Before we met Crivens and Criminy, FunkyPlaid and I visited a local cat café, thinking that we might meet some kittens for adoption, or at least get to play with and cuddle some cute cats. When we arrived, we soon discovered that the vibe of the cat café was much like being invited to a party by friends who then didn’t show up. We hung out awkwardly and watched other guests attempt to catch the interest of very sleepy cats.
Later that afternoon, we had scheduled an appointment to meet some foster kittens nearby. Although those kittens were adorable, we knew pretty much instantly that they weren’t our kittens. The two experiences together made me sad, and made me long for the straightforward choice of my Zen all those years ago. I didn’t know what she would be like as a companion; I chose her because I wanted to save her. It was that simple.
Three weeks ago, FunkyPlaid and I decided to visit the Cat Adoption Team facility in Sherwood. After filling out some paperwork, an adoption volunteer led us into the kitten playroom, and I had only just stepped inside the door when I saw the brothers. I gasped (I am prone to dramatic outbursts, it’s true) and as soon as we each held them, we knew they were the ones we wanted to adopt. Each day since then has been an affirmation of that moment. “Lucky” doesn’t seem to cover it.
Sometimes I feel so guilty, though. When I fall asleep at night, I wish for Zen to visit me in my dreams and give me some sign that it is okay to love these new babies so much. If she could give me that sort of affirmation, I don’t know that she would: she never did love sharing me with anyone else.
Progressive lenses: I held out for as long as I could, but this past year has been rough without correction for mid- to near-distance. And I am thrilled with the result! It only took a few hours for me to adjust to the new way of looking at things; it will take me significantly longer to adjust to how I look in the new frames.
FunkyPlaid suggested that I also try prescription sunglasses for the first time, so I’ll give those a whirl during my morning commute tomorrow.
Ah, middle age! I didn’t expect to wax rhapsodic about the idiosyncrasies of the meat-suit. But it sure beats the alternative.
We let Criminy & Crivens out of their “sanctuary room” for supervised excursions around the rest of our home. They don’t have the run of the place, not quite yet, until we kitten-proof it all.
Points of fascination are many but the primary one remains the tub, especially hiding between the shower curtain and liner and then leaping out to surprise each other. This results in vertical jumps, “bottlebrush” tails, and my hysterical laughter at the slapstick of it all.
Tonight I was hoping for a little kitten snuggle time, but I had to wait until they had run themselves ragged and were ready for a nap. Crivens was so exhausted that when I laid down next to him on the daybed he did not even move. Criminy woke up, climbed onto my hip, and purred himself to sleep.
I don’t remember my life without a daily journal. My first one had a puffy cover with a brass lock and tiny key. It is gone now, the pages rotted or burned or shredded. What secrets could those pages possibly have carried, what secrets accumulated in seven short years? Even now, there isn’t much to tell, but the gentle act of recording this obviousness has become as much a part of my life as the actual living of it.
One of the small yet positive habits I have adopted this year is mood tracking. Exist is a “quantified self” service with lots of features, including an easy-to-use mood tracker with a single 1-5 rating and a short description field. (A couple of years ago I reviewed Exist, if you’re interested in learning more.)
I love discovering surprising correlations in my data, like my mood spiking on days I have public speaking engagements. For many years I tried to convince myself that I didn’t enjoy public speaking because so many people I know despise it. It seemed wrong to enjoy something that must be awful. But I do enjoy it, and it was mildly vindicating to see that so obviously in my mood data.
Have you ever tracked your mood with an analog or digital tool? Why or why not?
Despite being mired in one of the most antisocial, uncreative periods of my life to date, I’ve decided to participate in Holidailies with a goal of writing something every day this December. And instead of doing this on WordPress, I’m going to invest some time and energy into the Micro.blog community instead.
It is a Holidailies tradition to start this endeavor with a recap of the past year. My year was punctuated by two huge moments: in July I became a public library director, and in September my cat Zen died. These moments, without context, could seem as shocking and as sudden as lightning strikes, when really I have been hearing the thunder and tracking the storms for years. So much happens in my life without happening; I have spent 2019’s free time on hobbies that allow me the brainspace to percolate and process.
