~307~

                                    

                                          
I had to make some notes in the theory book I borrowed from the library the other day
so I picked up a pencil
and my first thought was
I wonder what scale is this
it must be the HB
it always is
I hadn't held a pencil in years
I don't think I still have my little metal box of neatly stacked pencils for every possible artistic necessity in the history of time
I think I told Martha to throw it away
along with the other million nicknacks that I'd spent hundreds on
I do think about my nicknacks oddly often
I do wonder if I could ever pick them up again
I wish so badly that I could
just to see
just to check if it still lives in me
the perfect pencil stroke
the perfect cube
the perfect play of light and shadow
the lightest place on an object is right next to the line where shadow begins
the ideal straight line is drawn by hand
the colour black does not exist in nature
it's odd that I remember it as if it was just yesterday when I was sitting in the drawing room on the first floor to the right from the main entrance
but then
how could I not?
the place made me
defined who I am today
in this chair
in front of my thesis
I don't think it's the pencil at all
I think it's that I already did this once
I think it's that the pencil is trying to remind me
to wake me up