we don’t have a pen

Everyone on earth had a pen. You opened a drawer in any house and five came out. They value a certain perfection, such as a spoon or a chair. We have reduced its use over time. I used to go out and never wore it anymore until a year ago. Everyone has a little list of things they try to remember when leaving the house because when we leave we all tend to leave something important behind. Usually it is keys or wallet. One day I took the pen off the list. It felt like I could write whatever came to my mind in notes on the phone.

But one morning, on my way to the post office, I noticed that I did not write the address on the envelope. Luckily, I noticed three kids while walking through Alameda and asked them to borrow a pen. They looked at me very strangely, as if I had offered them drugs or sex. Perhaps that would have made more sense to them. Although all three had backpacks, they said they didn’t have it. “You seriously don’t have a pen?” They nodded. Maybe they saw someone in me who was about to rob them and chose to shake me off. I walked, beat.

I peeked into my reflection as I walked past a shop window to see what I was wearing and, as my partner always said, if my favorite shirt, the old blue with holes, was really unattractive. I then bought a Bic to address and ship the envelope. Its use has become one of the tricks to solve established problems. Where there is no exit and there is only surrender, the problem is solved by a dodge. Life would be very difficult without resorting to them occasionally. They are a solution for a given minute, like when you fold a piece of cardboard and put it under the table leg. “She’s not limping anymore,” you announce. The use of the pen displayed great power over the envelope. I could almost hear him say “I do what I say here” when he started typing.

In an interview in 1999 Paris ReviewThey asked the North American historian ShelbyFoote if he was correct at the time of writing his monumental work. Civil war, had purchased from the Esterbrook brand “all items remaining in the United States” with which he had previously worked. The manufacturer was bankrupt and Foote was dangerously out of stock. He walked into a stationery store across from the Algonquin Hotel in New York one day and bought all the bits when he saw they had Esterbrook Probate 313s.

Ever since my failure at Alameda, I’ve always left the house with a pen. In fact, four weeks later, his superiority over machines was once again demonstrated when my printer broke down. It’s true that printer stories always end badly. In the end, he either dies or leaves you. He is hostile, cold, sneaky. When you look for the fault, it is not there. He fails because he’s perfect and he has to work because he’s a motherfucker. It does not yield to eternal love like pens.

Source: Informacion

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