Watching black ink seep into the grooves of a fresh clean page is pure art.
I even like the term long-hand. A term meaning that every word is written full-out. It implies that what you’re reading took time to write and will in turn take time to read.
Which is fine by me.
I romanticize writing; imagine a golden nib dipped delicately into blue-black ink then swirled beautifully along golden parchment. This is the image I call up when I find myself thumbing through pieces of poems or old journals and a line has caught my attention, drawn me in. Demanded to be revived.
In no time I am surrounded by a pile of journals, a collection of worn composition notebooks and yellowing sheets of poetry — excited by old tales that inspire new insight.
Perusing these pages is like bumping into my old self and I find myself seated at my kitchen island, or desk or sprawled on the livingroom floor with pen in hand and inspiration my guide.
This is the inkwell I dip into to make art.
I tap my calligrapher’s nib on the edge to release the excess and take my time to say something powerful.