Yellow Pen Adventures

There's something about a good pen that just makes you want to write. My skinny-tipped yellow pen has been a part of my life, made me want to write, since my first days standing in front of 32 Thai cherubs. A gift from one of their parents, proud of their king, telling me that everything that is yellow in their country is good, right, strong. The yellow pen followed me, tucked into the spiral wires of my traveling notebooks, clutched between my fingers and drawing out my experiences in letters to Robbi, Pat, Lindsay. I packed it for Brazil, wondering if its ink would last another four months worth of scribbling madness and recounting green leaf afternoons. It did. And so, when I settled my stagnant ass in a seat that I'm sure at least three other bored, battered souls have sat in, farting and adjusting their underware, I placed this yellow pen in a black wire cup next to the other pens that Scholastic had ordered me from Office Max. The standard Bic's stand up straight and proud, waiting for this ink to fade, for me to pick them up so they can do their duty with black, solid dignity. But this yellow pen lived through all of it, kept spreading blue. After my ass left that chair for good, I brought the little yellow pen home, placed it on my dresser. It still helps me with my cluttered thoughts and long lists and plans. It still keeps telling the pages what I'm thinking.