Compilation Sunday- (that special time of week when picture and prose become as one)
Sometimes we have the silliest things that we grow attached to. For some it’s a car. Perhaps a 1960’s era Mustang that’s chromed and magged and turboed (notice I don’t speak Vehicle-ese very well). For others perhaps it’s an article of clothing. Maybe there’s a ratty sweater or sweatshirt that’s just so comfortable, it’s impossible to part with. For me, the object of my affection is much smaller and in fact, I can hold it in the palm of my hand. It’s my Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball-point pen in blue. It may seem silly or trivial, but to me, it brings comfort and allows me to pen the words that make the whole world sing, well, at least in my hopes and dreams.
Alas though, be still my beating heart. My beloved blue Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball is gone. Vanished. Torn asunder from my beating breast, er, hand.
This is how it all went down. During the precious, invaluable, blessed two hours known as Quiet Time at Casa de Hiemstra- the time in which the youngest children sleep and the oldest two do stealthy, independent activities- Carla and I got into a playful verbal tussle. In a moment of aggressive whimsy I threw my blue Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball pen-cap at her, and she threw it right back at me. A few minutes later after going to check on something with the kids, I came back to again pen words of wonder and delight and discovered, to my astonished horror, that my pen was gone. Missing in action. Departed from the prosaic marriage to the softness of my right thumb and forefingers. Kidnapped right from my clutches. I struggled to fill my air with lungs. My vision blurred, my speech slurred. Drunk with anxiety was I. I immediately interrogated Carla. I’m no Matlock, but I had a pretty good suspicion that she was one of the primary suspects in this heinous felony. Like Jack Bauer facing the most aggressive of terrorist interrogations, she gave up nothing and now, here I sit, alone and penless.
Please catch yourself before you threaten to have the sensitivity of a hippopotamus and comment on this by saying “Aren’t there other pens in the world that you could write with?” Please. For some things there are no substitutes. Does the casual reader care to remember the beloved, classic Southern drama about the Duke family of Hazzard County? Was it the same when Tom Wopat and John Schneider left the show to be replaced by their look-a-like cousins? I think not. Do you recall New Coke? Exactly my point. For some things there’s just no replacement. Nothing compares to the smooth flow of the Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball gliding across the page like a spandex-clad figure skater, leaking beautiful blue ink out of his blades of glory. The pen is like a self-propelled lawnmower, seemingly having a mind of its own as it cuts through the white grass of the page, leaving a trail of azure words as lovely as the patterned grass of a freshly-cut baseball diamond.
And now, I’m without my friend, forced to write this post with a horse of a different color, a black Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball, knowing full well that this effort, no matter how bravely offered in the midst of trying circumstances, is simply an imposter, a pretender, a Genilee Harrison on Three’s Company. It’s just not the same.
I just hope that someday I’ll see my beloved blue Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball again. Until then, I watch and wait. Sadly.
Alas though, be still my beating heart. My beloved blue Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball is gone. Vanished. Torn asunder from my beating breast, er, hand.
This is how it all went down. During the precious, invaluable, blessed two hours known as Quiet Time at Casa de Hiemstra- the time in which the youngest children sleep and the oldest two do stealthy, independent activities- Carla and I got into a playful verbal tussle. In a moment of aggressive whimsy I threw my blue Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball pen-cap at her, and she threw it right back at me. A few minutes later after going to check on something with the kids, I came back to again pen words of wonder and delight and discovered, to my astonished horror, that my pen was gone. Missing in action. Departed from the prosaic marriage to the softness of my right thumb and forefingers. Kidnapped right from my clutches. I struggled to fill my air with lungs. My vision blurred, my speech slurred. Drunk with anxiety was I. I immediately interrogated Carla. I’m no Matlock, but I had a pretty good suspicion that she was one of the primary suspects in this heinous felony. Like Jack Bauer facing the most aggressive of terrorist interrogations, she gave up nothing and now, here I sit, alone and penless.
Please catch yourself before you threaten to have the sensitivity of a hippopotamus and comment on this by saying “Aren’t there other pens in the world that you could write with?” Please. For some things there are no substitutes. Does the casual reader care to remember the beloved, classic Southern drama about the Duke family of Hazzard County? Was it the same when Tom Wopat and John Schneider left the show to be replaced by their look-a-like cousins? I think not. Do you recall New Coke? Exactly my point. For some things there’s just no replacement. Nothing compares to the smooth flow of the Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball gliding across the page like a spandex-clad figure skater, leaking beautiful blue ink out of his blades of glory. The pen is like a self-propelled lawnmower, seemingly having a mind of its own as it cuts through the white grass of the page, leaving a trail of azure words as lovely as the patterned grass of a freshly-cut baseball diamond.
And now, I’m without my friend, forced to write this post with a horse of a different color, a black Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball, knowing full well that this effort, no matter how bravely offered in the midst of trying circumstances, is simply an imposter, a pretender, a Genilee Harrison on Three’s Company. It’s just not the same.
I just hope that someday I’ll see my beloved blue Pilot Precise V5 Rolling Ball again. Until then, I watch and wait. Sadly.
No comments:
Post a Comment