The Constant Scribbler

In a digital world of keyboards, styluses and fingertips, I still prefer to write on paper with a fountain pen— I have five (to be honest, I actually have more than that, but I usually use these five):— a Sailor 1911L with a “European” Extra Fine nib inked with Pilot Iroshizuku Take sumi (which translates to “Bamboo Charcoal”— a black ink), a cheap plain black Pilot Metropolitan with a “Japanese” Extra Fine nib inked with Pilot Iroshizuku Fuyu-gaki (which translates to “Winter Persimmon”— a reddish-orange ink), a Pilot Custom Heritage 912 PO— a posting nib, a nib especially designed & made exclusively by Pilot for use with cheap Japanese postcards (it’s basically a rigid “Japanese” Extra Fine— or maybe even an Ultra Extra Fine, with the tip tuned downward), a TWSBI Diamond Mini with a “European” Extra Fine nib and another TWSBI— a Vac Mini  with a “European” Broad nib “re-grinded” to an “Architect” nib— a nib ideal for people who write in block letters, like I do (it’s basically the opposite of a cursive italic nib, producing wide horizontal strokes & thin vertical strokes.). The last three inked with Noodler’s Black.

Consequent to using pens I have also become a paper hoarder.  The search for the ultimate pen and paper combo had led me down to a rabbit hole filled with all sorts of paper.  I’ve narrowed down my paper choices to a few:—  among which is dotted Rhodia paper, Moleskin pocket notebooks (the old stocks), Midori Travel notebooks, dotted notebooks made locally by the Veco Paper Corporation, and a variety of relatively obscure paper brands— which are not necessarily fountain pen friendly, but which I find “interesting”. I also buy surplus pocket datebook planners, mostly from Moleskin, which are usually put on sale around May of the current year. 

And because I try out my pens on almost every paper I could get my hands on, I have become a serial scribbler (and doodler). Most times I jot down notes simply to have an excuse to write. Sometimes I just write a word repeatedly— ever mindful of my handwriting, to fill a page. I started out writing in script in grade school but gradually shifted to block using the then ubiquitous Bic ball pen, then I wrote with a technical pen for a while, then Japanese felt tip disposable pens until I discovered fountain pens.  In the late 90s, I shifted to needle point gel pens because it was convenient.  This was when Japan came out with 0.5mm, 0.4mm and 0.3mm nibs in different colors. 

The first fountain pen I regularly used (it was the 80s) was a Pilot “Birdie” inked with Quick permanent black (— there was no other ink that I know of then). The “Birdie” is a stainless steel tiny slim pen intended for people with small hands—  probably women, to use as a pocket pen (or clipped on an address book & stowed in a purse).  I also own its twin mechanical pencil. 

When the “Birdie” gave up on me, I got a plain black Pilot Metropolitan instead. Then a TWSBI.  

TWSBI pens are made by TaShin Precision, an OEM Taiwanese manufacturer. The first three letters in the TWSBI name stands  for the phrase “San Wen Tong” which, per their website, means “Hall of Three Cultures”— whatever that means. They reversed the first letters & appended “Bi”—  which literal means “writing instruments”, thus TWSBI.  What drew me to TWSBI was its modular construction. You could dissemble it to clean it or to change its parts. I like to tinker and TWSBI encourages that. It’s also made of clear acrylic, which I also like because you could see the inside and yes how much ink you still have. But acrylics crack. The grip section is particularly prone to this. The key is not to over tighten. O-rings on the pen sections & the included Silicon grease makes it possible. The nibs are made by Jowo—  a German nib company, which makes the nibs “European” as against a “Japanese” nib.  Basically, a “European” are wider than a “Japanese”—  a Euro Extra Fine is equivalent to a Japanese  Medium or thereabouts. 

