My bulletin board is bare. I have stripped it down to the naked, brown cork board, riddled with holes from push pins past. It hangs still on a wall in the corner of my kitchen, as if in disgrace. It has been forgotten since my desk was moved to the living room.
I have a large baggie full of things I want to use to decorate it. I’m not sure it will be enough. I suppose I will add to it as I find new words and images of interest, making it a large collage. I face the prospect of having all of my mind’s inner workings on display to anyone who enters my home. Most people pay no attention to the bulletin board, though. Either they look right over it, not even noticing it, or they purposely avoid looking so as to respect my privacy. I’m never quite sure which, unless they look and quickly dart their eyes away.
But before, the board had mostly post it notes with hasty notes scrawled. It was a working board, as I layered ideas on it for my novel. Soon, it will be full of images I find compelling. Perhaps some future visitor will also find it compelling.
