I’m publishing a piece I wrote in fall 2003. It’s a true story. I’ll elaborate afterward.
Wrote this entry in fall 2003 (before I know about blogging)
Journal Entry About a Pen
I have a secret love affair with the pilot precise rolling ball pen. The blue variety. It’s the most beautiful pen I’ve ever owned. Sure, I’ve met others like it, and yes, I have to admit I’ve flirted with using other colors, yet there has been no pen like this one. I write to you with it now.
To the untrained eye, it might seem to be nothing but a dollar bargain buy at Staples. However, the pen’s beauty runs much deeper. I lust after it’s slender body, watching regretfully as the long rectangular viewing window displays the amount of ink sluggishly dissipating. The sturdy metal clip attached to it’s cap convincingly affixes itself to the covers of my notebooks and the rings of my binders. God I love this pen.
My fascination grows to respect. Not only my method of forming ink on paper, it is my detailed memory, my means of expression and my reliable companion. Lounging lifelessly on desks and counters, it pleads with me to scribble life into it again. The symbiotic relationship we exist in has brought me through a lot: Through fourth period’s boredom doodles, long letters to my cousin in Cleveland, reminders sloppily written on the tops of my hands, and examencitos en la clase de Espanol, through one hundred and seventy-five pages of a mead composition book, excessive note-taking, and the exorcism of frustration from the those those sleepless Friday nights.
The day I lost my pen I tried to console myself. I thought, hey, don’t worry, it has to turn up somewhere. It’s no big deal, right? But I couldn’t shake the conviction that I had lost it in my own carelessness. Disgusted with my own irresponsibility, I couldn’t believe I had been so thoughtless with my most prized position. For the long days that followed, I dabbled in the worlds of Bic and Sharpie, searching for a rebound pen. In my desperation, I even wrote in pencil. It just wasn’t the same.
It was the fourth day post pen. Riding in an unnamed friend’s car I spotted my gem in the glove compartment of her car. “It’s okay… count to ten,” I reminded myself. She doesn’t understand the fluid of my pen. The consistency of it’s performance, the endangered ink, decreasing with each encore worthy performance. The shame, the horror, the disgrace. I shuddered.
“You took my pen,” I clenched.
“I love this song!” She shrugged, turning up the volume. I grasped its lean body. It’s stem form. It felt used. Run down.
Two days ago I had to do what I had been dreading since September 4th of this year. I had my blue pilot precise rolling ball pen to rest. It drank from its filament yolk sac of ink for the last time. It was parched of its water, sucked the life right out of itself. As I look at the new found translucence of the empty body and dried specks of ink, I can’t help but wonder if a short, productive life was better than the long unused one of legions of pens like it. I wonder if it would trade me and my companionship for its wet fluidity again. But I realize that would mean years of long dark drawers and cold new hands.
We were two of a kind. If a dog is a man’s best friend, then right next them are a girl and her pen. Rest in peace, my friend.
Looking Back Now
The friend in the story is Maura, still one of my best friends today. Five years may not seem like a long time, but she’s the oldest friend I have, apart from my sister. My family moved around a lot as my mom hopped from newspaper to newspaper for her career. This was before anyone was willing to admit print was dying.
My cousin and I still keep in touch, although she moved from Cleveland to L.A. to pursue an acting career. Sadly, I can’t say the same for the pen. We grew apart. Once I let go of this first love, I discovered an affinity for laptops. Since then, I’ve fallen away from writing with pen and paper in favor of blogging.