Part 4a
"All right, children, the first thing I want you to do is fill out this Get-to-Know-You page. Write your name at the top."
I can feel grubby little fingers searching through the crayons. Yes, search away. You had to put the crayons on top of the pencils so now you'll have to work extra hard to find me. Oh no. I just thought of something. What if she does grab me? She can't choose me. I'm not ready for this!
You are SO ready for this!
Maybe she'll grab another pencil. Of course, she'll grab another pencil. Why would she grab me? Me of all pencils. Please, grab another pencil! Aaah! Noooo! She's grabbing me! What do I do? What do I do?
You do what you were made to do, Notoo! You write!
But I've never written before! You don't get it--I've literally never written before!
I haven't either!
What if I make a mistake?
You WILL make a mistake! That's what your eraser is for.
Ack! Oooh! Haha! The paper tickles! Oh!
Are you okay?
I- I think so. This is kinda--wow. I am writing. I am actually writing. Florence! I'm writing!
Congratulations!
For the first time I'm--whoah! She's turning me upside down. No! Not my unused rubber head! Not the fresh out of the factory eraser! Ack! Ack! Ack! Pink shavings everywhere. Ok, phew, that's over with. Haha! More tickling. Oh, I never imagined. Florence, Florence!
Yes, Notoo?
I wish you could experience this. It's-- it's actually amazing!
Tell me about it. Describe it so I can pretend I'm writing too.
Okay. Um. Well, I feel paper under my lead. It's smooth but scratchy at the same time. I feel the firm grasp of skin and muscle on my barrel. I feel my tip being honed and shaped and dulled--a thousand sensations at once. I'm getting smaller, but it's like I'm more powerful at the same time. I'm being used up, but, but . . .
I feel fulfilled.
That's what I feel--fulfilled.
Oh no, I feel fulfilled.
That's wonderful!
No! It's not! I can't feel fulfilled writing what? "7 years old" and "My favorite color is orange"? Ack! This child's handwriting! It's horrific. Florence! Why does this feel so good?
Because this is what you were designed to do!
No, no! Oh, I'm tingling. My nerves are on end. I can feel each push of her thumb and forefinger. All those days smashed into our cardboard pencil container--I didn't know! I didn't know what I was missing. I didn't know this is what I needed, to be held by a human hand and to write. I mean, I knew, but I didn't, you know? It's like a part of me--wait a minute. What on earth? How many fingers is she using to write with? Her whole fist? Agh! I can hear the scratch of my graphite against the sheet. Like literally, I can almost hear pieces of me being left behind on the page. I'm terrified. I must be hyperventilating. I feel like my heart is soaring. Everything is turned upside down, but I want to write more. Oh and how! I'm writing. I'm actually writing! I can't enjoy this. I can't! It's wrong! I was supposed to belong to someone else! To a professional! To the next Mark Twain! I was supposed to write something more perfect than--ack! she wrote the letter "b" backwards! AND the letter "d." This is worse than my worst fears! No. I refuse to enjoy myself. Refuse. Refuse.
But you are enjoying yourself. I can tell.
Florence, I am. It's horrible!
I wish I was with you!
I've got to shut down. I've got to stop feeling. I can't feel fulfilled in a schoolroom. I won't.
If I focus really hard--yes, I'll imagine I'm back in the storeroom. I'm still fresh and unused. My whole life is still ahead of me. I still might be picked up by the next Norman Rockwell. I won't feel pleasure. I won't enjoy. I'll save up my writing for my true destiny.
I'll escape. That's what I'll do. Somehow, I've got to escape. I'll get out of here.
Notoo--no!
If only . . . . I will manage it somehow. The child is putting me down. The teacher is talking. How will I escape? I must find my true destiny. I will. I must.
The teacher is handing them clipboards. They have an outside assignment. This is my chance. I'm going outside. If I can just roll off this clipboard . . . .
