:Pencil:

My name is Sam, and I am somewhat addicted to office supplies.

I don't know what it is, but I am. Whether it's the clean, fresh look of a brand-new 10-cent notebook (or a stack of thirty for only $3!), the sharpness of a new highlighter, or the novelty of owning 27 different shades of Sharpies, there's just something about all things stationery that draws me in.

I'm not even kidding--these things full-on inspire me. I've got poetry and short pieces of prose I've written in ode to a new pen or a blank sheet of paper (ironically enough, neither of which are new OR blank by the time the piece is finished being written). Empty journals beg me to fill them, blank papers scream to be noticed. 

The smell of a freshly sharpened pencil--the taste of the wood and cheap paint as you ponder a thought before writing... The feel of the callouses on your fingers every time you pick up a pen after a long separation from this tangible extension of your imagination...

For me, there is very little that compares with the feeling of approaching a new writing project or exercise with a new medium or method of transferring thought to paper (and, in an INCREDIBLE break from my self-proclaimed love of the physical, tangible, "real thing"), or filling the blankness of a white screen with line upon line of thought.

I feel like when stores hire marketing executives, they hire specific. As in specifically for me. It's like Staples and Walmart and Chapters and all these places get together every back-to-school season and sit down to figure out what is going to tempt me most to come in to their stores and purchase sixty new pens (I already have a gallon-sized ziplock of them at home). I somehow have to fight the urge to drool over the flyers much as a kid drools over advertisements from Toys 'R' Us, or the local bulk food candy store. And then I have to stand strong as I walk past the shelves upon shelves of back to school supplies, always located conveniently to your left or right IMMEDIATELY once you walk into any major box store anytime after the beginning of August. 

And the thing is,  I don't even always want to buy these things just because I need them... Matter of fact, often, I don't (and thank goodness I've been able to translate that into generally not buying them)...it's an urge because I just want them. It's like some kind of weird infatuation. 

Maybe it's because it feels like in some way I am 'buying inspiration'. Maybe I feel like it'll spark some latent creativity...maybe it's a somewhat Pavlovian response to the fact that these inanimate objects have, indeed, fostered creativity in the past...much as the proverbial 'new page' has given many a man a new start in life.

Most people don't understand what's so exciting about a pen. Or a journal. Or a highlighter. But I've come to grips with that. I don't need everyone to understand...

...just so long as they keep making office supplies.

My name is Sam, and I am *somewhat* addicted to office supplies.

:Photos:

My name is Sam, and I dislike being in photos.

Forget forcing a smile-- I dislike being in photos, period. I'm not exactly sure why, but it's the truth.

Maybe it's a learned behaviour, going back generations in the family; something I picked up from my Mother's Father...who also avoids photos at all cost. His philosophy? If I'm paying for photos, then I'll sit, and smile, and take nice photos. If not, why am I taking photos? Everyone that matters knows I'm here, and remembers that I was at this or that event...

Maybe it's a survival tactic--an avoidance method perfected over the years and years of dealing with relatives who, whenever they have a camera within arms' reach, constantly call for those in the room to pose or look at the camera, rather than engaging in the wonderful world that is "candid photography". I mean, really, does anyone look for a camera when they're holdding a conversation, just so they can look at it? Nope. So if I'm looking at a camera for a posed shot that is supposed to be an accurate representation of the enjoyable evening I just shared discussing pretzel prices in Peru, it has already failed at its mission. Sad. Such a short lived mission, too.

Maybe it's related to a self-image issue (or is it an accurate reaction?), due to how I feel I look in said photos...my nose is a funny shape, my teeth are crooked, and I'm tall and thin as a GUMBY on growth hormones. Obviously, if I was as dashing as Joseph Gordon-Levitt, or as tempting as Chris Hemsworth, I'd take my shirt off and prance about in front of the camera, or suit up and strut my stuff wherever I figured the nearest camera would be. But I'm not, so I tend toward the side of the population that doesn't seem destined to appear sexy in every single photograph taken...and therefore tends also toward seeing oneself as at least somewhat un-photogenic.  

My wife says that all of this doesn't matter. 

Now, I should clarify this, and say that by this statement, she's not saying that my thoughts or opinions are invalid or pointless, or that I might not have a realistic perspective in any or all of these areas (although I like to think she finds me as gorgeous as any of the men above)...she's simply saying that these photos are important. It's a documentation method. Turns out, the fact that my parents took a thousand photos a day of me as a baby didn't mean I was stockpiling "get out of photos free" cards to pull out and use in the future. I suppose I could argue the theory that taking a photo steals part of your soul, as some cultures believe... but then I guess I'd be resigning myself to the fact that I am slowly becoming soul-less, and probably will be completely devoid of all soul-ness when I reach 65...which doesn't sound like a very attractive retirement plan to me, when I sit down and think about it.

So I'm left with this fun little catch-22; having no valid excuse to use to avoid photos, and yet understanding that these moments in time are indeed fleeting, and I may never have the opportunity again to speak about pretzel prices or suit up and prance about, and should probably just allow the opportunities to be taken, before they're gone.

Besides, there's a hole in my Grandfather's logic...being Dutch, what ON EARTH is he doing PAYING for having photos taken? Shouldn't he be ecstatic at all the free photo ops he can get his hands on?

So... understand their value? Yes. 

Love taking them? Yes. 

Admit that sometimes they turn out great despite the fact that I'm in them? Okay. 

Love being in them? Well...

My name is Sam, and I dislike being in photos.

:Write:

I've made it a personal goal to write SOMETHING every day.

This has become easier as of late, because things have really slowed down at work. The summer tourists are gone, and with them, the easy nights of not having to think in order to find work...the nights where it just comes to you.

It sounds on some level like a lofty goal, but really, it's not. 

Rather, it's wide open (which could, in and of itself, make it more complicated some nights).

See, the goal doesn't state WHAT I have to write... Merely THAT I write. So I have been having fun with it. Blogging, letters, random thoughts, etc.

The newest thing I have re-picked-up (haha, how's that for writing?) is poetry. I haven't even really dabbled much in poetry since high school, which is when I first explored the genre. It came along with my songwriting, kind of a natural extension of the craft.

But, similarly to my songwriting, it followed the emotions and feelings of my life to a very strict degree, seldom deviating from that subject matter which is so readily available to teenagers at a moment' snot ice. Wow. I love auto correct. It just turned "moment's notice" into what you just read above...

Moment' snot ice.

Beautiful.

And it definitely makes more sense than what I was trying to type, no?

Anyway, I've recently discovered the joy of magnetic poetry on my iPad. So I guess it isn't really magnetic, then, but you get the picture.

And as a result, I've begun to explore abstract poetry. Sentences that don't necessarily make sense on the surface, but paint a picture in your head somehow that makes your thoughts run.....oh....somewhere. Anywhere.

Phrases which borrow the beauty inherent in words, and strings it together along some metric until you are left with something which flows, breathes, and sparks.

It's been fun. And the interpretations I've received from the few who have read it are as varied as I had hoped they would be. You see, to me, words should inspire. They should ignite. Poetry can paint a clear picture, with a clear message in mind, or it can splash some colours on the wall of your skull and see what your mind interprets from the mayhem. I feel like I've found both, somehow, in a way that I, at least, enjoy.

I hope you can, also.