Sweethearts, I have been through the mill. All my own doing. No, not mill. What’s it called? Mangle.
I loved mangling. Helped my grandmother to pull those sheets in one end out the other. No wonder I find ironing satisfying to this day.
In order to head off my next nervous breakdown (I nearly had ONE aged 19 when I threw a sponge soaked in red red wine against a white wall) I have been archiving and generally tidying up my life in the last few days. Once it’s finished I shall not know what to do with myself. In fact, I live in dread: What do you do once you have cross referenced everything? We’ll see. I suppose I could dance with the devil on the blue sea.
Anyway, the point of this post that I AM IN LOVE. Yes, with my handwriting. I love my handwriting. I do I do I do. I have reams of the stuff. Where the typewritten appeals to my sense of efficiency, my handwriting appeals to my self. My handwriting is ME. My identity. As, of course, is that of others. A few months ago I tidied all my private correspondence received. By sender. I didn’t need to look at ‘sender’. One look at a squiggle, a slant, and I knew exactly which pile it’d go on.
To end on a slightly melancholic note: What we cherish most we live in fear and dread to lose.