When I awaken that first morning after I walk away from Brock for the last time, I do not want to be flooded with a sense of loss or feel a sudden vast void in my life.
I want to choose how and when I gradually give up activities, on my terms and on my schedule, with fond lingering memories gently stirred in the process, with intentional, deliberate surrender because it is time.
Gradually stepping back from the whirr of one's daily activity, gradually slowing down the frantic pace of living, easing into semi-ease ...
My fascination with fountain pens, inks and fine papers is I am certain an antecedent of my disengagement from the modern hurly-burly. This mania is well known amongst my intimates. Indeed, it is often the subject of gentle jibing: "Barry was late this morning because he was inking his pens!" [followed by sympathetic "awww! isn't that cute?" kinds of noises]
In a world in which speed and efficiency are privileged, practices that I myself prize in professional circumstances, my use of fountain pen and ink helps me to slow down my thoughts as I commit them to paper, forces me to think about what I shall write, and even more important, reminds me that the selection of the words themselves and the interplay -- sound and shape --amongst them is the creation of beauty, an act that ought never to be taken lightly.
I have returned to wet shaving, with brush, mug and double-edged safety razor. And I love it.
What a pleasure to find that there is a counter-culture out there that, like me, delights in elevating an act of daily routine to one of slow ritualistic enjoyment.