So my year has been deficient of writing, reading, socializing, or anything else that requires deep focus. Someday I will learn not to judge myself so harshly for this.
If it sounds like I’m down, I’m not. Upheaval? I can handle upheaval. I can learn from upheaval. And there has been so much to love about this year. Life with FunkyPlaid gets better and better, and now we have two kittens who are just the right mixture of affectionate and bonkers.
I’ll close with a quotation I have been musing over lately:
“Comparison is the thief of joy.” – Theodore Roosevelt
That’s from my percolating brain to yours. Happy Holidailies, and here’s your complimentary kitten photo.
About a month ago, we had yet another health worry with Butter Bib (a/k/a Zen). Since then she has bounced back and is in fine form, still going up and down the stairs, and also going up and down the little plastic steps we have by our bed. Now that the weather is colder, I often wake up in the wee hours with her cold nose pressed against the inside of my elbow, like a tiny ice cube melting on me. It is one of Zen's most endearingly annoying habits ... and she has accumulated quite a few of those over her twenty-one years.
Writing from: a quiet study in Portland, Oregon. Listening to: pages turning as FunkyPlaid reads in the other room.
I don’t have much to say today, so I’ll share this photo of an ornament that my mom and I made last Christmastime. We think he looks a little like John Turturro.
I’m quite behind with Holidailies this year, so I’m going to catch up with one long post of pieces parts instead of trying to make, uh, eleven separate things. OK with you? Good, let’s go!
Every December starts out snail-slogging through the first week and then all of a sudden Christmas is next week wait what? Oops.
I won my Goodreads reading challenge of 25 books a bit ahead of schedule, but so many of those were short or re-reads that it didn’t feel like a real win. I’m about to re-read another book, too; I finally saw the trailer for the “Good Omens” series and I am beyond excited.
It is difficult to be annoyed by evening commute traffic while laughing at the latest episode of Paul F. Tompkins’ podcast, “Spontaneanation”.
The song “Level Up” by Vienna Teng has been running through my head lately. The song is excellent, but the video … well, it levels it up.
And then my uncle sent me a link to her exquisite “Ain’t No Sunshine / Lose Yourself” cover/mashup and though I thought I could not love her any more I became one giant goosebump when I listened to this.
It’s the season of giving, so here is one of the cutest kitten photos I have ever seen.
Have you heard of “binge boxes”? They’re boxes of 3-6 DVDs grouped around a theme or actor that you can check out from your local library! My favorite that I’ve seen: “A Box of Rocks” – all films starring The Rock.
Speaking of libraries, I love seeing positive tweets and posts about them on social media … but the best way to support your local library is to show up and use it. If you don’t know how to get started with your local library, or even where it is, leave a comment on this post and I will help you. I mean it!
Thus concludes the grand old Holidailies catch-up. I’ll try for another post tomorrow.
Writing from: a quiet study in Portland, Oregon. Listening to: rain and wind and rain.
This morning, I attended a meeting of a coalition of local organizations who provide services for people who are unstably housed. I was glad for the opportunity to listen to how the members of these organizations are supporting our community, and I was especially touched by how a couple of these members reached out to me to thank the public library for our part.
Way back when, in my first library job, I had no idea what librarianship was really about. (I cringe when I consider my very first library job interview; I probably said something lame like, “I love to read!”) I was barely cognizant of what customer service was, let alone public service. After a little over two decades, I am definitely still learning, especially as our field collaborates with social work, as in Whole Person Librarianship.
To date, the training that has helped me the most has been Ryan Dowd’s Librarian’s Guide to Homelessness. Ryan also has a weekly newsletter for tips on compassionate work with patrons experiencing homelessness. But better than any training is the affirmation like the kind I received this morning: there are people working hard to serve our community, and they appreciate all the help that we can give them.
If you want to get involved, here are a few organizations in eastern Washington County:
Writing from: a quiet study in Portland, Oregon. Listening to: a small tortoiseshell cat snoring.