I prefer Japanese nibs. And so I keep on going back to my Metropolitan.  I should say that I only stumbled on the Metropolitan by accident. I was really looking for a replacement of the “Birdie”— since it’s the first pen that I truly knew and used (and also for a nostalgic reason: I used the “Birdie” to take the Bar). I did find a “Birdie”, but I’ve outgrown it.  And so I got a Metropolitan— my new “Birdie”.  Like the “Birdie”, the Metro is cheap (less than P1k).  It’s a decent pen, it’s a well-performing pen that’s well built, sturdy and it’s made of, I think, brass.  It’s the only snap cap pen I have.  Ideal for jotting down short notes without the hassle of twisting open a pen’s cap.  The Metropolitan only comes in Medium, but the cool thing about cheap Pilot entry level fountain pens is that most of their nibs are interchangeable: you could buy a cheap “Penmanship” (Php350.00), of which I have three, for its Extra Fine nib or a “Plumix” (I have one) for its 1.1mm stub and swap them with your Metro Medium.  This means that your exploration and search for that grail nib won’t burn a hole on your wallet. I love Pilot for this.

    It wasn’t long before I got a Pilot Custom Heritage 912— a gift, for which I am eternally grateful.  What stands out with the 912 is its PO nib, it’s as rigid as a nail but is not scratchy at all and a bit on the weird side of things-- the tip has a slight bend that ends in a needle point. The PO, I think, means "Posting" (the nib is for writing on thin papers-- "papel de Hapon", that Japanese use for posting mails), it’s designed to write on bad paper— you could do newspaper crosswords  with it, which makes it a decent EDC pen.  I still dream of the luscious No. 15 nib of an 743 or the even bigger nib of an 149, but I’m okay without them.  I always treasure what I have and one other treasure I have is the Sailor 1911L— a 1911 “large” with a 24k gold Extra Fine nib!  It too is a gift which I shall treasure until I croak. 

The resurgence of fountain pens triggered a burst of ink colors that seemed like a revolt against the past where black, blue-black (and red) reigned for ages.  And dominated, as far as I know, by one company: Parker— maker of “Quink” (rumor has it that a Filipino named Francisco Quisimbing was the “inventor” of the ink and that the brand is an amalgam of Francisco’s surname and the word ink, Parker, however, says otherwise and that name is actually derived from the words “quick” & “ink”).  Quink is now a dinosaur.  Though constrained with what I want to spend for it & what is accessible I did dipped into the pool of the new colors that intrigued me. But I eventually went back to black.  And since I prefer Pilot fountain pens it’s a no-brainer that I went for Pilot ink as well. Pilot offers cheap ink but I went for the top of the line Iroshizuku series. My problem with it, however, is that it’s not archival.  It can’t stand water and  moisture. I prefer water proof (or at least resistant to watercolor wash), dries quick and will not go away for a long time— a bullet proof ink! And that is exactly what Noodler’s ink offers. I use mostly Noodler’s Black for that purpose.  But I also like Noodler’s Black for its “juiciness”— the ink streams out of the nib in gleaming blots before it bonds with the paper.  It’s cheap and dirty & sticks to almost anything, but I love it.  Noodler’s ink is produced by a one man operation company & the man behind it— a certain Nathan Tardiff, is quite a character. He holds strong political views & uses his company as a platform to express it.  He’s a Southern man, most likely a Republican and seems to be paranoid about his secret ink formula. I don’t care much about his politics and for what he stands for, being Asian, I’m far removed from his American biases.  I only care for the ink that he makes by hand— all by his lonesome self probably in a shed or a cave deep in the woods.  And because I don’t totally trust this dude I only use his ink on my “beater” pens— my TWSBIs and, after much hesitation, on my 917.  So far, I’ve had no problems.  I use the Iroshizuku Take Sumi on my Sailor, though (I have another even nastier permanent black ink— Platinum’s Carbon Black Ink, a matte black that is notorious for clogging up fountain pens. I use it solely on Platinum’s own special pen for it— the DP-800). The only other ink color I use is the red-orange Fuyu-Gaki on my Metro, which has since been relegated to highlighter duty. 

