Refections On My Penmanship

English: Lamy Studio Black Fountain pen

I Lose!

This post has taken sveral days, dqys, to produce.

I’m abysmally frutated.

I can work on it any lonher.

—–     —–     —–

would that my hand was as fast as my eye.  that my thought was what it used to be.   as quick as my speech used to be.  that i could just channel my thoughts into words so you could hear me.

My typing is slow.  I see a word.  I can say it.  Several years ago, I couldn’t read at all.  Now i can at least  reproduce the words, the sounds.   What I see is:

R-E-P-R-O-D-U-C-E & T-H-E & W-O-R-D

Kind of.  Its there.  If you were squinting, and you caught the glare on a sunny day, you’d get a sense of what if feels like.

But then,  I can’t find the muscles to make the keystrokes appear.  And then, the order of the letters is all wrong.  Is it reprofove?   No.  reprodoce.  No.  You’d think I’m just giving an example of what my mind sees.  But it is really almost exactly what I’m seeing.  It takes that level of effort just to write, “HelLlo”.  [sic]

is this mood disorder?  Brain damage?  Personality?  Any category of being?   is there is no form?   only chaos?  better not to ask.  i am just what i am.

i know I’ve told this before.  but every once in awhile i need to honor the memory again.  i have to remember i’m a hero.  its no big deal.  you can be a hero too.  its a state of mind.  Access for yourself, too!

—–     —–     —–

My handwriting was always illegible.  I was thinking about Van Gogh’s brush strokes.  They were energetic and bold.  And his frustration was tangible.  It shows us his mind; also bold and energetic.

I’m no Gogh!   So when I learned that his handwriting was delicate and precise I was surprised.  I feel similar dichotomy.  Form and chaos.  Bold and precise.  Masculine and feminine.  Apparently, art historians find this polarity in most Impressionist art.

I’m not an art historian.  I don’t even play one on TV.  But its a theme I plan to explore.  And it takes me back to my handwriting and what it says about me

Take a look.

Van Gogh's Handwriting
Years ago, when i could control both my hands, i used to write with a fountain pen.  I loved the artistry of the strokes.  The fluid touch of pen to paper.

I myself wasn’t ever graceful.  Coffee cups would tremble when I approached. The elephants in the Prospect Park Zoo in Brooklyn when I was a boy, lumbered away from me, trumpeted in fear.  [I liked that metaphor.  Bravo, Taxi!]

My hands were always ink stained.  I used pocket protectors in the day, still my hands were stained indigo blue. I bled from my Parker arteries and my Sheaffer veins.

I found my first fountain on the soccer fields of Brooklyn College in 1963.  It was a Lamy;  a rarity in that lower class neighborhood.  I remember its soft brown lacquer finish.  The unique way it filled itself with Waterman ink.  it leaked like gunshot kidney, spurting all over.  but i thought it was an art trouve treasure.

A huge MontBlanc, a Pelikan, an Italian Montegrappa.  the names themselves evoke images of elegance.  but i my self was never elegant.  athletic, yes.  at times, even well-coordinated.  but never, never graceful.  Never Ozzie Smith graceful or a Brooks Robinson.  Maybe a utility in-fielder in Des Moines, Iowa, Pony League.

But with my Esterbrook,  I was F. Scott Fitzgerald.  Or a Tallcott

Esterbrook VisuaMaster

Parsons, wanna-be in Harris Tweed with leather elbow patches.



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