I am currently reading “Alice Isn’t Dead” by Joseph Fink and “Limetown” by Cote Smith, two novels which are based on dramatic fiction podcasts I like. And recently I saw a trailer for “Homecoming” which is a TV show based on a dramatic fiction podcast I like.
I listen to a lot of podcasts due to the length of my commute, and now I’m struggling to keep up with the add-on media to my favorite podcasts.
Truly, it’s a great problem to have.
Listen to the fiction podcasts mentioned above, plus some others I like:
Writing from: a quiet study in Portland, Oregon. Listening to: “Slow Down” by Ural Thomas and the Pain.
In a few weeks, I will need to stop dithering and make a decision: will I use an analog or digital planner for 2019?
When I started my current job at the library, I had a Bullet Journal system in place, which satisfied my two primary drives: recording notes and ideas by hand, because I learn and retain them better that way, and using my fabulous fountain pens and ink, because they’re so much fun.
Within a few weeks, my to-do list inflated at an alarming rate, and to keep up I switched to Todoist to track my tasks, especially relying on reminders to nudge me to do stuff on particular days at particular times. So handy!
While I think Todoist is a great app, I’ve been yearning to go back to simpler methods for months now, even as I assume more responsibilities at work. When Ryder Carroll’s book “The Bullet Journal Method” came out, I convinced myself I could do this again. Back to basics! Get rid of the bells and whistles of an app and hand-write my way to happiness.
Then one night I woke up in a cold sweat from a nightmare in which I have forgotten some important due-date because my phone didn’t yell at me anymore.
How are you planning your next year, with notebooks and pens or with apps? Help me decide in the comments.
Last night, sleeping on the floor of my study with my hand resting under the chin of my aging cat, I had a visitation dream. You know the kind, the dreams we see in movies or read in books, during which all of the details are so vivid that it seems real, it must be real … and then we wake up.
Our other cat came to me in this dream, our beloved mackerel tabby Torgi, and head-butted my face repeatedly, just as he did while he was alive. He brushed up against me and walked over my legs and flomped down next to me, at once distracting me from my distress over Zen and reassuring me that she would be fine. That we would be fine.
When I woke, I felt his presence lingering, the distinct scent of his fur, and the space by my ribcage still felt warm. As an avowed skeptic, I started to file the experience under “Moments My Subconscious Mind Doesn’t Suck” – a thin file, indeed, by the score of nightmares I have experienced. Then I reached for the paw of my still-living cat and let the feeling of the inexplicable wash over us both.
Writing from: a quiet study in Portland, Oregon. Listening to: “When I’m Small” by Phantogram.
By the middle of last month I had written almost 20,000 words of a disjointed speculative fiction manuscript before my momentum guttered and died. We don’t say things like “I lost NaNoWriMo,” but I certainly feel a loss whenever I do not complete what I set out to do.
November 30th turned into December 1st, and that day brought the start of Holidailies, in which online diarists and bloggers attempt to write a post each day in December. I have no idea if I am up to this challenge, or if my momentum is any less susceptible to outside forces merely by turning a calendar page, but here I am with you now.
I’ll follow the lead of my dear sharky friend and try to sum up 2018. Another friend recently asked how I was doing and I spewed a bunch of words, then immediately regretted not answering with a simple, “Okay, how’s by you?”
I am okay. I have been less okay and I have been more okay than I am right now, but still: I am okay. And the fact that I am okay is my shining accomplishment this year.
2018 was a year of treading the water of okay which irritates me because I want always to be moving forward. There were some highlights:
Zooming out a bit, I don’t even have words for the daily impact of living in this deeply divided and excruciatingly atavistic country, and if I did have the words, would I be brave (or foolish) enough to share them here, where I run the risk of my family and friends being punished simply because I expressed an opinion that some online mob doesn’t like?
So I’ll wage my quiet war against ignorance, keep my head down, and be okay. That’s what I’ve got right now. I hope you’ve got more.
Writing from: a quiet study in Portland, Oregon. Listening to: “You Should See Me in a Crown” by Billie Eilish.
