I will occasionally make low moaning noises here about the state of my personal economy. The fact that I haven’t lately is down to me not wanting to interfere with:
- the purported creative process which I’m now giving so much of what was once blogging time to pursue;
- the enjoyment of their own lives which my readers may be feeling.
The fact is, though, that I’m on the edge of selling about half my current collection, needing only to get a few pictures sorted before throwing onto eBay what I hope will be a very attractive job-lot of pens to appeal to a well-heeled person who hasn’t yet established the foundation for a collection.
Now, last week, when comparing bank and credit card statements to formulate this plan of action (and even pondering the notion of gofundme), something happened which makes the upcoming separation sting far less than it might. A large and unanticipated box was delivered in the mail.
Part of the sting-reduction lies in a forced perspective, and not the sort that Bert I. Gordon made so much mileage out of. The return address revealed the identity of the donor, and that alone was enough to take some of the wind from the sails of moping. Donor is a correspondent, or rather a lapsed correspondent, with whom I now keep up with only via Facebook. This person (who is by any metric an uncommonly decent person) had a rather bad turn of health a couple of years ago, and the perspective forced on me is this: however unburdened with cash I may be, I am still quite sound wind and limb. In fact, for someone of my age whose exercise is down to going up a flight of stairs twice a day, I’m in startlingly good health. Rest assured, I take those stairs two at a time in an effort to remain healthy.
In the box was a great deal of packing material, the items protected by that material, and a note. The note explained that the items were, in the donor’s new accommodations at a long-term care facility, no longed supportable, and would I give then a good home? I was momentarily concerned that I might be about to find a singing frog, but no such doom awaited. One of the items was green, though…
Technically a black-tipped jade Lucky Curve; do you see “Duofold” anywhere on that?
This is a pen I had worked on previously; the donor had, during the time of our correspondence, sent a lot of pens for me to have various issues seen to (this line of work gave my mild prejudice against Italian pens a lot of fertilizer, too; pretty, but not necessarily functional). It has a rather dreamy factory stub point, and is from early enough in the run that it doesn’t say DUOFOLD under the breather hole, but LUCKY CURVE. Good fun!
The other item is a real jaw-dropper, and left me staggering around the room, clutching at furniture for support lest I faint:
Arco Brown OMAS Arte Italiana Milord– say that five times, fast… it you aren’t stuck at “zowie” or “ohhhhhh, my.”
This is now officially the most expensive pen I own, and is in the top… we’ll say twenty… for most expensive single item I own. If things I will fit into are dismissed (house, car, washer if I’m properly folded), then it’s top five. And because it’s a gift, it’s objective value is multiplied by about ten thousand in terms of how much money someone would have to thrust at me to part with it. Donor also reports it as just about the best-writing pen ever to grace that once-vast collection, in which it was not the most expensive thing, which means I also get a kick in the shins of that previously-mentioned prejudice– any undermining of prejudice is a positive good.
Thus, the upcoming departure of a bunch of pens doesn’t trouble me too deeply. Aside from the arrival of a couple of really splendid replacements, I am once again reminded of the vast luck in my life which has brought me acquainted with some really marvelous human beings. There’s a lingering sense of not quite deserving such things, but that informs the effort to become worthy. Do unto others and all that, arranged as a feedback loop.
Today’s pen: Lamy Studio
Today’s ink: Herbin Éclat de Saphir