Layoffs at work again. Missed me, again. But still, FUCKFUCKFUCK.
So, anyway, I've rearranged my home office in a fit of displaced
anger anxiety total freakout. Now I am facing the windows, with bookcases behind. And when sun shines like a floodlight in the late afternoon, I am no longer sweating like some pigs in its beaminess. Shine on, harvest sun, can't touch this!
My favourite pen. I forget who asked, but someone did. They weren't talking to me, but I should let that stop me? My favourite, most-loved pen is my Mont Blanc Meisterstück. I put blue ink in it, just to be that way. Black is supposed to be the serious ink colour, the one that says you mean business, that your shoes are right and your hair is right and everything in between is right. Black is the colour of laserprinter toner, of every letter of every word of every book you've ever read that was worth reading.
I love fountain pens, always have. I've filched them from my dad's desk, paid pennies for them at flea markets, took them apart and cleaned them, leaving behind ink stains at the waterline of many a sink. One small one was my grandmother's. It washed out green ink when I cleaned it, for an impossible length of time while I held it under the faucet. My grandmother was dead, and the colour that of silly notes she'd made in a schoolbook edition of Hamlet she'd had from her older sister. It's on the shelves behind me now.
I bought my pen from a small store in a strip mall in Houston. It was two hundred dollars, or thereabouts. I was just looking, and wishing, when it came to me that I was employed. I had a paycheque. I had money in the bank. I could buy this pen, right now. It was okay.
I bought a bottle of blue ink for it.
acting out my insecurities to Goin' Back To Harlan from the album "Matapedia" by Kate & Anna McGarrigle