Black Fingers

Irregular black spots on the tips of my fingers. Sometimes they reach my nails, which I simply don't bother polishing, unless I were to paint them black, which I don't. The degree of the spots are directly correlated with the amount of writing I've done that day. Handwriting. And well, also a marker about the flowing quality of my pen. Spots not only appear on my fingers, but around me as well. Walls and floors splashed around in an amateur imitation of Pollock. All papery surfaces around are marked with gibblerish, scrapping and scratching from trying every now and then to make the ink run. Old spots, fresh, dark and sticky fall on the old ones, fading away, worn out from the constant hand-washing and hand-cleansing the swine flu forces us into. Alcohol gel the worse enemy of the spots because it takes them out much easier. I have had spots on my fingers from one day to another, that much the ink has sunk into my skin, that much have I written.

Those who know me probably know that I've a "few" fountain pens in my "rather reduced collection". Yes, in this I'm just like my Grandpa, who keeps a wooden box filled with cartidges and pens. So many pens he simply doesn't make it to the once in the bottom. There are loads of pens of all kinds that range from high class Mont Blanc pens to inexpensive Inoxcrom and, like we say in Costa Rica, "marca patito" ("little duck" brand, which means some probably fake brand). I never really invested on a Mont Blanc, pretty much considered it out of my range, so I have always concentrated on Inoxcrom, a very good and fairly inexpensive brand, sometimes entertaining other brands and other styles, playing around with more executive, formal looking pens. (I even got the Nox case, with a wood-bodied fountain pen.) So, mainly all my pens are plastic and rather informal looking. I've vibrant neon yellow Carioca pens, small pens, green pens, white pens, turtle pens, cow pens, tulip printed pens, violet pens, pink pens... you name it.

Seeing my blackened fingers, my beloved boyfriend gave me for my birthday my very first Mont Blanc fountain pen. Well, I haven't used it yet because my birthday is still to come, you mind? However, he made me think about my fingers. So, should I be ashamed for my messy hands? Because they are not white and pristine? Because they do not look like the hands of those who take care of them all day and so do nothing? My hands are not idle hands, and if they are to show who I am, my ink spots, like the spots of a wild cat, talk about my trade, my calling: I am a Writer. Journal writer, novel writer, poetry writer when I feel like it, letter writer, fic writer, slash writer, a crazy little vonnegutian when it comes to mix images and pen-traced drawings and doodles with my words. Words are my life, words are my soul, the scraps of my mind, the shards of my personal philosophy, my emotional and intellectual nourishment.

Which are the pieces of your soul? Which are the blocks that build your emotions and trigger them? What's your craft, your calling, your coven? This is my craft, the pen and paper my tools, and the spots on my fingers are the brand of my calling. This is my trademark.