird, trust me. After near thirty years, we haven't really gotten to know each other that well. I'll bet that I can become more comfortable through this practice of writing. One day I'll open this book and place it in her lap. "Get to know me now; it's been so very long." I like that my handwriting evolves and adopts as I write. You can see the leans and swirls. You can feel the intimacy. I hope it means I'm on to something. I've read books by Natalie Goldberg; she's written books about freeing the writer within all of us. Emerging from our monkey minds and drawing energy from our wild minds.

I was interrupted by the phone. It's near time for me to sleep. I would rather stay in here with you and explore this page and the next. I like how the pen in my hand so efficiently uncovers the secrets contained on these pages. It scratches away the build up on the surface to free the living characters you see. What was I thinking when that letter was etched? Why does that one lean slightly? Why are some words scrunched? Why are those over-spaced?

How am I so neurotic as to worry over the lack of exacting repetitions in my penmanship?

It truly bothers me that I can't exactly reproduce these letters in build each time. I've thought about giving the old cursive writing a go. Hoping to try to speed up this process. I get behind my thoughts writing so painfully slow. I start to lose direction.

I wonder how many pages I will fill by months end. Don't be surprised by the mounds of garbage on these pages in order to get words onto a page, to keep filling them. Part of this process is wading through all the crap in order to get words out. It will take time before I can put words into a more pleasing form.

Poems or maybe even just interesting journal entries by this kid lying across his bed, thinking into his pen. Thinking aloud. I write loud. I press hard. My hand makes a sliding sound each time I finish a word and go onto the next. Imagine the sound of an old-fashioned typewriter. The thud of the spacebar between words. Tap tap tap tap tap tap thud tap tap tap thud tap tap tap tap tap thud *ding* ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip!

So goes the motion of my hand, scraping away at the vellum.