12/27/10 12:13 pm - Scritch.
The last pen in the nice set I'd bought went dry a few days ago. I'm not very good about keeping up with pens and paper, probably because of a subconscious fear of a nascent obsession I have with them.
(You don't say — a blog entry about a hollow neurosis?)
The nice set was about as nice as you can get in a multi-pack. Black rubber and chrome, ergonomic and retractable, with rich black gel ink that rolled over the tip smoothly — clean, unbroken lines, mm — and dried quickly, so that it didn't smear all over the page and leave splotches on my hands.
A guy's gotta write. I turned up a box still packed away in my office.
I remembered these. I got them in some business conference: a little bit of kiss-ass from an office supply store. This was their house brand. Whatever; I'm not picky.
These pens aren't so hot. Their plastic barrels are coated in cheap paint with no topcoat that chips off on my hand and in my pocket, tapering down into an unremarkable naked tin tip that leaks ink in tiny, sloppy lines that creep out along the fibers of the paper like black frost shitting all over my shitty penmanship. It takes its time drying, even on the cheap, coarse paper I use to take my notes. It's too thin for my fingers.
I fucking love this pen.
See, it makes an amazing sound. When I write with this pen, I can feel the texture of the paper in my fingers, and hear it scritching and scratching faintly over, onto, and between the surfaces of the paper and its resonating dully in the paper of the pad, and the wood of the table beneath that. I like the imperfection of the lines, too, but that's impractical and completely secondary.
In What Dreams May Come, a pretty okay to middling movie (great visuals, good acting, but there's a Magical Negro), there's a scene where Ann, less than sane, is writing a letter to a dead person. She has a fantastic pen and what looks like vellum, and the sound of this process, the flow of the ink, and the stroke of her pens are so well captured that I actually bought the movie just to watch that scene whenever the whim took me.
I'm realizing I'm all about sound. The dark, moist raking of my nails over a partner's excited skin, thinly coated in a fresh sheen of sweat, the warm, hollow sound of a heavy-bottomed glass moving across a wooden table, a heartbeat and breath, the falls of my bootheels, the minor-key ring of a knife, the dead tapping of my fingers on the touchscreen of my smartphone.
Few things, though, can compare to a resonant pen over the right sheet of paper.
Gotta play with this more.