Living Life Twice

Memory of times gone by emerge from time to time prompted by words, images, thoughts and people. For my recent birthday I was given two pens, both of them special in their own way. One was a fountain pen, beautifully balanced with just the right feel in my hand. The other a finely shaped ball point pen, also possessed of subtle feel when held. I am enjoying having both of them to call upon when I write.  Upon receiving these gifts, I found myself pondering my life journey from a handwriting perspective. Much has changed across the years. The tools we use for writing have evolved, expanded and improved.  I began to think back to my early handwriting experiences as a left hander in a predominantly right handed world. My response takes the form of a poem. A poem titled appropriately 'Inkblot,' Inkblot I was born into a world of blotting paper Ink wells and fountain pens A left handed writer Living in a writing minefield Ink wells and fountain pens Held...

Amazingly I learnt to write using my left hand. An achievement against the prevailing beliefs of the day. My very first teacher saw it as her mission in life to ‘fix’ the poor, wretched little boy suffering from what she clearly diagnosed as left handed disease. She must have thought, 'This child must be re formatted! If he remains left handed he will be forever condemned to writing in a scrawl that no one will be able to read. Ugly hand, ugly hand.' ...They tried to say it couldn't be done, it mustn't be done. They took the pencil out of my left hand and placed it in my right hand. It felt unnatural. It felt weird. It was not right. More to the point it was not left. I was not about to conform. At least they didn't try tying my hand behind my back. Watch me I said. I may be an oddball, left handed scribbler but I am a determined oddball. I mean how boring would the world be if everyone wrote with their right hand? So I dug my toes in –and my hands to...