No, not a post about evil (not in this space, at least): the number of this post. This is number six-hundred sixty-six of about a million more to come. A post about the little spaces that house our thoughts:

Our notebooks. 

Last night, I tossed out a notebook that had too much bad mojo, a thing I’ve never done. Bought another one; a house for a book I may never write. Handmade. Italian. A heady smell like a saddle or a very good pair of shoes. A leather temple for dreams to live in.

I have, at times, called upon the services of a wonderful bookbinder in NC, Greg Pfaff. I have bought less exalted volumes at Barnes & Noble. Either way, they are always substantial, hearty in the hand. They wait patiently for my thoughts; accept them lovingly when they come. They are living creatures whose spirits must be clean, without baggage, without drama.

No otherworld notes are permitted beyond these hand-bound gates; no shopping lists, no phone numbers that need remembering, no wispy love-note thoughts from other works. I honor the notebook’s intention. I am true.

A delicate space, this. The pages are emotionally frail; they are spiderwebs. They will not accept cross-outs (until the thoughts caught there have done their work.) They will not bear the burden of bad associations, unless those associations are invested with transformational magic. If I were to tear a page out, the book would bleed.

I still have the notebooks from my first two published works, two decades old and more. I have never thrown a notebook away. Until now.

It took strong poison to make me discard what was, not so long ago, a sullied but still-sacred thing. The throwing might once have been sacrilege. Last night, it was exorcism. And release. A cleansing breath into the air.

666 has been sent away. Into the perpetual night.

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