Halloween pencils.
This may seem random, but I've recently developed an obsession with pencils.
I haven't written with pencils in years, and I generally swear by black ink alone. (Blue ink seems passive-aggressive to me somehow, as do blue suits.) I have complained on numerous occasions about the smudginess and dinginess of gray lead scribbling, and I swore that I would not accept papers written in pencil.
However, due to my ever-steadier plummet away from deplorably-written essays that shouldn't qualify as essays and towards the inevitable neatness and efficiency of the cold, impersonal Scantron exam, I have found myself more and more often turning to old Number 2.
In so doing, I have begun to marvel at the variety of the Number 2 pencil.
Of course, there's always the reliable goldenrod traditional with the green metallic "No. 2" imprinted in the wood towards the pinkish-orange eraser. I like those. They seem firm and steady and reliable. No nonsense pencils. And I can always find one lying around in a pile of dust and lollipop wrappers under a student's desk when I need one.
But then there are a plethora of fancier pencils from which to choose. Some advertise local insurance companies or Mexican restaurants. Others are decorated with pink Japanese kitten-girls or spiralling flame-red dragons.
I have a leaf-green pencil that reads "Eat Healthy" in bold black Courier font. It reminds me that I should add broccoli and snow peas to my meals more often.
I have a white pencil with a little American flag on it. I don't remember what it advertises, but it reminds me of pencils that my Grandad used to bring home in his shirt pocket, from the textile mill where he worked when I was a little girl.
I have a red pencil that reads "Dragons, Dreams and Magic" in silver curlicues that I picked up at the library in June when Fain and I went to the summer reading festival. Fain cried when MacGruff the Crime Dog approached him, and we had to make an escape like a couple of howling criminals. I don't let kids borrow that one because it has taken on some sort of significance that I can't explain due to the fact that it hinges entirely on my neuroses. I thought that I'd lost it once and I nearly crumbled like shavings pouring out of an old metal pencil sharpener.
Today I bought a bag of Halloween pencils. I picked through them when I got them home, admiring the black one with metallic green alien heads and the lime green one with black cats and orange jack-o-lanterns. I felt a giddy pleasure holding each one, examining the glittering owl eyes and the cartoon ghosts, a pleasure that I guess a 30 year old shouldn't feel anymore, a pleasure that can really only be attributed to my general weirdness.
The fact that I have somehow managed to ramble on line after line about Number 2 pencils after days of not having anything to write about or to say just confirms that in my mind.
I haven't written with pencils in years, and I generally swear by black ink alone. (Blue ink seems passive-aggressive to me somehow, as do blue suits.) I have complained on numerous occasions about the smudginess and dinginess of gray lead scribbling, and I swore that I would not accept papers written in pencil.
However, due to my ever-steadier plummet away from deplorably-written essays that shouldn't qualify as essays and towards the inevitable neatness and efficiency of the cold, impersonal Scantron exam, I have found myself more and more often turning to old Number 2.
In so doing, I have begun to marvel at the variety of the Number 2 pencil.
Of course, there's always the reliable goldenrod traditional with the green metallic "No. 2" imprinted in the wood towards the pinkish-orange eraser. I like those. They seem firm and steady and reliable. No nonsense pencils. And I can always find one lying around in a pile of dust and lollipop wrappers under a student's desk when I need one.
But then there are a plethora of fancier pencils from which to choose. Some advertise local insurance companies or Mexican restaurants. Others are decorated with pink Japanese kitten-girls or spiralling flame-red dragons.
I have a leaf-green pencil that reads "Eat Healthy" in bold black Courier font. It reminds me that I should add broccoli and snow peas to my meals more often.
I have a white pencil with a little American flag on it. I don't remember what it advertises, but it reminds me of pencils that my Grandad used to bring home in his shirt pocket, from the textile mill where he worked when I was a little girl.
I have a red pencil that reads "Dragons, Dreams and Magic" in silver curlicues that I picked up at the library in June when Fain and I went to the summer reading festival. Fain cried when MacGruff the Crime Dog approached him, and we had to make an escape like a couple of howling criminals. I don't let kids borrow that one because it has taken on some sort of significance that I can't explain due to the fact that it hinges entirely on my neuroses. I thought that I'd lost it once and I nearly crumbled like shavings pouring out of an old metal pencil sharpener.
Today I bought a bag of Halloween pencils. I picked through them when I got them home, admiring the black one with metallic green alien heads and the lime green one with black cats and orange jack-o-lanterns. I felt a giddy pleasure holding each one, examining the glittering owl eyes and the cartoon ghosts, a pleasure that I guess a 30 year old shouldn't feel anymore, a pleasure that can really only be attributed to my general weirdness.
The fact that I have somehow managed to ramble on line after line about Number 2 pencils after days of not having anything to write about or to say just confirms that in my mind.
posted by Autumn at 9:08 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home