Pictures Of A New Book: Part Nineteen

Handwriting a new book versus the Art of typing onto a flat faced computer screen. I've never kept hidden my passions to hold a writing instrument. To feel it breathing on a sheet of paper lights my imagination on fire. Books though don't come in handwritten form. Instantly my way of leaning words to the left then right or ballooning them up to be larger than life would freak out the reader whose heart loves size twelve Times New Roman. When transfering the handwritten to digital status the personality of my writing self changes. The same scene but delivered by two ways of communicating. The Handwritten: The cracks in the sideway of a New York City street are to ants and rodents what earthquakes create on opposite shores. But, when a man of multiple journeys walks over the raised jagged edges, a piece of him falls into the earth with high hopes of finding food that shall inspire a passerby to pick it like a flower and place it in their heart just to say I need you. The Re-typed: Rips in the concrete, tormented lines in a city street; they are to ants and rodents what volcanic activity brings to a man, his wife and rootless children. What grows to be of the man on multiple journeys, he that strides above the spiked boundaries of gashes on city streets? Pieces of second-hand drop freely from John into the naked earth with elevated anticipation of sighting a participatory passerby. Like John, an enthusiastic affectionate soul of flowers, spur-of-the-moment melodies and what little is left, a smidge or just barely a thieves pillar of peace. While using a writing instrument words and thought tend to flow freely. Once behind the blizzard white canvas of a computer screen...I'm gifting the perfectionist with fuel. Without proper discipline I could spend a week working on the same scene.