Musing on this: as a long-time typer — from my parents’ old Royal manual typewriter, through electric typewriters and on to WordPerfect glory in the mid ’80s, Word in the ’90s and beyond, and latter-day tools like Blogger, Wordpress, and my darling DarkRoom — is there some mojo lost when I write with a keyboard instead of a pen?

Two large Moleskine notebooks have found their way into my work and consciousness. One is plain black, inconspicuous; the other, I engraved with a quill and antiqued with evil-cool crimson fluid acrylic. Writing and drawing on those ivory pages feels comforting, substantial, grounded. I can’t easily find my back to what I've put down -- no tags, no neatly-indexed archives guide me -- but maybe that’s not the point of pen and notebook. Something visceral emerges in the pour of fresh ink, free and warmed by my hand: something alive (imperfect) that unforgiving pixels pick clean.