First Course: Allow Me to Introduce, PreciseDisarray

A recent and silly little doodle/sketch using cheap quality colored pencils on white semi gloss paper.
Is this a formal introduction or a haphazard mash of words scraped off my cerebellum, like a much needed sloughing? I suppose the former and the latter are one in the same, for all intended purposes. Now where do we begin? Ah yes, give me your hand, please. No, it's ok, really. I'm really friendly and want to shake your hand, say hello and welcome you to my world. Maybe give you a hug, too? Oh no, don't let go; we have more to cover and more to see. So now, let me guide you into this peculiar realm, and allow me to warmly welcome you to, PreciseDisarray. That's me! *grin*

There is so much to talk about and show you, but you know what? We are going to go slowly, take our time, get to know each other and have fun. I want to tell you everything, but how about just a little bit at a time? At least for now. So, lets start with the obvious, ok? Thanks for coming with me, may this be a great adventure (or not 'bang my head against the wall' boring), ok? alright, here we go... Oh goodness I like to write. Not surprisingly, a love of books (Infatuation? Crush? Literary Fetish?) and getting lost in my thoughts (my brain? my happy place!) are great things too. But back to this writing thing. I used to write stories as a teeny tiny kid. Yeh, looking back on them, they are quaint, silly, kind of embarrassing, but definitely creative and most importantly, all mine (mine!!). I had quite the fondness to illustrate them as well (I loved to draw cats, despite my inability to keep to any proportions and they were always in my story, sometimes the lead character. what? I was six.). Maybe at that time, it was the drawing I liked best, as I spent most of my free time from a small tyke to an early adult coloring, sketching, doodling, drawing and a little bit of painting. I think my artistic talent peaked at about 19 or so. Or maybe it was 9. I blew it trying again at 29. I don't know exactly when I lost it, but it seemed that I got worse with instruction rather than better (Hmmm, although you dont know it yet, kind reader, I'm noticing a theme to my life as I write these words. Interesting- and more on that later.) (and yeh, my writing is full of digression and parenthesis after parenthesis of after thought nuggets) (spell check be dammed and all you grammar Nazi's!).

Anyway, college art classes were fun and in some ways satisfying, but they lacked the critical element of, "me". According to class expectations, I did what I had to with varying degree of capability (some work was even hung up in an art show, while some, most (ok, pretty much all) work plunged deep into the trash), but it was the glorious freedom to authentically express that I really yearned for. A child with a crayon had a whole wide world open to them- to draw and creatively explore in any way that they felt in the moment. They worry not of what their peers or adults have to say. It is with pure sublime enjoyment that they run their crayon across the blank white paper (or living room wall, I imagine) (I never did that.) (Right, mom? right??). Ah, that wonderful creative abandon, a world of no distinct rules, a safe yet uncharted place to explore and create. And so as my artistic pursuits dwindled away, I hoped that one day, I would again find that primitive place, and allow myself to pick up a crayon (whether it be conte or crayola) and render again a world once forgotten. I've got ideas but I need my Muse (yeh, ok, the English rock band and even Sharon Stone can help too. I just need something to kick in the art juices. art slushies. art lattes. art whatevs) And when I do? You know I will keep on drawing my tiny faced giant eared purple kitty cats with disproportionate glee.

