scratch paper

The other morning I peeked under my rice paper shade and noticed what appeared to be a flyer on my car. At second glance I noted that no other cars had one which I shrugged off as I commenced the AM routine of getting dressed for work. The leaflet was actually a hand written note from an admirer. In my days of romantic rose colored glasses, I would have been overly flattered by this gallant gesture. On this day of jaded suspicion, I still believed in romance, but the wild wise woman in me was guarded as she cracked a tickled smile and discretely looked around to see who might be watching. I gingerly plucked the note from the car careful not to deposit my own prints on the paper. If a crazed person was checkin’ my looks from a distance, the FBI might need to lift his fingerprints… I really need to ease up on my CSI consumption.

Honestly, I was a bit uneasy. I wondered what my friends would make of this so I made a few calls to both sexes. All I will say is I now have a whole new perspective on the Y chromosome. Those two appendages the stick up to the left and right must represent two spokes that can be used to poke out the eyeballs of a threatening attacker! I’m giggling while writing this but all that occurred really got me to thinking about the art form that is the written word. The person who penned this note had a most impressive hand. His letters were neat, legible, well formed. I’m not a hand writing expert, haven’t picked up too many tips from my TV sleuthing. But if anyone compared his handwriting to mine and was asked to deduce who might be the psycho they would hands down pick me. My scratch is one that any respectable chicken would deny; I really wish I could write lovely looping legible letters. Whenever I am inclined to compose a meaningful letter, I have to scroll through the fonts in Word or go online to download something that lends a personal feel to the less intimate form of typed script (my current favorite discovered just this morning is Scriptina). Somewhere I have to provide a quick explanation about my poor penwomanship and apologize for typing… way too much drama.

Calligraphy, which means beautiful writing, is an art that has called out to me on occasion. The first time was when I stumbled upon some calligraphic pens that transform my scribble into poetic scribe. In NYC, I tried my hand at Japanese brush stroke, in DC I enrolled in a class that included a lesson in Sumi-e (black ink painting); both were meditations in patience for me. The instructors of the latter lesson were impressed with my practice page as well as the two pieces I produced suggesting that I explore what could be a hidden talent in both picture and lettering. My inner critic begged to differ at the time, however as I pulled them out to photograph, that voice raised an eyebrow of praise. Perhaps the time has come for me to turn my scratch papers into decipherable scrolls. I mean if I’m ever inclined to leave a note for some cute stranger who catches my eye I wouldn’t want him to look at my scrawl, envision some nut case, then bag and tag it for the authorities so…

keep your peepers open! ®