In my fluctuating and somewhat temporal stint as an object of affection to another, I've come across the most creative, the most tacky, and the most depressing presents -- keepsakes or odes materialized, upon which they have heaped their undying (a rather gross, exaggeration, methinks) devotion and felicity.
Oh, how Austen-ish!
I've had poems (some even subtly erotic to some extent, but I won't go into detail about that, of course), an igorot barrel man figure, a standard issue teddy bear, books, cds, and what have yous, but I think I never gotten anything that is.... i'm searching for the right word... quaint?
I'll tell you what.
I would love to be given a bouquet of sharpened pencils.
Yes, that is be correct. A bouquet of pencils, indeed. Not flowers. Not candies. Just like what Tom Hanks virtually sent Meg Ryan in You've Got Mail.
Not endearing to some, but hey, to each his own right? I think that would be terribly romantic and yes, quaint. Janes and Annas would love flowers and candies. I'd choose pencils in a heartbeat.
I'd love mine to be those yellow Mongols I used to draw and write with when I was a kid.
I've loved pencils ever since my grandpa gave me a box for my first day of school. That was such a long time ago, when I think about it. While other kids had imaginary cartoon friends, I had five silent yellow ones safely tucked inside my special tin box. Sharpening them one by one was always a happy event and the loss of a pencil, whether I left it at school or had a classmate break it in two, was tragic. Each of my pencils were unique and served a different purpose. I'd use the yellow and purple one with the unicorn design when I wanted to show off in class. Or use the blue one with a bell, when I'm doing my homework. But I loved the yellow Mongols the best. I used them when writing very important big kid work, like practicing writing my name and doing curves and loops on penmanship exercises in school.
I probably drew and wrote my own universe with a magic pencil back then.
I still love the smell of freshly sharpened pencils -- that wonderful smell of wood and lead and your own nose for imagination. Sharpening one always takes me back to a time when life was innocent and carefree.
It's quite strange of me to wax such nostalgia over pencils. I've suddenly missed my pencils, I suppose. I was sitting in my veal fattening pen (read: my work desk) trying to remember the shortcut keys for the word processor. There are so many shortcuts when all I want to do is put a strike-through on a word. With a pencil, I could easily just flip my pencil over and vigorously rub away with the eraser.
I hope pencils don't end up as artifacts from a by-gone handwriting era. That would be incredibly sad.
I think I'll buy myself a box later when I get home, sharpen them till their tips glinted like a sword, and plant them like wooden flowers on a holder on my desk.
