Further Notes on My Shitty Handwriting, Continued

Rummage sale has commenced up the street and the bargain shoppers roam and The Morkie has been delivered to the groomers, our path lined with children in costume at the end of driveways. STRANGER THINGS, sort of; I think there was a hot dog costume. The hot dog waved.

Thinking through the why of my seemingly endless quest to improve my shitty handwriting. Current line of thought: handwriting is a powerful – if not the most powerful, for me anyhow – tool for thinking and for the results of that hand-thought to be nigh-indecipherable leaves me adrift in a ruptured dinghy with a half-finished exorcism, uncertainty, and the uncomfortable feeling of having forgotten something.

Also: quality of handwriting / speed of it indicative of speed of thought? By slowing down the former, can the latter be brought into balance? A perpetual state of rush – probably carrying more weight than my bridge's capacity but hell, that's my one true talent, especially this year.

Working at it, still: slowing down, trying to hold the Lamy Safari the right way – though I feel as though I have to learn to use it anew every morning; I only get a true grip on it around the third or fourth hour of the day's work. Trying to forget that I'm trying to get better at it – ameliorate the performance anxiety, maybe – another of those efforts to keep my head in the game that, by the very nature of having them, keeps me at least three feet from the borders of the game itself.

Happy Friday.

(listening): FIBS, by Anna Meredith.