Stained Entitlement

I like to write with a fountain pen. Today’s mail brought a bottle of Monteverde Black Documental ink. My usual writing is done with a Conway Stewart Nelson II with a custom ground nib to a Japanese Fine, filled with a waterproof ink. The current ink is De Atramentis Archive ink.

In checking the pen’s ink supply, I found that the cartridge converter had leaked. I am now sitting with thoroughly ink-stained fingers. The backup pen in my pocket is a gold-nibbed Platinum PTL-5000A, filled with Sailor Yama-Dori ink.

These are two very different pens in girth, weight, and material. I like and can recommend both. The Conway-Stewart is a loan/gift I would never have approached because of its price. The Platinum is the least expensive gold-nibbed pen available.

There has been enough productive time today (reading the latest issue of the Fourth R magazine published by Westar, mowing the lawn, finishing Chapter 4 of an editing/publishing task for a friend, and taking my DIY conversion of a CPAP mask to an anti-virus mask for its first outing) that this latest shift in what I felt I was entitled to (clean fingers) was manageable.

Some days my generalized sense of entitlement (what I have dubbed the universal expression of each and all of the seven deadly sins) is not so well-bolstered and leaps into whatever false fray that presents itself.

When I consider the pull of personal entitlement (always present, just like my EA [Entitled Anonymous] sponsor said it would be), I begin to take a longer view of cultural, political, and economic change. These seemingly intractable entitlements are exponentially larger than my personal entitlement. Change is slow since there is no civic education or support to clarify what is needed for a public even to take a first step. Without being able to admit a lack of control over an idolatry of freedom and independence, they imprison others until, finally, they imprison themselves.

In a bit, I’ll go in and wash a tiny bit of ink off and have a noticeable reminder for these next days that happenings do occur. In such days it is good to have a reservoir of apophatic mysticism that can see me through to a next time when all shall be well. Until then, I’ll enjoy the chocolate-infused cranberry wine I brought out to encourage today’s musings and was forgotten during the Episode of the Leaking Pen.

PS — For those following this blog, yesterday’s posting was spell-check-bombed when “past stuckness” came out “past stickiness.”

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