Over the past two days I’ve had three different conversations about my life in Scotland. By the time I got in my car to drive home, I was deeply homesick for it, mostly the friends and coworkers I miss, but also mundane bits like Christmas Eve in Waitrose, random herds of curious horses, learning how to ride the bus in a foreign land, and frost-covered moss. I was thinking of that moss when I encountered the frost-dusted leaf in this photo.
Homesickness is generally expressed as a one person, one place phenomenon, but I have experienced waves of homesickness for every place I’ve ever lived. I even yearn for Alabama from time to time, especially the late afternoon summer thunderstorms that shake the magnolia trees, all slick green and heavy cream. Does it make me feel fickle sometimes? Sure. Someone once excoriated my use of the word “favorite” because, in his words, “They can’t all be favorites.”
Writing from: a quiet study in Portland, Oregon. Listening to: “Trains” by Poppy Ackroyd.
About that writing offline I mentioned yesterday …
I don’t remember a time when I wasn’t obsessed with notebooks. The first notebook I remember loving so hard that I wore it down to a floppy nub was spiral-bound with an orange cover. In my notebook I wrote down a lot of facts that I thought Encyclopedia Brown would need to know if he ever needed my help to solve one of his cases.
Now I carry two Traveler’s Notebooks: one for work, and one for creative projects. I like having this separation between the two worlds. When I switch between notebooks, I feel like Mister Rogers trading his jacket and dress shoes for a cardigan and trainers.
Writing from: a quiet study in Portland, Oregon. Listening to: Spotify’s Winter Classical playlist.
Sometimes when I stroll through the circulation workroom of my library, a book cover catches my eye but because my to-read pile is already unreasonably large, I will merely nod respectfully to it and keep walking.
Recently my attention was snagged by “The Daily Stoic: 366 Meditations on Wisdom, Perseverance, and the Art of Living” by Ryan Holiday and Stephen Hanselman. I was really digging November’s meditations on acceptance. This month’s meditations are on mortality, and they are more challenging. Example: December 1st was “Pretend Today Is the End” with this quote from Seneca:
"Let us prepare our minds as if we'd come to the very end of life. Let us postpone nothing. Let us balance life's books each day. . . .The one who puts the finishing touches on their life each day is never short of time."
--Seneca, Moral Letters, 101.7b-8a
I expected this year’s Holidailies to be about how horrified I am by American politics. But when I considered the meditation, I didn’t want to write about that anymore. I’m no less horrified, and I will continue to combat the forces of darkness, but writing about it online is not how I want to spend my remaining time on the planet. (Writing it all out offline is a different story, and has kept me sane this year.)
In the interest of postponing nothing, here are things I want to tell you today:
Writing from: a quiet study in Portland, Oregon. Listening to: “Follow the Leader” by Foxygen.
Face-down on the operating table, I’m not yet numb. This part had escaped my meticulous mental preparation – not so meticulous after all – and when I realize that the numbing portion of the day’s festivities will involve injections of lidocaine, the familiar effervescence of panic travels across the backs of my arms and into my scalp.
I lose track after the twelfth injection. And you know how I love to count things. I have experienced lidocaine injections before, for dental work, and once for a cut on my finger that required stitches, but nothing compares to the precise, bee-sting pain of multiple injections. My breathing exercises work to a point, but it takes a lot more than breathing exercises for me to sit still while someone hurts me. I wish I had something as cool as Sherlock’s mind-palace. There isn’t even a tropical beach with swaying palm trees waiting for me in my mind. Visual imagination is not a strength of mine, so where I go in my head is a facsimile of a rundown, cramped office of the psychiatric resident I saw twice a week while I lived in Alabama.
I take a deep breath. The nurse says, “You’re doing so well!” and she sounds surprised. “Most people really hate this part.”
I really hate this part, I think as I exhale. But I am also my parents’ daughter, and I know how to put on a brave face when I think my discomfort might put someone else out.
