Thursday, July 4, 2013

Dried Ink

Fountain pen with dried ink, painted in Artrage.

I wrote this for the "From the Editor" column in the second issue of The Leaky Pen:

Dried ink.

It makes me careful while holding the pen. Because some of it isn't dry.

I was standing at the counter at the bank when it first leaked. I always carry my pen in my shirt pocket and miraculously it didn't leak while in my pocket. Only when I took it out and uncapped it to endorse the check. Then I saw my fingers were stained.

It was surprising—after 12 years of using a fountain pen, this was a first. I felt betrayed. I've always felt or thought of my pen as a friend. Of course that sane part in my mind knows it's only a tool to make marks on paper, but the playful side, the muse-tickled corner remembers the sudden unexpected sentences that touched the emotions in just the right way.

Perhaps it was because I hadn't written for awhile and all that ink was just bursting to get out—with or without my help.

Now I'm afraid to trust it. I keep it in my backpack (which I always keep with me, but it's not the same).

It's a friend that done me wrong, but my best friend nonetheless.

The Leaky Pen, Vol.1 Issue 2, September 1998

No comments:

Post a Comment