These are the tools of my trade. I have written in spiral-bound notebooks, college-ruled, for a long time. They are always of varying colors. Red, yellow, blue, purple, black. Never green. I write with a Zebra F-402 ballpoint pen, black ink. The work is written in longhand, in the notebooks, before it is typed onto the computer. The sound of a pen scratching against a page is one of my favorite sounds. One of those beautiful, lonely sounds that goes in deep. No matter what is written inside these notebooks, I always title them “Sketches/Impressions,” in black Sharpie. I have filled hundreds of these notebooks over the years, and keep them stored in plastic bins. I consider it a record of my spiritual longing here on earth. I am a fan and practioner of ritual, especially of my own making. My love affair with writing began when I was a young boy in Brooklyn, and has never stopped. I am grateful for this calling. One day I will be dead and gone, poof. But know that I was here, for a little while. And I gave everything I could to writing. Know that you are here for a little while. Do what you love. Your heart will rejoice.