Spotty.

The word to describe the upcoming were here on the web-log. I have the upcoming week off, and given the lunch-hour-filling nature of this effort, I may find myself more profitably engaged at home.

Just a quick note on the pen front– I committed a smear today. I usually avoid this sort of thing through care and attention, as I am well aware of both drying time and the wetness of my desk pen. It was not on anything important, and I was actually a little pleased to put into circulation come of the most obvious sort of evidence of fountain pen use.

Today’s pen: Lamy Vista (casual day at The Regular Job)
Today’s ink: Herbin’s Bleu Nuit (this week’s theme, as it turns out– sensible, non-flamboyant ink colours)

Style, not substance.

Yesterday’s pen is one of the least pleasing Sheaffers I’ve run across, and that’s saying a lot. I think, with my powers of retrospective at as full power as a throbbing left eye will allow (migraine will lead to a short entry), I have the reason sorted.

The Stylist was meant to be a response to the Parker 45, a sort of workhorse upon which gay costumes might occasionally be draped but which was at it’s core meant for the masses. Part of the 45’s appeal was the interchangible point, and so in challenging the 45 it was decided that the Stylist should also have an easily-unscrewed forepart.

All well and good, and we get to the bit where I should have taken some pictures. When the point of a 45 is undone, a rather spindly little feed component comes out with it, one which reaches well into the section. The Stylist has almost nothing beyond the level of the threads, and I think without something to guide the ink across the transition from section to point, the pen isn’t that willing to start.

It could be that I have a bum example of the line, of course. It was the cheapest Stylist one could get. Still, my inkster sense tingles….

Today’s non-irritating pen: Parker Duofold Senior
Today’s ink which sadly does not cure headaches: Lamy blue-black

You’ll live longer.

I’m having an oddly mystical moment. I hope I don’t get too tie-dyed for the regular readers.

I was this morning spinning fantasies while going through the rote of the first hour at The Regular Job, as a way of keeping my mind from going all gummy. The main thrust of it was setting up a proper, real-world little pen shop, all mellow oak and dark wall-paper, with halogen spots shining their delightfully natural light upon a stock of pens to please all comers. A subset was what a television commercial for this shop might look like. After stumbling on a couple of highly coincidental things as the morning went on, I’ll share this vision–

A chap walks through a madhouse vision of a morning; children and pets shrieking at one another, angry cops making move-along gestures while shrilling on a whistle, diverse lunatics waving bills yelling, “Pay me! Pay me!” with all the humanity of a flock of gannets. He passes through a door into a den, and in the utter silence of the sanctum he spends a few seconds on the calming ritual of filling a (somewhat generic, probably lever-filling) pen, while a pleasing voice-over in Royal Shakespeare tones says something like, “Relax. At least you know the pen will work.”

Something like that, anyway. It’s first-draft at best. Moving on through the morning, I’ve run across a couple of mentions of the joy of sending and receiving actual mail, a contemplation whether “Snail Mail” isn’t unduly derrogatory, and through these a nice manifesto on slow art as a way of life.

Today’s theme, at least as it’s passing in front of me, is that it would be nice to slow down and enjoy life. Whether you’re of a reincarnationist bent or figure it’s once around and then lights out, most people not currently in pain agree that life is a pretty good deal. We industrialized folks let ourselves get stampeded along, racing to get to some ephemeral finish line (Retirement? Quarterly earnings goal? Really cool car in time for the high-school reunion?) so madly that the metaphorical and sometimes even actual flowers along our route are ignored as pointless distractions.

They’re not, you know. They’re actually the point. This is in no way an original notion, nor does it lack in triteness, but that doesn’t render it false. The point of being alive is not to make a splash, but to enjoy the fact of it (ideally without hindering anyone else’s enjoyment). Making a splash, by the way, is probably not a comfortable way of punctuating one’s existence, although it’s over quickly if you jump from a great enough height.

