letter forms

“It's all making me ready.
It's all doing what you gonna do.
I know "A"
I see my life come shine.”

~ Jeff Lynne, King of the Universe, from On the Third Day


This time of the year has come to be my busiest. Although late winter is conducive to recollection, my routines have been gratefully diversified with travels, playing music, and being among friends along the way. Part and parcel of the pilgrim path is note-taking and photography. Here is a chance to catch up. On a recent sojourn in Paris, an elegant subway poster drew my steps to an enthralling exhibit about the history of written letter forms at the Musée de la Poste (the postal history museum). The venue is familiar to me, but this show was extraordinary in presentation and depth of collections- the galleries filled with artifacts, printed and handwritten works, connected by narrative installations. It was easy to take dozens and dozens of photos, thinking of my fellow writers who might at least enjoy an edited version.

When we are writing, we join with a vast and boundless continuum of thoughts expressed in lettered articulation. Words constructed of typographic elements are shaped into our communication, description- even unspoken narrative. Further, understanding often hinges upon clarity of letter and language. Arrays of individual letter characters, with which thoughts are framed, present their unique graphic balance. The very letters I handwrite- and even type at this very moment- are inheritors of evolved typographic architecture. This museum exhibit reminded me very much of our working legacy of form and function. Indeed, an already existing affinity for the practices of graphic arts and calligraphy kept me in the Musée de la Poste for hours! Yet, all the more after exiting, my appreciation extended further as I noticed letter forms on buildings, in print, and in the city’s adornments. Then I chose a corner café to continue journaling.

Between wall panels displaying very large translucent parchment-like A-to-Z letter murals (as in the top photo) and illuminated manuscript pages, were these books. Just above, in Persian, and below from Ethiopia and China. The Asian displays included collections of ink-grinding tools and lettering brushes.

Moving through history, the galleries turned to displays of writing tools using ink and paper. These French-made materials were also beautifully advertised, reflecting the styles of their times. Note the pen-stands, and glass-pointed pens. There were display cases filled with the tiny boxes in which copper pen-points were packaged and sold.

The sections of a glass-reservoir Waterman fountain pen just below. These pens are still made in France. Fountain pens began to replace dip-pens and inkwells.

Among the impressive variety of inkwells displayed (one resembling a chariot, another in the shape of a coal stove) are these, just below. At right is Voltaire's inkwell and pen stand. Imagine what had been written with these tools!

Indeed, a fine showing of graphite writing tools not to be missed. Sennelier and Caran d'Ache are two brands that are still popular today. Pencils have hardly changed in the past century. Note the crank sharpeners on the right.

Just below is a portion of a large Bic ballpoint display. Some of the memorabilia advertising Bic, also a French company, was loaned by the Musée Carnavalet (the museum of Paris city history).

Though the focus of this history of writing exhibit concentrated on handwritten letters, the concluding gallery displayed letter-press printed pages, a 19th century cast-iron printing press (made in Boston!), and an Underwood typewriter. And, yes, a nod to word-processing. Being the national museum of postal history, there was a great display of antique postcards, and an area for children to write letters. During my visit, a tour guide was teaching a school group the basics of calligraphy.

Resuming my steps along side streets and broad avenues, typographic forms abounded. A large and familiar letter A appropriately met my path.
Just below, miles away from the museum, a calligraphic display in the Sennelier store along the Seine.

Spring is almost here.
Bonne écriture !

keys and words

“Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart.
Try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books
written in a foreign language.
...At present you need to live the question.
Perhaps you will gradually, without even noticing it,
find yourself experiencing the answer,
some distant day.”

~ Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

so fine

umbrella

“On the corner
where the sun had shone,
The people gathered ‘round,
Then scattered as the raindrops
hit the ground.
The rain is falling.
Will it wash away the lonely tears.”

~ Jeff Lynne, Rain is Falling


Rain has been inordinately part of every day, for nearly a month. So much so, that the ordinary spaces and conditions through which destinations are connected become distinctive environments in themselves. Indeed, it is possible to appreciate relentless torrents when they are not factors in destructive equations, as we see in parts of the world. Observing rainstorms from high ground along the Maine coast reminds me of watching snow billow on Vermont mountaintops; quantitative measure becomes inconsequential. Even with few I can find who share my enjoyment of the pouring, the dampness, and even the refreshing quaffs of bracing air, my contention remains that this intervention of nature itself lends well to introspection. To varying extents, we are compelled to draw inward - even in the subtlest and slightest ways- when we seek temporal sanctuaries on this adventure we must navigate. And surely, ducking into and through intermittent shelters need not weigh down a soul. The light is a diffused and shadowless grey. An extended overcast atmosphere has effected a kind of housepaint white backdrop to all roads and buildings, seamlessly matching the sky overhead. Is this gloom? What’s not to enjoy? Great strides can be made, when there are few shadows and the immediate panorama is one of sweeping movement. Of twirl and tumble- and then startling sound and light effects. On the coast, paroxysms of nature- no matter the season- are interleaved with cool, briny breezes- all at once gritty, earthy, and rejuvenating. Invariably, there are signs to be noticed: reminders and pointers attesting to what is past that remains to inform, and horizons revealed.

