It's that time of year again. About this time each year, the Pen Show comes to town, and I'm compelled to visit. Carrie Bradshaw has shoes. I have pens and paper. If one were to go through my house with a fine-toothed comb and remove all writing implements ...I'd probably have room for everything else and could retire my storage facility debt. But, like books, you can never have too many writing utensils or things to write on or in. At least in my estimation.
The idiocy of this is that most of my writing is done on my laptop. Hardly ever do I sit in my garret with pen in hand, consigning my deepest thoughts and insights to a leather-bound journal. Not that I don't HAVE that leather-bound journal (or its handmade paper-bound, or spiral-bound, or on-sale-at-Borders, or isn't-that-cute, or I-really-like-that-paper equivalents) or any number of fountain, roller-ball, ball-point, miniature, silver, resin, celluloid, or retractable pens to use. Open a drawer or purse or cabinet and they are there, ready and waiting.
BUT...the lure of the pen is there. I will no doubt make my way to Tysons Corner this weekend, park blocks away from the Sheraton Premiere, pay my admission and wander in awe past the thousand-dollar collector's pens, the works of art that one could barely imagine using. I will check out the latest and greatest in pen technology, ooh and ahh over the pretty colors and slim (or chunky) profiles. I will pick pens up and enjoy the weight and the feel of them--and imagine the deathless prose and poetry inside them, just waiting for my hand, my brain to release it.
Pens are souvenirs of my romance with words. They are a remembered first kiss, the pressed flower from a prom corsage, a fond recollection of a favorite dress. Long ago, I fell in love with the mystery and the texture and the magic of pen and paper, and I am still lost. I've embraced technology, but there is a corner of my heart that cherishes that first love and refuses to abandon it. The tactile pleasure of a special paper, the smooth luxuriant flow of ink, the sensory recognition of thought made tangible: these are the melody of my love song. And pens provide the words.
1 comment:
poetry from the poet.... the technology like the pen doesn't do your heart of words justice (no matter how shiny, smooth, jeweled, or well inked)
the movement of the eye on the screen with your words gives the same pleasure as reading them and getting newsprint smudges on my finger tips
wherever you are, with whatever tool you use, poetry is in you and within you
Thank God for that...
Post a Comment