Take a moment. Fill your pen. Don’t trouble about what the rest of the day brings, but enjoy the fact that you’re sitting comfortably, you’re holding a nice pen and that anything you write today can be art if you relax. Failing that, find some other little rituals that will allow you to interrupt the habitual mad rush. In relaxing, you’re taking some of the strain off your mechanism, and in addition to enjoying life a little more, you get a little more life to live. We are all, really, racing to a single finish line, and since none of us really know what the prize is (Eternal hellfire? Clouds’n'Harps? Endless pudding-pops and crowd of sympathetic virgins?) there’s no point in being the first on across.

Oh, heck, my lunch break is over! Gotta run!

Today’s mellow pen: Sheaffer Stylist(actually, I’m not that much fonder of it than I was yesterday, but I’m not willing to spoil my mood dwelling on it)
Today’s enlightening ink: Skrip blue

Stupid Nazis.

I can hardly use “My Struggle” as a title, thanks to that wretched Schicklgruber. In any event, this is a rather less political tribulation than that of the last century’s best known ex-corporal (I won’t say biggest monster, because there’s at least two other contestants for the title– what a sweet old world it is).

Part of the problem is this sore arm, which after nearly 48 hours is finally having the good grace to show a bruise. When one is standing in poses frequently associated with Richard III and making stifled little noises when attempting to pick up a water glass, it’s better if the limb in question at least looks damaged. It’s somewhat less sore than yesterday, so I stand by my “nothing broken” diagnosis.

I seem to be having some difficulties with Sheaffers, for reasons which elude me, which brings an end to my run of having a maker for a given week. This is just as well, because I don’t think my collection would really support it after the Sheaffers anyway.

I mentioned that yesterday’s pen was not, initially, working as it should. Last night, I thought I’d bring out a new kid for a run, a Stylist. I thought I had all its issues dealt with, and all it needed was a fresh cartridge to return to the life of a working pen. As of leaving the house this morning, I’m not sure that my somewhat lamed effort to convince it of its duty have worked– I think so, but rather than find myself out in the world with a hesistant pen, thus bringing scorn down upon fountain pens as a class, I left it home to think about what it’s done. Hopefully tomorrow– either way, I have some extended comments to make about it, when typing is less of a trial.

The sore arm does not help in the areas of precision dexterity, nor of patience. If you have a fiddly project to pursue, I recommend against getting beaten with a cudgel.

Today’s willing pen: Osmiroid 75 with a “Rola-tip” broad point (essentially a stub)
Today’s unvexing ink: Mont Blanc Racing Green

What is the sound of one hand clapping?

Because that’s all that will be heard out of me for the next week or so.

This weekend involved a certain amount of struggle, which has bled into this morning– today’s pen would simply not feed until about 10:30, when it became biddable once again (which means I put it under the microscope when I get home).

Saturday, with my son sleeping something like a normal infant once again (leading us to think he’s unwell), I engaged in what proved to be a protracted struggle with the most contumelious, contrary and ill-natured Parker “51″ I’ve yet encountered. About the time the tiny despot was waking, I had discovered why the pen was acting as it did– a bad upbringing. Some bright light in ages past had used some sort of adhesive on almost every part of the pen meant to disassemble. The hood was stuck, the filler stuck in the barrel, the point stuck in the collector (!) and worst of all the threaded part of the filler stuck in the conical part (I offer an anatomical view of this sort of pen for those not right up on the technical details). This last is fairly disasterous, because the conical bit, and the diaphragm it supports, really must not turn while the filler is being reintroduced to the barrel. I have not actually got this problem sorted as yet.

Someone had also had a go at getting at the point without removing the hood, damaging both. The hood is one of the parts I mentioned previously. I think I’ve got the point sorted out, at least to being functional. It fills the heart with wrath and other unhealthy things that displace the blood that belongs there.

