Tiny Stories, Tiny Tales

zebra workhorse

 

The day in 1st grade that I graduated to writing from a pencil to a pen was a tremendous occasion. I had labored for months on holding the pencil correctly, mastering the art of (somewhat) straight and curved lines, learning to write with a light touch rather than a lead grinding one. I no longer made holes in my pencil from sharpened pencil tips, I could shade in shapes and above all, I was beyond tired of envying  my parents for using pens whenever they wanted. The moment had finally arrived: my 1st grade teacher announced I was ready and handed me a blue Bic pen.

My self-satisfaction and smugness soared through the roof. Not only was I using ink but I was among the few who did. Not everyone else had worked as hard. They must continue to labor over alphabet worksheets with infantile pencils that must be sharpened by hand every day. How demeaning.

And so began my love affair with pens.

In many ways, I never moved past my 1st grade achievement.  The goal had been to write with ink and when that hurdle was cleared, any pen would do. Ink was the point. It wasn’t until college that I developed any sort of pen preference and that was do more to the fact that I didn’t have a laptop and was handwriting on paper constantly.  Pentel RSVP Ballpoint was my first favorite and later on after college, Papermate Flexgrip Elite 1mm black ballpoint was the preference.

And then last fall on a visit to Seattle, WA, dear Amanda escorted me to Kinokunyia’s Bookstore and I was flabbergasted. There were rows upon rows of pens, pencils, highlighters, gelpens, refills, erasers, and sample pens were everywhere. I had heard of such places but I had never been to one.

My head swam and I was shook but I set my teeth. I would try out as many pens as I had time for and take away a few. Amanda was a patient saint while I made my long and vacillating journey. I think I tried every pen they had. I came away clutching a handful.

Autumn and winter have passed since that fateful day. I’ve narrowed them down to one  tried and true favorite workhorse, the Zebra Surari .7mm Emulsion Ink Pen.

Zebra is a Japanese pen and  writes much smoother than the usual American pen. The writing line is deep and precise, plus the narrow body is a great fit for my hand. There’s a great pleasure to be had from a smooth flowing pen that I hadn’t known before Zebra.  My next favorite is the Zebra Surari .5mm ballpoint. It has the same narrow body, smooth flow but with an even finer line. I tend to go for wider lines but sometimes a fine line suits the mood of the day.

A big perk is that refills are available for these pens. No more buying a box of pens and throwing them away as they cease to work, an issue I’ve always hated due to the waste.

The pleasure of a fine pen is a very great thing, indeed. No doubt I’ll learn more as I pop into pen shops and chat with pen connoisseurs. If you’re someone who writes a great deal by hand, I’d encourage you to discover the pleasure of trying out different pens from different countries. It’s an unexpected delight. And please feel free share your favorite pens here. Simple or elaborate, pens are part of everyday pleasures.

Comments (2):

  1. Laura H

    March 16, 2017 at 9:51 pm

    Glad we are still linked!

  2. Catherine

    March 17, 2017 at 11:04 am

    I am too, Laura! 🙂 I hope you’re doing well.

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I Have Wine and Moon and Flowers: Reading Su Tung-P’o During a Pandemic

As we watch spring growth overtake last year’s dead bracken and grasses, there is both consolation and brutality. This year’s greenery melds with disease: the emergence of flowers entangles with the blossoming of a pandemic.

While the novel coronavirus rages through communities, our lives have shrunk down to fit the small rooms and little neighborhoods that we must now be still in. What do we do in this diminished space? What do we see?

 

6th Moon, 27th Sun: Sipping Wine at Lake-View Tower

 

1

 

Black clouds, soaring ink, nearly blot out these mountains.

White raindrops, skipping pearls, skitter wildly into the boat,

 

Then wind comes across furling earth, scatters them away,

And below Lake-View Tower, lakewater suddenly turns to sky.

 

2

 

Setting animals loose—fish and turtles—I’m an exile out here,

but no one owns waterlilies everywhere blooming, blooming.

 

This lake pillow mountains, starts them glancing up and down,

And my breezy boat wander free, drifts with an aimless moon.

 

Su Tung-P’o (trans. David Hinton)

 

As the great poet Su Tung-P’o knew so well, we see our own natures in everything. The outside world becomes a reflection of our own states; though if we can still ourselves enough as we gaze out, a depth opens and time becomes immaterial.

A master of reflection and stillness, Su Tung-P’o 苏童 lived nearly one thousand years ago and is considered one of great poets of the Song Dynasty. He led a brilliant and varied career as poet, politician, writer, calligrapher, painter and aesthetic theorist. Due to his outspoken and opposing views on the government, he was jailed and sent into exile on three separate occasions.

After his experience in jail and subsequent exile, his poetry evolved and deepen and his surviving work reflect his delicate, painful relationship with loneliness and desolation.

