The poets are all growing younger
than me, awake as holy light
descends in a gray morning.
The ring neck dove stands
on the peak of the house
and calls for a mate. The sun climbs
and I sleep on, and the black dog
watches over everyone.
Another day of fishing boats
that pass unseen in a dull fog.
The young poets have been up
all night, traveling from light to light.
The gloom of May and the rains
that brought us fear bring new grass
to the hills. I will not be afraid
of storms anymore, or of hatred,
which is nothing. Nor am I afraid
of ghosts. I need someone to
remember with or the memory
is lost. We talk about twilight
in vineyards, and the odor of grapes.
The children are in school today.
I hope they will learn geometries
of love beyond three dimensions;
learn that someday they will live
and talk with ghosts; that pain
can be endured for a moment
or a cause; that change is a promise
that the world never breaks;
that old people never hurry the clock,
even when summer is coming
with a thrum of bees.
J. Kyle Kimberlin
Creative Commons Licensed
I just heard this very good poem on a podcast. This poet is digging, very effectively, into his Portland OR neighborhood.
“My memory is certainly in my hands.
I can remember things only if
I have a pencil and I can write with it…”
– Rebecca West
I used to write a lot of posts on this blog about writing tools: office suites, word processing software, low-distraction text editors, note-taking apps, etc. This is going to be like that but very different, because analog abides.
I’m writing this post in a Moleskine notebook that I bought in 2011. It has ivory paper and a smooth hard black cover. It has held up well and been appreciated, humble as it is. I’m writing with a General’s Cedar Pointe #333 HB pencil, a natural wood tool made in the USA of sustainable California incense cedar. Natural means that unlike most pencils, it’s not painted. It has a cool black ferrule and a black eraser.
My choice of writing implements means that no app needs to be launched, though either the notebook or the pencil could be launched, if I were provoked. No batteries are involved, no lights are shining in my eyes, and I can depend on these devices not to suddenly beep at me.
Analog is not dead. My journey to this revelation began last summer. I was furiously plowing through an array of productivity apps, trying to find the best way to get a grip on everything I have to do for my job, my home, writing life, etc. This had been going on intermittently for years. I would routinely decide that whatever system I was using wasn’t working; it didn’t really fit my needs. I believe I’ve tried every to do and project management app offered in a free version before 2017, usually in combinations of task manager (e.g., Producteev, Any.do, etc.), note-taker (Evernote, OneNote, Google Keep), and calendar (Google). I was frustrated but I was completely immersed in the digital realms and looked there for all solutions.
I’m not exaggerating that digtial immersion. After nearly a quarter century of daily computer use, I had begun dreaming in computers. Not dreaming of being a human using a computer; I dreamt of nothing but what was within the frame of the monitor, within the functions of the program. I thought that was pretty twisted but went on searching for the best digital tools.
My search for productivity options led to YouTube videos and blog posts, mostly about the latest updates or the best tips and tricks for all those applications I’d been trying and hating forever. One night I watched a video about the Bullet Journal method, using a paper notebook to plan and track tasks, events, etc. I learned that people all over the world use variations of this method, some minimalist, others extravagant and artistic, employing a variety of notebooks.
I decided to give it a try, but opted not to buy one of the trendy or popular brands like the German Leuchtturm 1917, or the French Rhodia. Not my style. One thing I already knew was that anything too precious doesn’t get used up, it gets pampered. (Like my 7 year old Moleskine). So I ordered an AmazonBasics notebook, simple black hardcover, with good enough paper, for $8.99. I have continued to buy them. I keep my notes and tasks list in these basic lined notebooks, I work in the computer without living in it as much, and I’m less aggravated. I don’t dream computing anymore.
In October I decided to apply my new love of notebooks to my personal journal. I stopped failing to keep a journal on computer and started really journaling – a lot – with one of those Amazon notebooks. They’re 240 pages and I’m well into my third one. After Christmas, I discovered Field Notes, simple but awesome little pocket notebooks made in the USA. More about them in a future post.
Until the Ides of March, I wrote in my notebooks exclusively with pens; mostly my favorite pen, the Pilot G2 gel pen, black .07mm. I hadn’t used pencils for many years. Then one day in March, I happened upon a box of Dixon Ticonderoga pencils in a drawer. Just for fun, I sharpened and tried a couple of the Ticonderogas and decided they write too light. (Remember I was used to heavy black ink.) I did some googling and learned that my box was made in the USA and pre-dates the millennium. Dixon has made pencils in China and Mexico since 2000. In fact, I used to brief cases for law school in pencil, and these probably survive from that time, the mid-1980s.
I soon discovered that pencils are interesting – their history, manufacturing – they’re fun to write with, they feel right to the mind. They’re (mostly) surprisingly inexpensive. A box of pencils for the price of a coffee or two. They’re tactile, organic, and real. I have been learning, and become an enthusiast for pencils. I found there are podcasts and blogs, countless YouTube video reviews, and social media groups of people whose hobby centers on pencils, pens, and notebooks. There are worse things to be enthusiastic about, especially in these bleak days of the rise of fascism, resurgence of racism, and The Great American Stupid. But I digress.
I’ve learned something about myself through this process; something more important than the fact that I was a little too dependent on technology to meet all of my everyday needs. I learned something about my personality.
