handwriting.Posted: November 23, 2008
[some notes: In an effort to bring some sort of life to this place, and as you can clearly see in the posts below me, there are two new writers, delep and kira chan (I won’t write the number. I never write numbers.)
So, as you can clearly see, I’ve gotten the itch to make this place alive with bad-to-awesome prose and poetry (as the about page intended).
Also, this thought occurred to me as I wrote a note on a bag of beignets. Yes, I’m serious.]
Every August I face a dilemma; once the semester starts up, after three months of absolute nothing, I have to go through the process of deciding whether or not I could still write correctly by hand.
It’s not that I have particularly bad handwriting, in fact, here’s an example of it, moreso, the fact that I had spent three months twiddling my thumbs both literally and metaphorically, as well as spending my time in front of a keyboard somehow makes my fingers forget things that have been ingrained in my memory since most likely the kindergarten era (since of course, that was the earliest memory of writing somewhat coherently that is still pretty lucid). I have no idea why this thought keeps on popping up, but then again, I’m the kind of person that is paranoid enough to think that I had forgotten to literally close the front door no less than ten minutes after leaving for a night on the town. I’m also the kind of person who types a word, say, the word “awesome”, stares at it a while, and begins to notice the word in a completely different manner. It’s not that I’m dyslexic, which would be absolutely atrocious seeing as I like to peruse, or at least, skim books and somewhat lengthy articles, rather, the words change their appearance much like a Penrose Triangle.
The romantic in me wants to believe that I’m looking more into the abstract meanings that the words represent, and that the inherent ambiguity of language is too complex for a mere 26, 28, or even 47035 (English, Arabic, and Chinese Alphabets, respectively) characters to express.
The pragmatic in me, however, that rat bastard, knows that its just my mind fucking with me.