I’ve now reached an age when I don’t hanker for possessions rather I am grateful for what I have and have in fact given up some of my possessions to other people so they could enjoy them.  I have also given up my quest for grail pens and will simply enjoy writing with them…

An LRT story

    The LRT crawls southward along its elevated track; it judders past warehouses and gleaming stainless steel water tanks precariously perched on run-down rooftops, past bridges and half-finished structures, past derelict tenement buildings, their windows plastered with yellowed newspapers ostensibly to keep the sun out, more likely to prevent prying eyes from looking in or maybe to prevent the occupants from looking out.

    Hanging by my wrist on a handrail as the coach rock from side to side and back and forth, I watch the buildings roll past me like a tracking shot in a movie. My mind wanders to the days when I had to take the trains to go to work; twice a day I am offered a passing glimpse into other people's lives. I always take the middle coach of the three-car train. Getting in thru the last or the next-to-last door depending on which had less people pushing in. From there I make my way to the middle of the coach and take my place on the pivot section of the train. At that time, there was no air-conditioning yet. It could become quite stuffy inside the coaches and sometimes it smelt like you got a sock-- drenched in sweat, stuffed in your nose. It wasn't always that bad though. Sometimes the weather was pleasant enough. The opened upper window helped. It let in a steady stream of air. Not fresh but it would do.

    Out of habit, I got in the next-to-last door. These days I seldom take the train, but when I have to go to Manila, particularly in the Sta. Cruz area I'd rather take the train than take my car. Parking the car and leaving it on the side of the street makes me anxious. The LRT trains are different now. The coaches are bigger and they're air-conditioned. They are still packed most of the time but somehow it is generally a more pleasant ride than before.

    It was already early evening when I took the train back to Makati. The weather was agreeable and there was a cool breeze. It was still rush hour and so the trains are packed. It would be uncomfortable I know but it would still be faster than taking a taxi. Traffic was horrendous at this hour.

    Two-thirds into my commute the train made an unscheduled stop; pushing away the cobwebs of stupor that commuters sank into as a shield against the drudgery of public transport I realized that the train was stranded between two stations. It wasn't unusual. The train is old and poorly maintained. Lately, there were more and more of these stops. It's all over the news. Settling back into stupor my eyes were lured into the window of a crumbling two-story house. The house looked pre-WWII. It is mostly in ruins. Darkness envelops the structure. I welcomed the distraction. My eyes scanned the ornate cornices and moldings, picking out more and more details as errant streaks of light danced through the facade. Gazing onto the blackness of the window directly in my line of sight I could faintly discern the shape of what looks like a portrait hanging on the drywall opposite the window. Soon enough a stray stream of light cut through the darkness. It was a portrait of a woman-- I think.

    The train stirred and jerked an inch forward. After a few seconds more the train purred back to life. Somehow my attention was drawn to a finger on my left hand. I caught a splinter in it a few days ago and the Band-Aid I wound up around it now looks like a dirty sock. I pull the soggy Band-Aid off the end of my pinky and look at the pale, wrinkled, pulpy flesh beneath, blood caked between the finger nail and the dead-looking bloated flesh-- a zombie finger. When I looked again the train had pulled up to the next station. I looked at the white metal plate that flashed before me. I took a mental note of the station indicated. My mind floated back to the image of the woman. The woman on the painting-- or was it a photograph, was holding up two fingers in what looks like a peace sign. Her eye close to the forefinger is captured in what looked like wink. A corner of her lips curled up in some kind of a naughty half-smile. Or so I think. It was like a mirage. And maybe as the image melts away from memory I imagine more than what I actually saw.

    I took the train again the following week and as the train was passing through the area where I remember the intriguing structure was, I looked for it but somehow missed it. It was mid-afternoon still. Maybe the harsh light somehow affected the way I perceived things. I let it pass.

    It was early evening when I passed the area again. I wasn't actually looking out for the building but there it was. And as the train passed by it I looked through the window and there was that painting again. This time I took note of the surrounding landmarks and without further thought got down at the next station. This is crazy. I do know what seized me but as my foot hit the pavement I stopped. For a moment I stood there-- and then reason drained out from my body. Before I knew it I was walking towards the house.

