Intimate Feel

Intimate feel: 

there's an intimate feel to holding a pen, writing - at one time, perhaps twenty years or so ago, everything I wrote was handwritten, usually on a yellow legal pad, and almost always illegible to anyone aside from myself, although often even I couldn't later decipher what was written. I never bothered practicing typing past my basic grade school lesson and long believed that as an instrument used for producing art that it lacked an intimate feel, an object that caused a true sense of separation between myself and what I felt was the holiness of words and the act of writing prose and poetry. A pen was hand held, deeply recognized by my body as an extension of the source of words and inspiration, an instrument delivered by the muse for sacred use alone. Writing felt comfortable, personal, an act of actual communication with something larger, greater, than myself. 

and now I use a keyboard, typing everything in almost continuous contact with the board, my fingers in a light caress of inspiration, motion, and then a pause for words to gather, fingers still held against the keys, patient, yet eager for the caress to carry on. It's just as intimate as before, maybe more so, kinetic, a swift connection of words and fingers with an easy grace between them. 

there's an intimate feel to typing, writing, my fingers are familiar with the keyboards now, I enjoy the feel of the keys raised against them, individual in their connection. Everything about writing is holy, it's a sacred art, an act of listening to the most subtle voice within us, receiving words, and then almost instantly sharing what was heard. There's an intimate feel to this communication, of reading what was given from the subtlest of voices, a whisper really, and now shared between us. 

it doesn't matter what instrument is used, it's only a sense of familiarity, what our fingers have grown used to in the ease of their expression. A pen feels almost foreign to me now, meant for notes and not for longer prose, it's as if I've lost my connection to its hold, no longer having the endurance of writing in this fashion. And now it's the keyboards that are familiar, my hands accustomed to their feel and energy, eager to give themselves to the motion of this writing. It's a different endurance. Yet writing itself is unchanged, still holy, always so, and any instrument used would eventually have an intimate feel, becoming sacred by its use, blessed by muse and inspiration. 

it's the act of commitment that produces such an intimate feel. 

~

Peace, Eric