This is not the reason, though, for my semi-unidexterity. I mentioned at some point in the distant past my connection with the Society for Creative Anachronism. Now that my son is old enough to appreciate it and my wife is desperate for any reason at all to get out of the house, I have started to attend our combat practices with renewed regularity.

This is, if not a martial art, at least a martial skill. It may be a glorification of the sort of playing “swords” kids all do if presented with a twig, an appropriate context (just saw Robin Hood or similar), and sufficient parental distraction, but it’s something we take reasonably seriously. Fake swords, real armour, and hitting with the sort of speed and force we believe would get the sword to do it’s business were it real.

Through presenting an awkward defence to a left-handed partner, therefore, I got to make a terrible little squeaking noise and amuse my son deeply. It’s just a couple of guys playing “swords”, yes, but when hit on the pink underside of the wrist by a burly chap using a four-foot long rattan club about and inch and a half around, the distinction between play and real gets extremely blurry.

Nothing broken, and I can very nearly grip things full strength again. But it is a valuable lesson on the limitations of both armour and one’s own stoicism. I’m sure glad it’s not my right hand.

Today’s pen: Sheaffer Statesman snorkel
Today’s ink: Skrip blue-black (which amazingly doesn’t describe my hand).

Post Scriptus: I notice that today is, by the reckoning of the Ottawa Fountain Pen Society, Stylophile’s Day. If you’re not afraid of getting ink on you, go hug a pen loonie.

Action Pen-ding

Another short entry through the nature of my Fridays, and I’ll just note that an influx of parts renders me able to get going on some repairs that have been left hanging for want. Now all I need is for my son to not go too mad this weekend so I’ll have time to get at them.

The title reminds me– I should start putting away some money to afford the tools to take dents out of metal caps.

Today’s pen: Waterman Phileas
Today’s ink: Herbin’s Poussière de Lune

Invisibility

In a recent installment, the Penquod’s owner-aboard noted that he has fulfilled a longstanding ambition and bought a proper hat, and was subsequently worried that his might undo his longstanding pursuit of anonymous background-blending. An appendix to today’s episode shows some foundation to his worries.

I want to put his mind at rest. Adopting a hat is a long-standing part of becoming invisible– even H.G. Wells knew it:

He was wrapped up from head to foot, and the brim of his soft felt hat hid every inch of his face but the shiny tip of his nose;

The thing is that most people when presented with something outside their common experience will choose to ignore it. The same sort of unconscious yet willful blindness that leads folks to step across a body, supporting the maneuver on the head of a kneeling paramedic, renders most people insensible of things like nice hats.

There are some folks who will be able to penetrate this cloak. As The Inkanthropist discovers, the majority of these are simpletons who overcome the problem by simple dint of having no subconscious– all their resources are at the top of consciousness, working madly to keep them from wandering off piers or eating light bulbs. There are a very few other observant souls who actually attend to what is in front of them and have the wit to comprehend it, although they’re generally too shy if not fictional to pass along a comment.

The same effect prevents people from noticing fountain pens, I’m sure. Yesterday, for the first time in an age, someone commented on the pen I was using– the lady at a customer service desk in a store where I was returning something. I’m pretty sure that the fact that most of the pen is of modern design allowed her to step around the usual veil which seems to descend every time I’m waving a pen around in public. Had it been the pen of either of the previous two days, each much more striking but also much more obviously anachronistic, I have no doubt I wouldn’t have heard the admiring coo.

I’m sure this will persist until, if the current apparent trend for a return to hattedness continues, there’s noting noteworthy about having a decent lid while walking out. Invisibility becomes flock-anonymity once again.

Today’s hard-to-spot pen: Waterman Citation
Today’s sneaky ink: Noodler’s Van Gogh Starry Night (it is sneaky, too– you’d hardly believe it was a blue ink rather than a black one)

Madcap.

A sign of how very exciting my life is– my entire lunch hour has been devoted to an unnecessarily epic struggle to get a new filter for the vacuum. Since the alternatives include running from alien-directed meteors (unlikely) and natural disasters one can’t just put on better boots to deal with (quite possible), I’ll not complain too much.