Fresh air! It's . . . smelly. Is this what fresh air smells like? It doesn't smell like the factory or the store or the house or the classroom. Ah-Ah-ACHOO! Ah, great, I'm allergic to fresh air. Well, what does it matter? This is my ticket to freedom. Scratch, scratch, scratch! Try not to use up all my graphite, midget scribbler. I've got more important people needing me.
Whoah! Whoah! Whoah! Lotsa running with a pencil. Scribbler child, hasn't anyone ever taught you not to run with a pencil? I might fly up and poke your eye out. Not intentionally. I'm not a monster. Ambitious for greater things, but not a monster. Sloooow down. Please. Good. Thank you. Ok, yes, scratch, scratch, scratch away. What are we writing? Oh ok. You see a bird. In a tree. Good. Is this an observation assignment or something? How about you add in an adjective? You do not know what an adjective is? What about blue bird? Red bird? Gray bird? Not ringing a bell? *sigh* I guess that's what you're in school for. Wait until you learn these things, kid. That's when the fun begins.
Ok, bell is ringing. Teacher's calling us back. And we're off running again! I'm trying to hold on. I don't want to poke you, kid. But, ack, ack, ack! Aaaaahhhhhhh! Through the air! Flying! Free-fall!
Ow! Hard asphalt on wooden barrel equals pain. Shooting pain.
Rolling, rolling. Can't control the rolling.
Bumpy black asphalt. Friction. Slowing down.
No way.
I had to stop right in the middle of the playground?
Really?
Fine, I'll just wait.
Wait a minute--
I'm--no . . .
I'm free?
I escaped?
I did!
I'm free! Florence, I'm free!
Florence?
Oh.
But that's okay. Florence wanted to be in school. She wanted to be held by short fingers that alternatively pick a nose and then hold a pencil. She was okay with that life. 2+2 is 4, and desk is spelled d-e-s-k. She was fine with that.
She knew I'd take the first opportunity I could get to be free.
She knew.
I'm free. I actually did it. I actually escaped!
Wow.
So this is what freedom feels like.
I'm not packed like sardines with a bunch of other packs in a factory box.
I'm not crammed in with 11 other pencils in our pack.
I'm not stuffed into a pencil box, mixing with markers and crayons and decaying erasers.
I'm actually free.
So then.
Well.
Hm.
What now?
I suppose I am in the exact place I need to be for destiny to find me.
Yes. I will wait here for fate to have a second chance to take me to where I'm meant to be.
Part 4b
Oral History. Oh, Oral History. To the Oral History of yore. Or of the future. To the future. Oral History to those who shall come after me. Way, way after me. So far after me that they shall wonder at my strange words and marvel that we ever survived these days.
I've been laying her for, oh, I don't know. Hours? Days? Weeks? The sun--that great celestial orb that has been the muse for many a poetic ramble--is hot. Very, very hot.
I heard from an encyclopedia I once knew--so very long ago it seems now--that wood is not a conductor for heat.
The encyclopedia lied.
The sun is very hot.
The sun is very hot.
I said that already, didn't I?
If Tolkien were to come pick me up, he would declare the day as hot as the fires of Mordor and would snatch me up to safety as surely as Frodo tried to keep the ring from falling to its destruction.
It was very noisy earlier today. There were many feet scrambling across the blacktop. I was kicked in the side a few times. Spiraled a few feet. And then baked some more.
No one, I repeat, no one, has thought to pick me up.
If they have, they have not acted on it.
No little voices said, "Oooh, look! A pencil!"
No teacher said, "Johnny, pick up that nice new pencil and bring it back to our classroom so you can learn to write neatly."
'Twould seem a mercy.
Assuredly and for certain no artist or author or poet--or any kind of professional for that matter--has even given me a second glance.
Do authors roam the hallowed halls of today's primary schools?
Probably not.
They have better things to do.
Like, use pencils that haven't spent hours in the blazing hot sun, exposed to the elements, kicked about by rubber soles, forgotten by all mankind.
Destiny has lost its way to me, and freedom isn't all that it's cracked up to be.
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