But it is actually a story about me
The journal
What is it? Where did it come from?
There. Do you see it? That is a picture of the journal my
co-workers gave me when I left my accounting job. I don't need to describe it
do I? I mean, you can see it. It is about six-by-eight inches, has a light tan
lined paper cover, with brown leather edging and a button clasp that snaps it
shut. Inside are about fifty pages without lines. The pages are thick but soft,
and are shot through with little wiggly green fibers. The fibers look like thin
pieces of grass.
You are bored, aren't you? Of course you are, you just read
a description of a book. Alright, I'll make this more exciting, I promise. How
about this? I am about to string together a bunch of interrelated events that
took place over the course of many years in just a couple of sentences. Are you
ready? Are you even still reading, or am I typing into thin air?!? Nevermind,
let's get on with it:
Born. Light and sound became shape. Voices in my head. I am
an accountant. My co-workers are giving me a notebook. I am typing this
sentence...
There, how was that for consolidating my life? The journal
sat in my briefcase for months. I do not own a briefcase. I only said that
because it sounds cooler to say ‘I have a briefcase’ instead of a black bag. It
is one of those old laptop bags that were popular when people still had
laptops, and the laptops were big. So I have a big old laptop bag which is
nowhere near as cool as a briefcase, but the shoulder strap makes it easy to
carry.
I first used the journal on my trip to Saint
Louis. I call it a journal because 'notebook' has been
ruined by that love-movie. I don't mean ruined
in a bad way, either. All I mean is that an association has been established
between the word and the movie, such that, whenever someone mentions the word,
women and sensitive men begin to cry. I shall refrain from using that word,
therefore, because it is not my intention to make you cry...yet.
Why did the spider cross the road? To get to a different
website.
That was a joke, because you were getting bored and studies
show that random jokes keep people interested in boring blogs about journals.
Missionary orientation was in Saint Louis
and would last two weeks. But before that, and on the way there, I went to a
two-day conference on theology and apologetics. Those last two sentences were
not important. Do not go back and read them; they were just transitionary
filler. The good stuff is coming up.
The conference theme was "Making the Case" and the
speakers were to defend a different doctrinal position. I was interested in
most of the topics, even to the extent that I was determined to take notes of
the highlights and brilliant ideas of the various speakers for my future study
and personal edification. I had decided the journal I received as a gift would
be the recipient of those notes.
Tangential aside: I am currently writing this portion of the
story in a doctor's office waiting for a physical exam. I mention this to
demonstrate to you the extent to which I am willing to go to bring you this
compelling story of a book, which is really about me, but not really...you'll
see in a minute, just keep reading...please.
As I waited for the first speaker, I decided to make some
preliminary notes about the events leading up to the conference.
Two things: First, I take notes in cursive, for speed, not
to be pretentious. Second, you can see the pieces of grass or whatever stuck in
the paper. The content is not important, at this moment. I talk about our
preparations for Missionary Orientation—nothing worth reading, however…turn the
page, er, scroll down.
Here is where things get interesting. If you look close you
can begin to see where my pen hits the little plant pieces. Maybe you can’t
see. Here, I’ll zoom in…
Alright, none of these mistakes are the plant’s fault. Here
is where it starts to go bad…
Aack, indeed! I blamed my mishap on a ‘dented portion of
paper’ whatever that means. Actually, now that I think about it…No wait,
something is coming back to me……Oh, IT ALL
MAKES SENSE NOW!!!!!!!!
Ladies and gentlemen of the Internet, a superlative combination
of thoughts and memories has coalesced into a realization that I am about to
share with you, if you can handle being amazed by deep introspection concerning
writing instruments and their parchment-based receptacles, a.k.a.
journals/books/napkins/inside of matchbook covers/etc.
Behold, my epiphany: I write with my left hand. This makes
certain pens unusable because they refuse to defy physics. Yes, I am referring
to Gel Pens. I love their smooth consistency and bold color, but they are meant
to be pulled, not pushed. And so, when a left hand tries pushing a gel pen there
are noticeable breaks. My right hand refused to use gel pens, even after two
attempts at bribery and a strongly-worded letter to its mother. And so I use
ball point pens exclusively.
What do you call an alligator in a vest? An investigator.
You were starting to drift away, weren’t you? But you are back now right?
Experts all agree, jokes help you stay focused on pen-related stories.
Ball-point pens were invented in 1888 by John J. Loud, a
leather tanner, but that’s not important right now. All you need to know is
that when I tried using a ball-point pen on the feathery-soft grass-filled
journal pages I had a reunion with my one of my enemies…Frustration.
Frustration came and sat next to me while I was writing notes,
and he laughed. Frustration’s laugh is very loud and it drowns out all the other
sounds around you, so all you can do is think about how annoying it is that
your pen will not write on the page!! And it is all because my left hand does
not use gel pens. It all makes sense now. The planets are aligned, birds and
squirrels are chirping, and I know why this happened:
Now this is just…just…(adjectives fail me)…It is a complete
and utter journal failure. I will translate what I think it says:
Ate dinner…Fisk is about to go on…wait! I met some really
cool people during dinner. I will get their naeno inhanes IIAMEJ NAMES AAAAAMPEH!!! This
papee is %&^!@#* zam
Right about this time Panic entered the building and, seeing
his friend Frustration, sauntered over and joined him inside my head. Panic
does not laugh, he just stares at you with those pale green eyes until your
stomach turns into cold soup.
The next page was not so bad. Although, I did have to write
in 72 font to get it to work, and my notes were reduced to truncated little
Reverend Fisk blurb-thoughts. It looks like a child’s beginning reader book, if
your child was Martin Chemnitz.
It gets worse. Look at the size of that letter “S” in
‘seeking’, and the “L” in the word Bible. And the right side page looks like a
theological algebra equation. How are any of these notes supposed to be
helpful?
Futile and Hopeless came together as a pair. They make a
nice couple; very complimentary…a perfect match. I tried to resist, but their soft
chuckling was getting to me. Look at that page on the right. What is that, a
Dr. Seuss reference? Was I going insane? And what does it say next to the
bracket…In My Gland?
I give up.
Ironically, the last entry says, “What matters: Content”
which is hilarious when you consider that everything I wrote lacked content
In conclusion, I am thankful beyond words for the gift given
to me by my former co-workers. They were/are a great bunch. And they wrote a
lot of nice things in the back of the journal. Nice, legible things (they must
all be right-handed).
Finally, if you are not weeping at my tragic writing
failure, and if you are not crying at my co-workers compassion, I have just one
thing to say to you: Notebook.
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