 

Moon, Flowers, Man

 

I raise my cup and invite

The moon to come down from the

Sky.  I hope she will accept

Me. I raise my cup and ask

The branches, heavy with flowers,

To drink with me.  I wish them

Long life and promise never

To pick them.  In company

With the moon and the flowers,

I get drunk, and none of us

Ever worries about good

Or bad.  How many people

Can comprehend our joy? I

Have wine and moon and flowers.

Who else do I want for drinking companions?

(trans. Kenneth Rexroth)

 

To help alleviate the sufferings of a difficult life, he became the devotee of Zen Buddhism and his poetics reflects the practice of the “beginner’s mind,” the ability to meet each experience with equilibrium and a “spontaneous and crystalline responsiveness.”

 

At Seven-Mile Rapids

 

A light boat one loan leaf,

a startled swan two oars—

 

water and sky are pure clarity

reflecting deep. Waves smooth,

 

fish roil this duckweed mirror

and egrets dot misty shorelines.

 

We breeze past sandy streams,

frostfall streams cold,

moonlit streams aglow.

 

ridge above ridge like a painting,

bend beyond bend like a screen.

 

Here I think back to

Yen Tzu-ling’s empty old age,

 

lord and recluse one dream.

Renown’s empty then as now,

 

just mountains stretching away:

cloud mountains erratic,

dawn mountains green.

 

Out of his poetry emerges a beautiful balance, the ability to look at both joy and sorrow with gentle tranquility and wry amusement.

 

At Brahma-Heaven Monastery, Rhymed with a Short Poem of Crystalline Beauty by the Monk Acumen-Hoard

 

You can only hear a bell out beyond the mist:

the monastery deep in mist is lost to sight.

 

Straw sandals wet with the dew of grasses,

a recluse wanders. Never coming to rest,

 

he’s simply an echo of mountaintop moon—

light coming and going night after night.

 

(trans. David Hinton)

 

Su Tung-P’o’s poetry illuminates the beauty and loneliness running throughout ourselves and Nature. His work becomes a sort of map for this strange new world we find ourselves in: isolated yet surrounded, weary but still observing, cut off but yet deeply involved.

 

After T’ao Ch’ien’s “Drinking Wine”

 

3

 

This little boat of mine, truly a lone leaf,

and beneath it, the sound of dark swells:

 

I keep paddling in the depths of night, drunk,

pleasures of home, bed, and desk forgotten.

 

At dawn, when I ask about the road ahead,

I’ve already past a thousand ridges rising

 

beyond ridges. O where am I going here,

this Way forever leaving ever returning?

 

Never arriving, what can we understand,

and always leaving, what’s left to explain?

 

(trans. David Hinton)

 

Tides of Snow and Ice

This winter has been a continuous series of freezes and thaws: it’s the warmest winter on record, the tenth one in a row. A more usual winter starts with a deep freeze and then stays cold for months. Instead, snow falls, piles up and vanishes; rises up again and retreats, now falling as rain, swelling rivers and creeks. Rain and snow mingle together until everything runs with water; hillsides and flat-sides are coated in a deep, dark mud.

I stopped on my walk today, halted by a sudden flash of gold. The sunset rays were falling into a tiny puddle spanning the space between the root and trunk of a maple. The puddle reflected gold and silver on top and below was dark mud, black and brown, full of microorganisms and other tiny creatures unseen by the human eye. I briefly considered putting my hand to the shining surface. It beckoned, winking like a diamond, but pull of my walk was irresistible and I continued forward. 

Mud is for March and April, mud so thick and heavy that it can pull shoes off and make them disappear like a magic trick beneath the solemn and still brown. Mud in February is a strange slight, an awakening that shouldn’t be occurring yet. It’s all the more cruel because even though the temperatures rise, they inevitably dip into the single digits and everything freezes solid. Many times I’ve spotted squirrels and tiny birds on the creek’s ice, searching for openings to drink from.

During this particular thaw, the creek casts off ice, it’s center opening like a dark cut. The water sings as it cascades over the rocks, proclaiming it’s momentarily relief from the grip of winter. In Scandinavian folklore, there is a belief that given the proper offerings, a creek could teach a human how to play the most bewitching music. I crouch down near the creek, record a video of it singing on my phone and replay its music in the evening while lying on the couch. I should give something in return for the pleasure of its song and I consider. Perhaps some lavender buds I have stored away for a certain recipe, or a small pinecone I keep on a shelf to admire, or birch bark I retrieved from a favorite tree cut down years ago. 

The next day I return, and after waiting for a few dogs and their owners to pass by, I crouch next the side of the creek and sprinkle lavender buds into the small, clear stream. The buds vanish as soon as I drop them into the water– as if they never existed. I drop some more in and the same occurs; they’re gone before I can blink. The current flows by, washing over stones, fleeting by banks of mud, until it vanishes around the bend where the pine trees tower overhead.

As I gaze at the water, first downstream and then upstream, my own self quiets, stills, and momentarily dissolves into the landscape. The relief, though short, is palpable. Alone becomes together and perhaps that is what’s this practice of thanking the creek has been about all along.