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May. 11th, 2001 12:27 pmI have pens.
Now, you may think this rather commonplace, and in fact, it probably would be in any other circumstance, but you see, right now, I'm grooving with my pen-ness.
My handwriting changes wih the pens I use. If I have a mechanical pencil (.5mm, of course) or a fine point pen, I write in this small, precise scribble that hardly anyone else can read without a microscope. I'll have to go into my description of the perfect mechanical pencil later. This is about pens.
I love fine-pointed pens. They let me do things I usually can only do with a pencil. But I can work with other pens - I like clicky ball points because I can drive people around me nuts with the clicky end and I tend to write in a big, legible block print with them. They're good work pens for when I have inexhaustible office paper to write on.
The pens I got today, though - these are Art pens.
Mom (and yes, it all comes back to her), is an artist. In between all the havoc of raising kids, she's managed to sell a few paintings, even. My brother and I were raised with an appreciation for the art of the scribble. Mom tried to get us on calligraphy early on, when we were learning to write (and she fought long and hard with Dru's teachers because he was left-handed and they weren't teaching him correctly), but at that time we were more interested in finger paints and later, watercolors and acrylics and oils. Mom was the one who taught us pastels and watercolors - our art teacher at school asked her in every year just to do that unit.
So it was Mom who started me on this appreci... no, call it what it is: my art supply fetish.
These pens I bought today are art pens - they have thick, brushlike nibs with thick, dark ink in three colors (black, blue and this lovely green), and they're perfect.
I have had this leather covered book for over five years now - it's a plain 4X6 sketch book with a removable leather cover, and I've never figured out what I want to write in it. I didn't want to start stories in it, because those notebooks are inevitably torn apart and whittled down as I transcribe things to the computer and really get down to the nitty gritty of expanding the story. And I didn't really want to sketch in it - it's too small for good sketches, and I had other sketch books I was filling for my costume design class anyway.
But lately, lately I've ben getting back to the poetry thing, the haiku thing, the stringing together of small groups of words, syllables, and BANG there was the book for me.
But I didn't have the right pen. I can't immortalize good haiku and tanka (or even the really bad stuff) in pencil or fine pen! And the standard ballpoint is just right out - too common by far, and likely to skip and jump over the paper at the slightest encouragement. No, this required a special pen.
I made a special trip to the second floor of the South Campus Center (I was already on the first floor for lunch) to purchase these pens. They slid so smoothly across the test paper, trailing thick ink behind them in a swathe, marking the paper, transforming the bland whiteness to the vivid presence of words!
Yes, now, I have pens.
Now, you may think this rather commonplace, and in fact, it probably would be in any other circumstance, but you see, right now, I'm grooving with my pen-ness.
My handwriting changes wih the pens I use. If I have a mechanical pencil (.5mm, of course) or a fine point pen, I write in this small, precise scribble that hardly anyone else can read without a microscope. I'll have to go into my description of the perfect mechanical pencil later. This is about pens.
I love fine-pointed pens. They let me do things I usually can only do with a pencil. But I can work with other pens - I like clicky ball points because I can drive people around me nuts with the clicky end and I tend to write in a big, legible block print with them. They're good work pens for when I have inexhaustible office paper to write on.
The pens I got today, though - these are Art pens.
Mom (and yes, it all comes back to her), is an artist. In between all the havoc of raising kids, she's managed to sell a few paintings, even. My brother and I were raised with an appreciation for the art of the scribble. Mom tried to get us on calligraphy early on, when we were learning to write (and she fought long and hard with Dru's teachers because he was left-handed and they weren't teaching him correctly), but at that time we were more interested in finger paints and later, watercolors and acrylics and oils. Mom was the one who taught us pastels and watercolors - our art teacher at school asked her in every year just to do that unit.
So it was Mom who started me on this appreci... no, call it what it is: my art supply fetish.
These pens I bought today are art pens - they have thick, brushlike nibs with thick, dark ink in three colors (black, blue and this lovely green), and they're perfect.
I have had this leather covered book for over five years now - it's a plain 4X6 sketch book with a removable leather cover, and I've never figured out what I want to write in it. I didn't want to start stories in it, because those notebooks are inevitably torn apart and whittled down as I transcribe things to the computer and really get down to the nitty gritty of expanding the story. And I didn't really want to sketch in it - it's too small for good sketches, and I had other sketch books I was filling for my costume design class anyway.
But lately, lately I've ben getting back to the poetry thing, the haiku thing, the stringing together of small groups of words, syllables, and BANG there was the book for me.
But I didn't have the right pen. I can't immortalize good haiku and tanka (or even the really bad stuff) in pencil or fine pen! And the standard ballpoint is just right out - too common by far, and likely to skip and jump over the paper at the slightest encouragement. No, this required a special pen.
I made a special trip to the second floor of the South Campus Center (I was already on the first floor for lunch) to purchase these pens. They slid so smoothly across the test paper, trailing thick ink behind them in a swathe, marking the paper, transforming the bland whiteness to the vivid presence of words!
Yes, now, I have pens.