To abide in the midst of nature’s voice is to dwell among transitory places of inspiration. When the air around us sounds and gusts and even adds a coating to us, it is an experience of both sense and spirit. These rains are reminiscent of what is above, beneath, and around me. Indirect light creates a context of muted reflectant colors, and with such palettes are many accompanying recollections. If you are among those who appreciate the rain, the grey light, and that washed-sky aroma, try drawing in a breath of that cathartic air which comes to us between storms. And reminders follow. As a child in the city, I hated rainy weather; it was- as many things in huge cities- an annoying obstruction. Darkness and cancellations. Humid busses and subways, squeaking slicker coats that stick to skin, and damp summer camp bunks. Though I may be projecting the helplessness of my adolescence, the impressions are surely accurate. But somehow, so many connotations began changing as I left home at seventeen, arrived in this place, and embarked upon the life of faith. And reaching forth for the new has an underpinning in a foundation of remembered experience. Scent can produce powerful memories and internal references. Rainswept air is our breathing after a purging lamentation. Memory is a realm at our very margin, that we may only visit as we recollect and contemplate. The brick and earthen streets of Portland return me to the cobbled and saturated streets of Paris. A good rainstorm can even be heard from the interiors we inhabit, be it swishing traffic, dappled windowpanes, or tympanic thunder. The landscape changes, and as we notice our own transformation, our sense of the scenery around us evolves, too.

Some of my colleagues and closest friends are aware of my penchant for what most consider to be “awful” weather- and a few understand it. Heading out to this café to write these words, a friend recommended, “take your umbrella, if you’re going out there,” pointing at the windows. It looked as if the whole building had been driven into a car wash. Adventures have their necessities: ponchos, boots, rain-gear, umbrellas, rain-proof containers. The great pilgrimage, we are told, requires but a pair of sandals and a walking-stick; unextravagant enough not to exclude anyone. Grateful for my associate’s presence of mind, I took the advice- and my umbrella. This modest perch of little tables, hot coffee, and bantering voices is shelter- certainly not the silence of Elijah’s cave, but similarly in the way one can sense the consolation and purpose of Divine presence. This exploration traverses unknown desolate places, separations, and also winds through unpredicted oases. The nature of a way-station is in its very provisional aspect, as a rainstorm blows out to sea. The way forward is antithetical to stagnation. In the unknowing, I must maintain a practical sense of remembrance, to be capable and equipped for the voyage. As the pilgrim soul is ever in motion, so are the skies in transition. Adapting to the forces of nature- to storms, terrain, and visibility- we reconcile with creation. Being reminded of vast heights and depths, we can be diverted from making our troubles larger than these sources of life themselves.

Noticing striding sidewalk adventurers outside, under their varieties of umbrellas, there is a fine symbol of pilgrimage. We must equip ourselves, as we move through this world- even under cover of portable shelters. Weather is indiscriminate, varying according to geography rather than by personality sharing proximity (however the better-healed are often better equipped). The sun rises upon all of us, however deserving we may think each other to be, and “the rains are sent upon those who do right and those who do wrong.” Heavy rains represent nourishment- and at times devastation. It is for us to find or create our sanctuaries from the storms, where we can fold up those umbrellas for the time being. If the skies present signs to us, among them is the certainty of transition. And as I weather these seasons, gazing back while looking for tomorrow’s light, through the rain there emerges a precursor of assurance.

deep waters flow out to the sea

"Warm summer breeze blows endlessly, touching the hearts of those who feel."


~Jeff Lynne, One Summer Dream



At the end of a great conversation with yet another wise friend, he asked me a question he'd once asked me about a year ago, "what do you fear most?" Last year I heard myself say I had a trepidation about being unaware of errors and misjudgements I may have been making that I will only realize much later, and thus it was a kind of fear of regret. As with anything, these kinds of heartfelt answers reflect our own state of affairs at a given time. We are such fascinating composites of so many influences and responses! This morning, my answer to that question was a bit more telling- and actually a bit more troubling. But in this wilderness, these confrontations are what give way to major strides of progress. This time what I heard myself say was- not an anxiousness about not being skilled at tasks, or anything like that- but something to the effect of a fear of human failure. More specifically an apprehension over an unwitting extension of my own duress, something like a self-sabotage. Who would ever want to do that? But we all know that we are more than capable of sinking our own vessels. Inevitably, being that I have to maintain plenty of balance, in order to get things done and be my usual self to everyone, I've left this matter for thought, and continue to err on the side of not-worrying-so-much. Still another wise friend once told me that the opposite of fear is faith.

rain is falling all around; storm came, it brings you down

"How do you know, what you feel- is it real, is it?
How do you know, what you see- is it seen, is it?"

~Jeff Lynne, Impostors of Life's Magazine


This liminal space has turned yet another corner. While I am striving for one notion, other possibilities seem to crop up- and the whole continuum of living never ceases to both bewilder and confound. In a conference last night, I heard myself refer to times of transition as provisional, and that rather than perceive the provisional as a downward spiral, consider the provisional as having a dynamism in its very fluidity. The context was something more on the order of a historic institution, but somehow this refers directly to my own condition. As my journeying again brings me to see scarcely any value to my solitary state, suddenly this present consequence starts to look like something very open-ended. I can attend to some polishing of some projects over which I have significant influence. I can continue to be available to other people- as I've been when able to get out of my own way. Of course, true to this wilderness which must be navigated, there are many dark moments. Life as an invisible man can just as easily bite hard into my viscera as it can become something I can really laugh at. "Listen," bade Dylan Thomas' unseen narrator in Under Milk Wood, "Listen. Time passes." Perhaps some day I'll be grateful for these days, and I must remember to appreciatively acknowledge the ones already past. In my interior debate about what is real, I am also pondering what is not real-- what is a false impression.