theones
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![]() Posted: Post subject: Ticonderoga Noir |
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Ticonderoga Noir. Finding a
fresh pencil from the box. Sleek black
paint, finely lacquered. Graphite absorbing
light, the tip as sharp as a pin. The ferrule a shining
green shock of color with impending amber strips alongside
ridges that allow for a grip even during the worst mistakes.
A silvery leaf flows down the shaft, creating a simply
divine constellation of stars that spell out its
name and description. Each fresh box
holds unnumbered possibilities.
Each pencil in
its nook, just waiting to be the
instrument used to melt my ideas to the paper. The hard,
dark graphite creates a meticulous line across the page, giving a sharp
contrast to the white paper. Its drag gives pause to what I write, substance
that pen brags it has all but removed from its gliding ink. Give me a pencil
any day and I will offer up a well worded work of art. Give
me a pen and you shall find a deplorable mess of
misspelled words and grammatical
errors in its wake.
Even sharpening
a pencil can be a happy
challenge. The sharpeners provided
at school, harsh, mounted, troublesome things
that chew pencils worse than a nicotine deprived smoker.
Using a knife creates a roughly hewn terrain that
irritates the eye as well as the word,
its gnarled tip a dull stump
of graphite too blunt
to cut a sharp line.
Give me
a small, simple sharpener.
Let me coax the pencil into a smooth,
pointed finish, each shaving long and intact. Let me
nurse the pencil, keeping the tip sharp, the line separating the wood
from graphite even and unblemished. If the words are gentle,
hold the shaft with delicate fingers and at a
relaxed angle. If the words are harsh and
passionate, hold the pencil erect,
and in a strong grip.
Let the pencil wear
a groove, a callus upon
your finger wherever it lays.
Let it create an impression upon you
as much as the words that blossom from its tip
create upon the world. Make each and
every word your own with a
sliding curve, a deliberate
curl, a soft touch
on the paper.
Each sentence, each line,
must, eventually, come to an end.
The page runs out, the words stop flowing.
In time the pencil becomes so worn down it is
unable to carry on my thoughts. A sharp little pain,
felt only in my palm, slows my step when I carry the nub
toward the waste basket. I let it drop into the can,
listen to the hollow thump it makes when it hits
the bottom of the bin as I return to my desk.
I open the top drawer, and look in the back.
Finding a fresh pencil from the box.
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