Picture: Man Writing a Letter by Gabriel Metsu
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Was this article handwritten?
No.
Handwriting has a specific energy to it. By this, I mean that it is ontologically specific, as a discrete action onto itself, and subjectively specific, namely, strictly correlated with the individual’s propensities. Therefore, the reason why this article was not handwritten will eventually become blatantly obvious.
Umberto Eco, novelist and philologist, at the tail end of one of his major novels, in an essay, mentions how writing has a kinetic aspect to it, which involves movement, sounds, and physical sensations at large. He says that when writing an iconic scene of the novel, after having lined up his research materials, he would literally follow the rhythm of his typewriter, stretching the metaphor even further by claiming to act as a drum player in that instance. I felt understood.
Talking to a variety of people, in different contexts, about one of my long-standing writing projects in the making, being fully handwritten, their reactions ranged from slight confusion to awe, from shock to enthusiasm. None was untouched by it – and yes, of course, I am very selective with my interlocutors on the matter. Nevertheless, all these people seem to understand why someone would choose handwriting rather than computer typing – and tapping, which, echoing Eco, has its own musicality. Even when, in most cases, apparently, it was not their own preferred way of writing, they would at least appreciate that someone else is still using the old-fashioned pen and paper – I have not tried quill and ink yet, but I will surely let you know if I do. Admittedly, though I know I shall be forgiven, I have hazarded guessing that handwriting is simply easier because human beings have done it for centuries. While tapping keys in order to have pistons violently stamping characters on a leaf of paper has only become commercially available during the second half of the 19th century – let alone conjuring words on a bright, magical canvas made of liquified mineral matter.
Needless to say, handwriting is essential to me when it comes to writing certain things or others, even within the same genre. I always carry with me a tiny paper notebook – one of those that Italian osterias used to gift to their loyal customers when I was a kid – in spite of the brutal convenience smartphones can afford, that is because generally, I’d rather use technology that doesn’t entail staring at a retroilluminated screen. It’s one of my idiosyncrasies. Obviously enough, when practicality compels, and, most importantly, an intuitive choice is made to use a laptop – as I am doing now – I happily take advantage of digital resources, so, for example, you – yes, my friend, you – can read these things I enjoy sharing, no matter where you are in the Solar System and beyond.
After a few years working on the above-mentioned longstanding project, I have come to experiment with it, including practicing mindful writing, that is, extending my awareness to the kinetic aspect of writing. These sessions rapidly took on the connotations of intense meditation. Here is an excerpt, roughly translated into English:
“The Touch
Untouchable, it remains, this fine morning of May; the feeling of pitch-black ink which lets itself be heard, while the quill – so to speak – slides, or better, glides on the lined surface, as if lined in ripples, or reverberations caused by a weight that had fallen at the beginning of time…”
From other sessions, I can highlight one more: the oily sensation of the ink exiting the spherical tip of the pen as it was perceived through the plastic cane by my fingers and palm. This, when harnessed with consistent focus, can become a meditative tool – doesn’t it sound a bit off? Let’s call it an anchor – that even non-writers can use for their practice, since it works no matter what you write, even gibberish. I have a feeling that automatic writing, when using this technique, would hold some fine surprises for the brave.
On that note, I’d like to mention one more aspect, perhaps the most expected in a society that is familiar with wellness, yoga, and so on: grounding. The act of handwriting grounds thoughts into matter, instantly. The implications are many: using a notebook that you can carry with your god-given hands makes it somehow more real; a piece of paper you can hide under the pillow or slide in your pocket can act as a talisman; all these physical supports can be handed over to someone else so they can feel it as a well defined object – unlike digital supports that can do a million and one things – that has its specific smell, texture, and sound. Think of crumpling up a post-it on which you wrote something you accomplished, or you can’t stand the sight of; think of turning the yellowed page of an old poetry book from the flea market; think of resting your pen-hand on your diary when musing about a long day and visualizing the most relevant scenes. All of this is grounding. It creates a space between the confines of your body and a clearly defined locale in physical reality, where you can observe the workings of the mind from a vantage point, and perhaps make you more aware of these workings, of how you react to them. You go on and tell me this doesn’t sound like meditation?
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Herons