When all of the numbing has taken effect, the part I still can’t fathom happens. It is a routine procedure and yet a piece of my skin is being removed, and my brain hamster-wheels as it tries to square these two things. I feel tugged at in a way that I did not expect; maybe I expected it to be more like opening a handbag, pulling out a glasses-case, and snapping me shut again. My eyes have been closed most of the time but they pop open as the surgeon calls softly to the nurse, and I see him pass a piece of my flesh over to her, settling it gently in a jar of clear liquid. Suddenly I picture a long line of glowing specimens in jars at the Museum of Science and Industry.
“O,” I say, louder than I mean to do.
“Everything okay?” the surgeon asks. He is at least ten years younger than I am.
“Yes,” I say, and it is, and it isn’t. The panic has receded, replaced by boring old nausea.
“We send this off to the lab for tests. To make sure,” the surgeon says. He does not need to finish the sentence.
Pain peels back my manners enough that I ask for more lidocaine during the sutures. It takes so much longer to sew me up that I feel like a sock that is too worn through to be darned, every stitch opening a bigger hole. Eventually the surgeon places a waterproof bandage over the site. My arms and legs are starting to shake when I slowly sit up.
“It’s the lidocaine,” the nurse explains. I’m wound up like a mechanical toy, limbs paddling air, waiting to be let go. She has a piece of me in a jar in a plastic bag. It seems rude to leave it behind but it’s not mine anymore.
Writing from: a quiet study in Portland, Oregon. Listening to: “Cave” by Future Islands. The surgery described above happened two months ago; I’m already healed and everything was benign. Still processing it, apparently.
I hear a piercing cry from somewhere in the house. It’s a small house, but sound carries and bounces and hides. I do a full circuit, glancing in all of the usual places, and get halfway around again before I hear another cry, this time from upstairs.
“Zen? Zen?” She can’t have gone far; she’s almost twenty-one years old, and “running” isn’t in her repertoire anymore.
I reach the top of the stairs but she is not in sight, so I walk down the hall into the bedroom. No, nothing in here. I walk back out and she is standing at the top of the stairs, gazing down.
For a moment, I watch her contemplating her own existence, or staring into the middle distance – it’s not always clear which is which, with cats or humans. But it’s not long before I can help myself from saying, softly, “Hey.”
She looks at me and makes the different sound, the purr-trill that I’ve come to know as, “Where were you?”
I scoop her up and carefully descend. She’ll settle again for a little while, until a chill or the wind or a bad dream or existential dread will rouse her from twitch-ridden sleep. Like she is mourning an old friend, Zen’s cries will rise and slide up the wooden bannister until I, bleary with my own bad dreams, will go and find her again.
Writing from: a quiet study in Portland, Oregon. Listening to: the low hum of the space-heater. Welcome to Holidailies, a free community writing project that promotes sharing your writing and other online creative endeavors during the winter holiday season.
Today I thought I might talk to you about making messes. And just before sitting down to write, I peeked at Twitter, and saw this tweet:
I have never been terribly good at making messes. I cringe at my own floundering, especially when it comes to writing, because my taste is better than my current skill level. NaNoWriMo was a special kind of hell for me, which made it all the more important that I finish: I love surprises, but hate being surprised by myself. This is why I spend time every morning writing the mess out of my brain, what Julia Cameron termed “morning pages”. I grab my notebook and a fountain pen and I make a mess. I am okay with this mess.
But then NaNoWriMo happened, one 50,000-word mess. I’m glad I did it, and glad I finished, but it shook my confidence in my ability to tell a coherent story. My meticulous planning was abandoned within the first week because every time I sat down to write I had no interest in telling the story found in my outline. Knowing that it was more important to get words onto the page than to be strict about an outline, I opted for messy writing. New characters were invented, stuck around for a scene or two, and then disappeared. The protagonists went off on tangents that did not further the plot in any way. I barely adhered to basic rules of grammar.