    And there it was. I actually couldn't see the house from where I am even if I stand on my toes.  A line of galvanized iron roofing sheets surrounded the house. The overgrown plants on the yard conspiring to cover it up even more. I was about to turn away when I noticed that a section of the galvanized fortification was hanging slightly askew on a hinge. Probably a workmen's ingress. Metal scraped concrete as I pushed on the makeshift door. Stray cats scampered away. "Tao po…" No answer. I walked up the driveway.

    I walked through the main door-- or what's left of it. The roof is gone too. Moonlight gave the place an eerie glow. I walked up to the main staircase. It was banged up but the concrete structure held. I walked up and stood at the landing to get my bearings. I made my way to the room. It was a bit tricky but I made it to the door. I pushed. Surprisingly it opened with nary a squeak. There was a gaping hole on the floor and so I carefully inched my way inside just enough to see "The Woman".  I blinked and waited a second or two for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. It wasn't a painting. Neither was it a portrait. It was a mirror. I began to turn around to see… and then it hit me. It was sharp. There was a moment of pain. I was dead even before I hit the floor.

    Days had passed when they discovered the twisted body. It was a murder-- stabbed in the heart, probably as he was turning around. Curiously, the dead man seems to be reaching for something. Indeed, just out of his reach is a portrait-- or was it a painting... of a woman. She was holding up three of her fingers-- like a boy scout.

   

My constipated Brain

    There is this trick I do in High School where I would browse thru the pages of a magazine then I'd ask somebody to pick a page. I would then describe the randomly picked page. It's not a word for word thing though, I would only point out, for example, that there is a picture of a girl on the right side of the page or that there is a soft drink ad on the left and so forth. It required no effort at all. Sometimes I could see the "pages" in my mind and I could even "flip" thru them to get to the one I need. It was more of a visual thing-- I could only recall the pictures and I forget them after a day or two. I could not recall text. Well, sometimes I can but not every time. It was a hit-and-miss.

    If there's one thing that can be said about the study of the human brain -- and especially in the field of memory -- it's that even today, it's notable less for what is known than for how much is not known. The workings of our brain remain, for the most part, a mystery. But if there are areas of consensus in the field of neurology, one of them is that the notion of "photographic memory," in which a person can take mental snapshots and recall every detail at a later time, has never been proved to exist. Scientists say it could be a version of "eidetic memory," which is, essentially, the medical term for crazy, crazy freakish recall.

    Am I making this up? Fat chance. My schoolmates would have figured it out on day one. It's something everybody talks about every time we have class reunions. Photographic memory or not one thing is for sure. Whatever it is it had served me well in school and in my profession as well. I had a leg up when examinations week comes up. And for the longest time I did not carry a datebook but remembered all my appointments. It was all good until I hit middle age. By that time I have been accumulating memories since I was maybe two or three years old. I should say that it isn't as if I have a day to day recording of everything that happened in my life. I only retain life events that made an impact on me and only those I personally experienced. Like there's this piece of memory that I vividly recall waking up a day after a flood and seeing millions (no, not really millions, but there was a lot) of hito on the yard of our host in Legaspi City. It's fragmented and I can't really connect it to other events but I do recall all the people I interacted with on that particular day. But as memories piled up-- the good as well as the bad, the ability for recall became more of a curse rather than a blessing. When an entire life is perpetually available, that life exists, in a sense, forever in present tense. And sifting through a perpetual and onrushing flood of memories is less fun than it sounds. It's hard, after all, to erase bad memories when you can't erase any memory at all.

    And that's the rub, I suspect that all these years I may have been suffering from depression stemming from the inability to forget unpleasant memories and experiences from the past. Particularly memories that had caused me so much pain. I think that this thing is likely the result of obsessive-compulsive thoughts rather than "photographic memory". I'll leave it to the experts. As far as I'm concerned I look forward to old age and the day I, hopefully, will be able to forget most if not unload all these "bad" memories that have clogged up my constipated brain all these years.