I am a very tactile person. I value the inner life of the creative mind and enter the world by writing about it, but I find the sense of touch in outer life profound and essential. And in these times of extreme sensory overload, of sights and sounds that can in no sense be called real, the tactile sense can be a soothing touchstone for consciousness and Being, and a consolation in mundane life. It can even be an antidote to the psychological impacts of digital burnout.
The quilt presently and often on my bed was made for me by my grandmother. She gave it to me for Christmas 2000, and she passed away in 2004. Sometimes when I get into bed I’ll run my hand over it for a moment and believe that I have been loved, I am loved, I share love in this hysterical and sometimes demoralizing world.
I like the feeling of touching cloth, leather, and wood. I love the feeling of warm water in the shower. The feeling of a warm cup of coffee in my hands is nice. I enjoy the textures of paper, copper, and stone. I have 2 small polished stones on my desk, both imbued with thoughts of people I love. I pick them up and hold them sometimes.
Organic and tactile, pencil and paper have become the imperative first step in my creative process. Always, my favorite thing to touch is a dog. Happiness, Charles Schultz said, is a warm puppy.
Antonio Machado wrote:
“All over I have seen
caravans of sadness,
pompous and melancholy men
drunk with black shadows.”
The meaning of life is found in the life being lived and it’s a process of self-discovery. A deep life is a good life. But it’s not easy. We live in a destitute time, what Heidegger would have called “the world’s night.” So it’s incumbent upon each of us to find what consoles and inspires us and hold fast: the music that gives us joy, the distant tree that defies the lowering sky, the words that we know to be true, the faces and memories that we recognize and love. And write those things down.
In writing this post, rather than sharpening one, I used the following pencils:
General’s Cedar Pointe #333 HB pencil. It’s a favorite because of the natural finish, which feels good in the hand. I got a dozen from Amazon for $6.94.
Palomino Golden Bear, made in Stockton CA. Possibly my #1 favorite. It’s blue with gold imprinting, with a silver ferrule and a white eraser. It’s a little darker than the Cedar Point, writes smooth. $3 for a dozen from pencils.com. That’s 25 cents each and it’s a good pencil.
Mitsubishi 9850 HB General Writing pencil, a beautiful deep maroon thing with gold lettering. Made in Japan. Japanese pencils are generally considered excellent; it’s very smooth. It’s the most expensive I have at $8.90 for a dozen from Amazon.
PaperMate Miardo Black Warrior, a round pencil with flat black finish. It writes dark and is a great pencil for the price. It was a total impulse buy in a drug store, about $2 for the package of 8.
It’s important to buy pencils made of sustainable wood sourced from managed forests.
I forgot to list Thanks, Obama by David Litt because it’s a real paper book; I got it for Christmas.
Speaking of real paper, that’s some of mine there. Field Notes Khaki Graph, Cedar Pointe natural wood pencil. More about my love for analog in an upcoming post.
I am a poet. When I forget that, I wander off into thickets of entropy. I think about poetry, often and a lot, and I think maybe you should not read it. I mean you should do something else with it. Because reading poetry can lead to thickets of attempted comprehension, and poetry isn’t about comprehension. Poetry isn’t just about top to bottom, left to right. Metaphor is not the same as enigma or secret code. It’s certainly not about that Robert Caro quote perhaps you know, “The only thing that matters is on the page.” That’s true, but it means something else.
The essential thing that makes poetry work, if and when it does, is not on the page at all. It’s in the reader’s mind. It’s waiting in the mind for a poem to appear, or a phrase of music, or a smell of food cooking, or a moment’s image of people from a car window. It’s not an understanding, it’s a recognition, a resonance. It is at best a meeting of minds across time and space.
“I think there is a general misconception that you write poems because you “have something to say.” I think, actually, that you write poems because you have something echoing around in the bone-dome of your skull that you cannot say. Poetry allows us to hold many related tangential notions in very close orbit around each other at the same time. The “unsayable” thing at the center of the poem becomes visible to the poet and reader in the same way that dark matter becomes visible to the astrophysicist. You can’t see it, but by measure of its effect on the visible, it can become so precise a silhouette you can almost know it.”– Rebecca Lindenberg
So I suggest do you not read poetry. Listen to it. Pick it up and hold it like something that belonged to someone you love, or something they made for you, and run your hand over it. If you can’t do that, swallow it hole and let it swim around inside you like a fish.
Whatever you do, never ask a poet what a poem means. It means the taste of that cake your mother made for your birthday. It means the cold fog rolling in.
“Time passes. Memory fades, memory adjusts,
memory conforms to what we think we remember.”
― Joan Didion, Blue Nights
So many things I believe I remember.
Like a walk in the forest, the stellar jays,
chipmunks, the sound of a stream.
Like standing in a cold city rain, wondering
how life would go for me when
I was older, when I had the means;
tilting my head back and letting it come.
Like lying on the floor with an old dog
and crying, helpless, the Nightland
pressed to the windowpanes, learning
that time falls away like a waterfall.
Like spending a night alone searching
memory for symbols of meaning
in late summer of a life that eludes
meaning, eludes flowers and wine,
and has settled like mud
into a comfortable bed of memories.
Like not loving you enough.
Like waking up after you were gone.
Oh God, I have slept through my life.
J. Kyle Kimberlin
Creative Commons Licensed