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"Journal writing is a voyage to the interior."
-- Christina Baldwin

Sigh. I just can't seem to make any headway with this journal lately. I apologize...again, and offer the usual excuse about being busy. The last week of February was perfectly horrible (which was inconvenient, since my birthday took place during that period.) so you're probably lucky I didn't write because you wouldn't have liked the result. 

Without going into too much detail, I basically stressed myself out so much over the later part of the week, that I rendered myself incapable of most normal activities for a day or two. This week was devoted to recuperating, returning to a normal cycle of eating and sleeping (two activities I did not indulge in much during my little stress fest) and working allot. The shop has been a beehive for the past two weeks, and everyone has been working overtime, even myself, admittedly the laziest and least industrious employee currently on the payroll. 

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In an effort to better document my ponderings for your perusal, I have started writing in my old paper journal. It dawned on me that I actually have free time while I'm at the shop in the form of lunch breaks and slow periods when I have nothing to do at the moment. Due to the business I mentioned above, these times are becoming fewer and farther between, but they could be put to better use than they are now. I have been filling them up by reading mystery novels a few pages at a time. I realized that instead of reading a few pages at a time, I could very well be writing. In this way I planned to turn out some entries which I could later transfer to my computer and upload (with some editing, as my paper journal tends not to be as thought out as these entries, due to the fact that I can't erase pen like I can ones and zeros).

I'm afraid, however, that rather than making my updates more frequent, the paper journal has only served as yet another distraction from this, my little online soapbox. You see, I've suddenly fallen madly in love with my paper journal. Unlike this journal, which is accessible to everyone and his brother, my paper journal is seen only by me. Therefore I can be as unfair and petty and selfish as I want. I can rant and rave about things that I simply can't address here for fear of hurting feelings or stepping on toes. If I tried that here, I'd be afraid that the object of my wrath would stumble across the incriminating entry. Even if someone read my journal and found an offending entry, it would most likely be years after the fact and with my permission and assurances that I no longer harbor the feelings described in the journal. 

Bill is, of course, allowed to peruse whenever he chooses, and indeed I truly hope he does ask to read it, but I imagine it happening sometime in the future, when he will read all the past entries in one swallow, so to speak, rather than as they are written. Even he is not immune to a few flames in the pages of my journal, and I wouldn't want his feelings hurt. He would understand, however, that my entries are not a good gauge of my true feelings when it comes to such entries. Rather, they are my way of dealing with my feelings where no one needs to see them so that I can get over them and move on with daily life. Because that's how it works. I get tweaked off by someone very badly, so I lambaste them in my journal, using every stinging phrase and slanderous insult I wish I could throw at them, and when I am finished, I feel much better, and the next time I see the individual who so aroused my ire, I can just chuckle to myself about what I didn't say to them and treat them with much more civility than I would otherwise be capable of.

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I also find I just like having something I can hold in my hand. Certainly I can't receive feedback about it from people halfway around the world, but I simply find something very comforting about a tangible little book with my own handwriting in it (another means by which to keep unwanted readers away: my handwriting requires a code key for most people who are not forced to read it on a regular basis). I love the internet and all the beauty and convenience it affords. However, I am a very tactile person, as Bill will tell you: I have to touch everything or else it's not really there. I'm constantly brushing his shoulder, or squeezing his hand. It's hard for me to buy things off the internet or out of catalogues. Bill has stopped taking me to museums and art galleries altogether for fear that I will destroy something. 

So while this medium has it's charms, the paper journal has a few of its own. 

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I even went and bought myself a fancy expensive fountain pen to write with. It's taken some getting used to, but that's not bad, as it makes me write a little more slowly and carefully (and therefore legibly). Bill couldn't believe how much of my birthday money I spent on it, and I'm not going to tell you all how much it cost, because I'm a tad embarrassed by it myself. Most of you probably wouldn't understand that it's worth every cent to have a top-of-the-line writing instrument. Because that's what it is. I know, because it says so right in the little pamphlet that came in the box with it. So when Bill balked and cried "You paid that much for a pen?"  I simply replied airily "It's not a mere pen, it is a writing instrument." and flounced off, leaving him with his jaw hanging a bit slack.

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Not that any of this exactly keeps me from writing here, it's just that with the outlet of my paper journal, I have less of a compulsion to vent my cogitations here. Yes, I know, I'm a dirty little sneak for cheating on you guys with my paper journal. Thorry.

Hopefully I will be more faithful in the coming weeks. I'll even be sharing paper entries with you once I type them up. The ones that aren't all petty and nasty are actually pretty good.