clean

i love the way a clean, unmarked sheet of paper looks, right before you touch it with graphite or ink. i like the scent of a freshly sharpened pencil, blowing the sawdust off of the pretty, perfect new point. i like the way the point glides or scratches trails across the paper. or when using a pen, i like the fluid motion of the ink and the ball or felt tip... most especially, i love the smell of the ballpoint pen's ink... i like trailing my fingers over the indentations in the page after it's been consecrated with the products of my mind.

before all this, the blank paper is just ripe with possibility...

i'm developing a similar affection for an empty space for typing on a computer screen. the blinking cursor, asking for something, anything... i like the feel of my fingers flying and skipping all over the keys...

shoot, i even love the pregnancy in the pause that happens in the moment when i open my mouth and inhale sharply before i speak. i can't see myself, but i know that my face is probably like the page, the open box, the wordless word processor's sheet - open: eyes bright, eyebrows slightly elevated, jaw slack but eager...

i am not a mother - my words are my only children; my thoughts, my only procreation. i love to do this. it's a natural love. it's a cultivated love. it is a huge part - perhaps the most beloved part of who i am. a communicator. i got it honest, i am my father's child. we come from a long line of communicators, for better or for worse... :-)

i thank God for my voice, my faculties, my vocabulary - everything that enables me to get it said, whatever it may be. it is truly a saving grace.