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cpolkI stayed up past my bedtime last night because I was consumed with an avaricious lust for fountain pens. Yes. Fountain pens.
You see, I write an awful lot. Longhand. My penmanship is terribly inconsistent - generally I write in this hurried yet rounded cutesy loopy arcade/cursive hand with draggy lead lines and odd separations. But I write. Longhand.
I believe I write frequently enough - and voluminously enough, as my longhand notebook has filled 54 pages (27 pages, both sides) since I started it on 2nd December 2003 - that a good quality pen would not be some arrogant affectation. Though I could get silly and fetishize it into some kind of talisman of expression. I'd do something like that... like my cell phone has been fetishized into my talisman of connection to people I love. Just having the same telephone number for the last three years has been some kind of mark of permanence. I know. Sad.
I admit - I'm a bit of a pen freak. I've tried and used all kinds, from nineteen cent stick pens to a former boss' coin loading antique Parker fountain pen. I've written thousands of pens dry - Pilot Hi-techpoints. Drafting ink pens. Vision writers. erasable Bics. cushiony ergonomic grips. gel ink rollerballs. I try out different colored inks, everything. And a bad pen can aggravate me into a killing rage if I'm forced to use it long enough.
But if I buy a disposable fountain pen, it lasts me about a month. I will find reasons to write with it. It's a fetish, my love of fountain pens. Modern gel inks are real nice, but there is no glide quite like a fountain pen. I linger at Reid's Stationery and gaze longingly at the sleek pens in the display case, wondering if I'd buy silver or stainless steel or a lacquer like burled oak or lapis lazuli, raptly staring at gold chased ink nibs. then I plunk down five bucks for a disposable fountain pen and think, "Next Time."
Next time never comes. I tell myself I will buy one when I have the money. After contact lenses. And more food. And catching up on my bills. and the piercing I want. And my tattoo. and my convention membership.
But for now, I can gape in wonder at the selection at The Fountain Pen Hospital, and wonder at who would pay fourteen thousand dollars for a pen. And if that person would carry it around in their pocket and write with it. And if they did write with it, what would they write?
What would I write?
You see, I write an awful lot. Longhand. My penmanship is terribly inconsistent - generally I write in this hurried yet rounded cutesy loopy arcade/cursive hand with draggy lead lines and odd separations. But I write. Longhand.
I believe I write frequently enough - and voluminously enough, as my longhand notebook has filled 54 pages (27 pages, both sides) since I started it on 2nd December 2003 - that a good quality pen would not be some arrogant affectation. Though I could get silly and fetishize it into some kind of talisman of expression. I'd do something like that... like my cell phone has been fetishized into my talisman of connection to people I love. Just having the same telephone number for the last three years has been some kind of mark of permanence. I know. Sad.
I admit - I'm a bit of a pen freak. I've tried and used all kinds, from nineteen cent stick pens to a former boss' coin loading antique Parker fountain pen. I've written thousands of pens dry - Pilot Hi-techpoints. Drafting ink pens. Vision writers. erasable Bics. cushiony ergonomic grips. gel ink rollerballs. I try out different colored inks, everything. And a bad pen can aggravate me into a killing rage if I'm forced to use it long enough.
But if I buy a disposable fountain pen, it lasts me about a month. I will find reasons to write with it. It's a fetish, my love of fountain pens. Modern gel inks are real nice, but there is no glide quite like a fountain pen. I linger at Reid's Stationery and gaze longingly at the sleek pens in the display case, wondering if I'd buy silver or stainless steel or a lacquer like burled oak or lapis lazuli, raptly staring at gold chased ink nibs. then I plunk down five bucks for a disposable fountain pen and think, "Next Time."
Next time never comes. I tell myself I will buy one when I have the money. After contact lenses. And more food. And catching up on my bills. and the piercing I want. And my tattoo. and my convention membership.
But for now, I can gape in wonder at the selection at The Fountain Pen Hospital, and wonder at who would pay fourteen thousand dollars for a pen. And if that person would carry it around in their pocket and write with it. And if they did write with it, what would they write?
What would I write?
