Pen Poetry

Written 3/18/2010

#10 – No time for poetry but exactly what is

“If America is the car, Canada has been busses to me. Busses to catch busses that may not even be there. Busses of the same bus I’ve already been on once today already. This bus has less than five people on it and fine leather seats. Plenty of selection so I’m propped up against the window and sitting out in two seats to write properly.

Dylan has procrastinated on me: Tuesday or Monday we had spoken about transportation for getting down to Vancouver as he was trying to see his sister before she leaves for Australia. He has an environmental stewardship paper due tomorrow that he has been procrastinating on for some time. Perhaps he is unsure of the collegiate paper format but good luck to him on getting that done.

And since he was out climbing (in shorts) at the crag instead of writing he declined to give me a ride and didn’t notify me of whether or not he was able to provide transport. (Included in the narration of something pulled from a journal because of its dualistic, both-minor-and-major implications at the time of writing but since this is in parenthesis things obviously worked themselves out).

I gave up on him at 7, it’s now 8:33 pm.

No cash remaining for the Greyhound – a plan has been enacted, hastily, in place of the $20: I am thus taking (and writing from) the VANOC bus to Whistler, en route from Squamish, and hoping to catch one of the departures to Vancouver, though completely uncertain of the time it leaves. (Note for those unfamiliar with Highway 99 or haven’t figured this out yet: Squamish is in the very middle of both of them – so essentially I was going north to come south to go further south, all in the same trip).

The person I am going to see replies by text to a 160 character version of what I have just described and applauds it, wishes me luck, and my pen and writing begins to die.

“Helped me do a lot of things.
Write some good stuff.
An ode to a dying pen.
VBall Grip, Fine and thank you for
piloting the ink from the tip to my
paper and flowing wrist
across the page and
maybe black death is not
so imminent so do I
waste it upon a poem?”

The pen now sits at 5% ink remaining, I haven’t given it a death-write yet … perhaps a small essay can be derived from that or some haikus but the ink becomes so thin and transparent and slow to write that I enjoy keeping my pen in that purgatory stage where if I forget that if it was dying and pick it up again, I’ll curse myself for forgetting and be forced to run across the street to the drugstore to buy two new ones though a smart writer once told me to keep at least three operational utensils upon my person at all times.