I would love to tell you that it felt great to make this mess, but most days were slogs punctuated by brief moments of mediocrity. And I realise that all first drafts are crap, but a short story draft has the one shining benefit of being short. By the end of November I had the distinct feeling of being trapped at a party with people who kept cornering me in the kitchen with random anecdotes. “And another thing,” one would tell me as I looked longingly toward the door, stirring the ice in my empty drink. “Have I mentioned my long-lost cousin? Because I really think she would show up right about now and explain about the time I almost drowned as a kid.” What? Okay, no. Stop.
But now that I have a week of distance from NaNoWriMo, I see two bright spots to all this mess-making. One, by wildly bashing away at a keyboard for a month I refined an okay idea to a good one. Only a fraction of that good idea is in the first draft, so it will require a significant rewrite, but now I know the story I really want to tell. And the second bright spot was the camaraderie I felt by sharing this huge, ridiculous undertaking with other people. My mom and I texted our word-counts and encouragement to each other every day, which helped me stay focused despite being demoralised. And my friend sharks and I conducted several terrific writing-sprint sessions together, including our very last so we crossed the finish line at the same time.
I know my writing, and my life, would be better if I could learn to be okay with making a mess. How many things do I prevent myself from trying because I’m afraid to mess them up?
NaNoWriMo took much more out of me, creatively, than I expected. Every day this week I have attempted to compose a complete Holidailies entry and failed. But it isn’t all NaNoWriMo’s fault. I’ve been battling the dreaded lurgy since the last week of November, and now this part of the world has been plunged into perpetual twilight.
All right, so it’s nothing so dramatic. But on the greyer days, the sky never lightens completely, and “daytime” is around nine in the morning to three in the afternoon. It can feel rather bleak. Add to that the blustery weather, which has been providing my subconscious with a fun soundscape, especially what sounds like a cut-rate radio drama generic ghost sound wandering the halls with a “whoooooOOOOOOOoooooo!” in the middle of the night.
So what’s a sick, sleep-deprived, creatively-stagnant, FunkyPlaid-missing swan to do?
You’re right. Touring spooky castles in virtual reality is a spectacular idea.
DRD’s Mystic Bastion is more than an astounding homage to the Beast’s castle from “Beauty and the Beast”. This castle and all of its furnishings are gacha prizes. If you aren’t familiar with gacha, picture those vending machines containing little plastic toys that can be won for a coin. In Second Life, this method of winning random prizes has become a bit of a phenomenon. The end result is elaborate sets like this one.
For a brief moment, I played gacha machines in Second Life. I stopped because it hits me square in that crazy “collector” place in my brain I try to avoid, the one that says I have to have complete sets of anything I aim to collect. So although I don’t partake anymore, I do enjoy seeing the result of healthy creative competition, especially when the end result is a gigantic castle.
So in the half-darkness, I creep around the creations of others and try to kickstart my own inspiration.
I’m not a fan of fairytales, but I sure do appreciate a gorgeous library.
Photo credits: my own raw snaps from Second Life. Click through each pic for creator credits.
Hello again, Holidailies! I decided to celebrate my first-ever NaNoWriMo win with another month-long writing project. As a Holidailies participant, I will attempt to update cygnoir.net every day in the month of December. This will be a bit easier than writing 50,000 words in 30 days.
I’m still recovering from the lurgy so this will be brief, but I have so much to share with you this month. I hope you stick around.
Photo credit: It’s snowing at my home in Second Life! The snow may be virtual, but watching it fall gets me into an actual holiday mood.
Can it be? 2015 is just an hour away! Here is my year in first lines.
January Hello, beautiful human, and welcome to 2014.
February ¡Estamos en Barcelona!
March About ten years ago, I became a zombie.
April Writers’ Bloc returns to the Edinburgh International Science Festival for The Culture Collider, an exploration of weird science and stranger arts.
May For the month of May, I’m back to meals for one.
June I didn’t post in June, so here’s something from 9 years ago that I just found at random … “Halsted, someone is collapsed in the women’s restroom downstairs,” is a sentence I never wanted to hear my coworker say.
July My story “Paper Turtles” has been published in Innsmouth Magazine: 15.
August Thank you to everyone who attended my Story Shop reading today at the Edinburgh International Book Festival.
September Be soft.
