What's up at Ravens March.

Vintage pens-Handmade books-Silly statements


Posted by Dirck on 27 May, 2013

Did I mention last week something about improving my karmic outlook?  If I accomplished that, then I must have narrowly averted an inter-cranial meteorite over the weekend.

On the pen front, I’ll mention the X-Pen that I made such a big deal out of trotting out.  On Friday night I was giving it a bit of a run, and I noticed something odd– the point was wiggling.  As any idiot will when presented with an unexpectedly wiggly thing (teeth, hardware fittings, portions of rock-faces), I gave it a little more wiggling.  The wiggle had specific parameters, but it also brought out some tufts of stuff.

My usual experience with tufts of stuff in connection with pens is habitual writing on bad paper and perhaps with poorly aligned tines.  Those tufts, though, are found between the tines or sometimes between point and feed.  In this case, the tufts were on the back of the point.  In this case, that’s almost certainly bad news.

The X-Pen is, remember, a capillary filler.  There are no channels involved in the traditional sense, since unlike the Parker 61’s arrangement there’s no feed.  Replacing that usually-required part is what might best be described as a wick.  I surmise that what has happened in mine is that the wick has disintegrated, or at least begun to disintegrate.  The reduction of material pressing against the point in its socket renders it loose.  The prolonged soaking out of ink begins.

At some point in the future, I may see about breaking into this pen and trying to address the problem.  For the foreseeable future, though, it will remain a shelf-bound curiosity.  That is, of course, not the sort of thing that bears the marks of cosmic retribution, and so I consider it in conjunction with the Sunday night fun I got to participate in.

Picture, if you will, a man laying at his full length on a floor.  Why’s he there?  An few hours of carpentry, done on his parents’ behalf to address a door that Winter had made unwilling to close properly, followed by the traditional Sunday afternoon drink and Sunday evening meal– all conspiring to make for a guy willing to relax and seeing a hard flat surface as a good idea for his back’s sake.  Picture further, a sturdy all-teak Danish modern coffee table occupying a space parallel to the chap in question.  A table easily capable of supporting an active four-year-old boy.

And no one in the room realizes what the boy is up to until he leaps from one to the other.  His feet went in between ribs and navel.

My first thought after the initial, untranscribable sense-impressions was “Crap, this is what Houdini died of.”  Apparently my son’s cartoonish act of parent abuse missed all the important rupture-prone organs, as there appears to be no serious lasting damage (but sore, oh yes indeed!).  He was, remarkable for his unempathic age, solicitous to me, as I lay there gasping and clutching, rubbing my back gently.  A boy’s first lasting lesson in consequences?  Or perhaps in the physical limitations of poor ol’ pop?

I hope so, as I really don’t want to try that again when he’s heavier.

Today’s pen: Waterman Carène
Today’s ink: Herbin Bleu Myosotis


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