Today’s exhillarating pen: Waterman Hémisphère
Today’s dazzling ink: Herbin’s Vert Empire

Shovelling out

This past weekend we saw Winter return in its accustomed shape– rather cold and unpleasant. Rather than the usual too much cold issue we face here, we found ourselves with an uncommon too much snow complaint. Generally, until late February, it’s too cold for enough moisture to stay in the air to allow snow to develop, but the preceeding fine weather produced roughly 30cm (archaic measures: a foot, one sixth-fathom) of snow. The accompanying winds meant that this was not entirely even in its distribution– by my house there are drifts of chest-height and voids where it’s no more than mid-shin.

The sidewalk, which law demands we shovel, was sadly hip-deep. My shovel-moving parts are quite sore.

In deference to the English who faced… somewhat less snow with much less experience of it, I apologize for any imputations. Much of the city, and the province, was brought to a standstill by Monday morning. I myself took two full minutes longer than usual driving the 8km to The Regular Job (and then 10 minutes of nervous circling trying to find a way into the parking lot), and about half my co-workers never managed it. I can only hope this means that Europe is struggling along under the kind of winter it’s used to as well.

Along with this tedious weather report (although I imagine some Australians are enjoying even the concept of cold weather about now), I bring word on the durability of my experimental Quink redemption. A week and more on the paper, left exposed to common indoor light, and it’s stayed essentially the colour its immediate ancestor was. Those anxious to try it for themselves may rest assured that they’re not ruining a bottle of ink. Not any more than Parker has done to it, at least.

Today’s pen: Waterman Champion
Today’s ink: Skrip blue-black

Exercising Literacy

Last week I mentioned properly exercising the spine of a book. This is something I mean to put into my website, but since I’m moving quite glacially in the book side of the site, I’m going to cover it here.

When a book is new, it should in theory have just come from a series of clamps and presses all aimed at making it the densest object it can be. Exercising it returns some of the lost flexibility to the spine, giving it some direction in its future opening. It’s also not a bad idea to treat in a similar manner books which have stood on a tightly-packed shelf for some years.

The first step is to take the closed book and set it so that the spine rests on a table top– as if you’re about to let it drop open to a random page. Don’t, however, just let it drop open. Carefully lower only the covers to the table while holding all the pages upright, which gives you something shaped like an inverted T with a rather thick stem.

Now, in very small doses of five or ten pages at a time, let sections of the text down onto the covers. Run a hand along the valley, where the section you just released meets the still-upright portion of the book, to smooth it down so it lies in a relaxed manner. You want to alternate sides when doing this, working incrementally towards the middle of the book. The last smoothing gesture along the valley should occur at just about the centre of the book, and when done should leave you with a book sitting happily flat and open on the table you’ve been working on.

None of this applies to paperbacks, of course– this will do just as much glue that holds the papers together as regular reading on those sad creatures. The closer to a traditional flexible binding your book has, the more good this will do it. The very cheaply-bound modern hardcover will hardly profit by it at all, since they’re essentially disguised paperbacks. The slightly-less-cheaply-bound ones, which have the pages arranged in signatures which are gouged and glues, take a little more good from exercise, and books with authentic sewn bindings (of which there are still some on the market) will positively revel in it. This applies also to journals, of course, and if you find yourself with one of those odd objects from Paperblanks with the visible stitching it’s also applicable.

This is one of the areas in which e-books really can’t compete. You may through a Kindle or Nook come into contact with the notions of a writer, but you lose this potential of ritual and communion with the medium through which those notions come to you. Gently massage a book, and in addition to the tactile rewards you can explain to the onlooker that it helps the book last. Do the same to an ebook reader, and you’re just a weirdo.

Today’s pen: Waterman Thorobred (I think I shall have a Waterman Week as counterpoint to last week’s theme)
Today’s ink: Herbin’s Lis de Thé