neither are we accustomed to working in inks.
not even ballpoint; america definitely strikes me as a #2 graphite country, still masquerading as real lead. ink, real fluid bottled richblack ink, requires a subtlety that i don't think we have. it calls for responsibility and selfawareness, qualities that don't usually fly to mind when regarding writing implements. no other way, though, to avoid the smudges, splatters, great dripping blobs. refinement, as well, for this meduim doesn't always stay put, slipping off the brush or careful crafted nib.

but oh, how it loves its world. ink belongs to paper in a way that graphite can't, it caresses and cajoles, nestles itself into the very fibers. permanent. absolute.

that takes the longest to get used to, the reality of it. the pure physicality of shiny black ink sliding from the brush onto clean white paper. engrossed in flickering screens and everefficient machines, a world dominated by the delete button, rewind, redo, apology and excuse, i find it almost refreshing to discover that i have to start all over, an hour's work, because my hand slipped and the perfect circle cut itself in half.