And so I was saying that like to write. After the cute books written and illustrated by yours truly, I moved onto complete sentences within the boundaries of a wide ruled spiral bound notebook. I would jot down my youngling observations ("Mom's new boyfriend has a hairy chest- ew!") to ("I love Snowball and David forever"( my first cat and my first crush. One I drew with big ears, the other just had them- but you were still cute, David- sorry I tormented you, but it was true love.). Sentences graduated into paragraphs and those turned to full pages. I never called what I wrote in, a "diary". I tried it once, but it felt like too much pressure. I had the notion in my mind that people who wrote in diaries wrote every night before bed and stuck to lame topics such as crushes, bad dates, school angst and parental quandaries (not me! well, those weren't my only topics). I wanted to go deeper or at least probe issues beyond the aforementioned, and write when I felt like as little or as much as I liked. At the start of sixth grade, I adopted the term "journal", as our English class incorporated a daily five minute journal writing exercise. Unlike my artistic interests, I found that I enjoyed writing under any circumstance. Whether it was on my own or for an assignment. Whether is was restricted in length and topic or wide open. As long as I was writing, and sharing my thoughts or a culmination of research based on others thoughts, I was happy. This is likely the only way I managed my way through high school. And college. Ok, and grad school. And meeting my S.O., and keeping my sanity..and, ok, you get the idea- writing is important to me.) My only angst was the typewriter (F*%$#ng piece of sh!t how I loathed you). Please (please please please) let me use a pen, pencil, crayon or eyeliner to write (sharpie marker would work too). Under no circumstance did I want to get my thought(s) out with the use of a typewriter. Oh, I tried to learn, but I wasn't mastering the "correct form" quickly enough to satisfy my needs or that of my typing class teacher (I remember he was stinky, but not where my fingers go). Honestly, I gave up quickly and paid-begged-bartered belonging to- my friends to type my assignments or allowed (begged, cried to) mom to help me out; now she? Could type. Later, the computer keyboard and it's backspace key became my writings best friend (and the recipient of my papers. because, my friends? rarely took the bait to do my typing for me, ha). I still don't know how to type as per the taught ways back in the day (and today?), but I can wave my fingers (one in particular) (oh wait, I'm talking about typing here, I mean, all but my stumpy pinkies, they are just for show) all over the board with few mistakes (still love that backspace/delete key!) and without looking. My point? I found my own way to successfully type out anything from a simple sentence to a Masters thesis (yeh, I'm overly formally educated) without needing to have my fingers in their "correct place". I think there is a term for it. My style was termed, 'pecking', but my skills have elevated to a whole new level. Shall we say, 'Master Pecking'? I'm masterpecking. I like to masterpeck. I masterpeck every day, often by myself but sometimes with others. I even masterpeck in public. I use almost all my fingers to masterpeck. (See, PreciseDisarray is a fun place to go!) Again, my point? I figured out to do things my way and I do it pretty dang well. (Again another theme popping up as I write all this- oooh revelations in the making, peeps!).

Well, as a kid in the single digits through the teens years and into my twenties, I wrote primarily with a pen and paper through 2005. Although I began an electronic journal (LiveJournal, anyone?) in early 2001, I wrote in it infrequently and certainly much differently than in the complete privacy of my written journal pages. It was just so... weeeeird to, ya know, write stuff that other people would see, ya know? I was still, um, masterpecking in privacy, hehe. Well, writing with a pen was still just more, 'my thing'. More specifically, when I was 14, I was given a set of lined writing books with impressionist artist work decorating the covers (me lovey the Monet). I longed to make good use of these books, and so I switched from spiral notebooks to these books, thinking that forever more I would keep with this style of book to write in. I dreamed of having all of my journals one day lining a shelf in my personal library (I had no self importance whatsoever!). For several years I kept to that desire. Then I found it fun and nerdly exciting to scour stores for my next writing journal. Which one would call out to me, begging to host my deepest thoughts and observations? Which wanted to accumulate my rants and worries? Which one did I want to look at and feel (feel up) on a regular basis? Which would become my new best friend, as my books were intensely important to me. If I had nothing else, a piece of paper and a pen would pacify me and my beloved chosen journal book would comfort me in any moment it was needed. Some of my books were like the original ones- usually with some sort of design or artwork on them. Some books were small, thin, spiral bound and ornate while others were huge, plain and existed in the "perfect binding" technique. Through the years, it was exciting to see the collection of completed books grow (my thoughts? I have them. In a box, not, "on a shelf in my library". oh heck no! Plus I would need a library).

Not until late 2005 did I start writing regularly online and over time, much less to not at all in a paper and pen journal. I guess it doesn't matter anymore where or how I write, as long as I'm doing it. One day, I will either transcribe all of my written journals (oh, thats a lot of masterpecking!) or print out all of my electronic/online journals (or both, hmmm). And so it is with this journal, this brand new journal. This waxing awesome journey (journal=journey, get it?) that I will be sharing my thoughts, exploring ideas and giving a place for my busy brain to sort it all out; a cerebral sloughing, if you will. I got a lot going on and I need a place to sort it.

So, my kind readers, you can expect a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Anything is possible. I simply hope to bring my voice out and connect with many of you through my writing. Nothing will start out intentional, as I know that my writing can and will wander, but likely it well go somewhere-just hang it there, and stay on the ride until it comes to a complete stop. We're going to go just wherever my thoughts take me that day.

It is, I am, PreciseDisarray. See you next time? Oh there is so much more.. give me that hand again, *shakes*- "it was nice meeting you".