I don’t plan them. They happen at rest stops, on train fold-down tables, in the passenger seat while someone else drives through a tunnel. A sentence about the light on wet asphalt. A half-thought about a conversation from three years ago. A list: things I should have said, things I’m glad I didn’t.
These notes don’t aspire to be wisdom. They’re more like breadcrumbs. Little proofs that I was here, in this particular moving moment, paying attention. zapiski czynione po drodze
That’s when I reach for my notebook — the one with the stained cover and the bent spine — and start scribbling. Not diary entries. Not poems. Something rawer. Zapiski czynione po drodze. Notes made along the way. I don’t plan them
Keep a small notebook. Write crookedly. Don’t edit. Let the motion carry the pen. A half-thought about a conversation from three years ago