October I meant to post this on The Morning After but got waylaid by my workweek, and then everything seemed saturated with the rawness of reaction so I put it off.
November Stevenson Unbound is this afternoon!
December One of the best presents in the world is an autographed copy of a book.
Happily, half of these are writing- or performance-related. I really liked that about 2014. Another thing I liked was joining HabitRPG, because it made me focus on taking action instead of dithering. As a result, I took some solid risks this year that paid off well. I also reached out to family and friends more often, and pushed myself to be more social than I have ever been.
There were things I didn’t like about 2014, especially spending two months of it without FunkyPlaid. I also lost my running mojo this year, which is sad because I miss it so much. And the referendum … well, I’m trying not to bring it up because I know it is a sore spot, but it was a momentous and difficult time to be here with so many people I know experiencing the gamut of emotions about the run-up and result. And I inadvertently had feelings about it too, even though I tried not to have them, even though I felt I did not deserve to have them.
Some people I know are saying good riddance to 2014, but I’m pouring 2014 a dram and smiling wryly at it as we toast. It deserves that much, at least.
Happy New Year.
I’m not much of a shopper. Browsing endless racks of clothing, trying to find something in both my size and style, is something I avoid doing whenever possible. So holiday shopping becomes a game I play with myself: how quickly and painlessly can I find things I would want to give friends and family?
When I heard about the popup market in the Cowgate a few weeks ago, I thought it might offer me an easy way to do much of this shopping at once. It was sure to offer unique items I wouldn’t be able to find on my own, and all concentrated in one place. Problem solved.
Well, not really. I did find a few things there, but most of it wasn’t in the style of anyone I know. (Except for me: I did not know this about myself before the popup market but I am fascinated by bizarre taxidermy, especially of small animals wearing spectacles.)
I was lucky to be wandering around the market with a patient friend, who was also up for checking out whatever was going on in the Grassmarket. (Another market! In a market. Not shocking.) And as we were strolling and chatting our way through that second market, I spied one of the things that even a non-shopper such as myself has learned means Cool Stuff Might Be Here: the wooden-sided glass case.
These glass cases are usually filled with an odd assortment of costume jewellery, rusted pocket-knives, old tins of long-dried unguents, commemorative coins commemorating things no one cares about anymore, and pens. Yes, pens. Usually dented metal ballpoint pens, but still: pens.
So I have to look. And I hate shopping, and I hate browsing for things that I might buy, but I still look.
In this particular case, something caught my eye that wasn’t a dented metal ballpoint at all. It was a plastic box with gold lettering and something was inside it. The gold lettering read “Esterbrook” and I gasped as I read it.
Because I was not raised by wolves, I asked the stall owners if I could open the box and look at the pen. As I was trying to play it cool, my tone was somewhere between desperation and apathy, a teenaged boy’s mumbled squeak.
I would like to tell you that my hands weren’t shaking. After all, vintage Esterbrook fountain pens are not uncommon, and they’re not even all that fancy. But recently I became a first-time Esterbrook Dollar Pen owner and when I fell, I fell hard. So my hands were shaking, a little, as I removed the pen from the case and inspected it. “Mint condition” is too generous but it was certainly in good condition, and I’ll save you the nerdery around the specifics there.
Because I’ve been collecting pens for a number of years now, right about the time I am fondling a pen hard enough to consider buying it, a number pops into my head. That number is the most I would pay for the pen. Another thing pops into my head: the first word I would write with that pen, if it were mine, but that’s less relevant to the actual transaction portion of the experience.
So as I turned this cream-of-tomato-soup red pen over in my hands, the number popped into my head, and the word too, and then I realised there was also a number on a sticker on the plastic box the pen was inside and that number, that number, was a deliriously low number, the type of number not even as high as the number on a menu next to a fancy hamburger. And that was when I knew that this pen, this pen, was mine. The rest was a formality.
The word? Serendipity. Because shopping, as awful as it can be, can also contain moments of serendipity like this one. Plus “serendipity” is just one badass word to write with an Esterbrook M2 fountain pen.