GRIZZLY PEAR

written snapshots

Category: Calligraphy

  • kilo

    I had a lot of fun with a pencil for graphing a graffiti style versal. The pencil lets me fly around with light lines to find the right shapes, but I can still erase or crank up the density and line weights to sculpt the shape to my liking.

    Either way, it’s less stressful than ink…and with my architecture sketching background, I willing to live with the unfinished look.

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    My father-in-law lost his battle with pancreatic cancer last week. He fought for three seasons until finding his rest in the early morning.

    That day, I stayed at home with the kids while my wife and her mom made arrangements. They played on their computers while I listened to podcasts while working on a jigsaw puzzle that had been sprawled across the playroom mat for a month.

    When she came home, we took a walk around the neighborhood school. The boy then played with our neighbors. They wanted to stroll around the school too.

    So we did.

    — May 2026

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  • Jabberwocky

    Last month, we watched the girl play Door #2 at the middle school.
    A small bit, accentuated with clearing table of the mad tea party.
    Like all the parents in the theater, my heart was on that stage for three nights.

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    Jabberwocky

    ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
          Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
    All mimsy were the borogoves,
          And the mome raths outgrabe.

    “Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
          The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
    Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
          The frumious Bandersnatch!”

    He took his vorpal sword in hand;
          Long time the manxome foe he sought—
    So rested he by the Tumtum tree
          And stood awhile in thought.

    And, as in uffish thought he stood,
          The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
    Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
          And burbled as it came!

    One, two! One, two! And through and through
          The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
    He left it dead, and with its head
          He went galumphing back.

    “And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
          Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
    O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
          He chortled in his joy.

    ’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
          Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
    All mimsy were the borogoves,
          And the mome raths outgrabe.

    Lewis Carroll

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    Almost thirty years ago, I bought this bottle of ink by Rotring. It traveled around across the country, architecting in Berkeley, Houston, and Vegas. This poem finally finished it off.

    After I cleaned the bottle, the boy refilled it with a random ink wash for his “science” experiment.

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  • juliet

    This feels properly swoopy with a nice plum accent for this lovely word.

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    He started wobbly, paused constantly, tumbled a couple of times, but in an hour he was peddling down the straight away and making wide looping turns!

    between bike sessions we went to the playground.
    he’s always passive on the swings,
    but not today, riding next to his sister.

    I gave a good push
    he extended his legs and exclaimed “sun”
    and he folded them back, saying “bank”

    — sun — bank
    — sun — bank
    — sun — bank
    — sun — bank
    — sun — bank

    higher and higher!
    he was finally swinging himself
    with a mantra all his own.

    — December 2023

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  • Three from Robert Frost

    I found a children’s book of Robert Frost and graphed a few short poems. Each of these fit on a single sheet, though the crop was expanded in the computer and colors were tweaked.

    “Questioning Faces” and “The Rose Family” are both public domain, but “The Secret Sits” remains under copyright (1936).

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    Questioning Faces

    The winter owl banked just in time to pass
    And save herself from breaking window glass.
    And her wings straining suddenly aspread
    Caught color from the last of evening red
    In a display of underdown and quill
    To glassed-in children at the window sill.

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    The Rose Family

    The rose is a rose,
    And was always a rose.
    But the theory now goes
    That the apple’s a rose,
    And the pear is, and so’s
    The plum, I suppose.
    The dear only knows
    What will next prove a rose.
    You, of course, are a rose –
    But were always a rose.

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    The Secret Sits

    We dance round in a ring and suppose,
    But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

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    For this session, I started with the Secret, using the 6.0mm Pilot Parallel with a 12mm x-height. I then dropped to 3.8mm for the Rose and then dropping to 2.4mm for Questioning, both using a 6mm x-height.

    I’m fond of the huge contrast between thick and thin strokes with the bigger nib, but of course I need bigger paper if I was to do anything longer than an epigram.

    I am really enjoying this kick of scribing the works of great poets. If I was solely focused on composing poems, these long hand case studies would be more effective without the distraction of calligraphy, but it’s better to do a suboptimal fun exercise than doing nothing.

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  • india

    Along with my current gothic scripty kick and the standby pointed brush cursive, this chunky wide brush has been consistently satisfying, especially when pushed to the extreme.

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    He taped a red jar cap to the wall and pressed the button each time he headed out to school.

    The boy tripped and bumped his head over the baby-gate.
    Installed three years ago, when he was a toddler.

    Stayed to keep him sleepwalking down.
    Now it’s just in the way.

    Was in the way.
    The hallway feels brand new!

    —November 2023

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  • Hope (times three)

    Emily Dickinson

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    Hope is the thing with feathers
    That perches in the soul,
    And sings the tune without the words,
    And never stops at all,

    And sweetest in the gale is heard;
    And sore must be the storm
    That could abash the little bird
    That kept so many warm.

    I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
    And on the strangest sea;
    Yet, never, in extremity,
    It asked a crumb of me.

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    I tried this poem with “my” new favorite script, but I’m worried it’s becoming a thoughtless default, so I tried again in cursive with brush and fountain pen.

    I’m not sure any of these are the right fit for the poem, but I’m also trying to avoid torturing myself over these one-off poems. I’ve got plenty of second-guessing while scribing those books!

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  • hotel

    Before starting the NATO run, I worked through Arthur Baker’s book of swash capitals. The straight brush also loves the blocky forms of Rudolf Koch’s Neuland. The two got mashed together here.

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    After tower defense on Blooket,
    They made me a night zombie,
    Seeking brains in the dark while
    They hid under folded sleeping pad huts.

    Brains, brains!

    Morning comes the sun!
    Away I go!
    They ran into the playroom to fortify
    With pot lid shields and
    Miso containers shooting arrows.

    pew pew pew!

    Dangerous labor,
    This zombie gig.

    —September 2023

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  • All the world’s a stage

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                                        All the world’s a stage,
    And all the men and women merely players;
    They have their exits and their entrances;
    And one man in his time plays many parts,
    His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
    Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
    And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
    And shining morning face, creeping like snail
    Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
    Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
    Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
    Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
    Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
    Seeking the bubble reputation
    Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
    In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,
    With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
    Full of wise saws and modern instances;
    And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
    Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
    With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
    His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide
    For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
    Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
    And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
    That ends this strange eventful history,
    Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
    Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

    William Shakespeare, from As You Like It, spoken by Jaques

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    I’m still infatuated with this script, even though both the Girl and Mama find it illegible. This one was graphed over 4 sheets and stitched together in GIMP. Unlike the Lord’s Prayer from the week before, I had switched inks before start this piece, so there is a slight natural gradation in the actual piece, which is pushed further in the computer.

    A piece this long still prints out small on a letter sized sheet, so I need to look for shorter poems…or go back to my book projects. But things are so busy at work, I’m having a hard time slowing down in the mornings to take a breathe of calligraphy. This office pace, which started in December, is not sustainable, but hopefully the new guy who joined our team this week will take some of the load.

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    2.4mm nib (6mm x-height)

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    6.0mm nib (12mm x-height)

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  • golf

    and a few monsters.

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    blarg blarg beasts

    they waved their arms like noodles
    splayed legs meander through the bedroom
    if you get close to another blarg blarg, give them a big hug!
    i blarg-ed Mama.

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    he said i was a ready monster.
    ready, reaady, reaaady
    flapping little arms like a t-rex

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    i’m an oig monster
    walking through the kitchen
    hunched over
    bent chicken wing arms

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    a baoulu baoulu
    hovers around the safe zone
    breast strokes to swoop
    kids hopping off their beds
    dragged into the dark

    —August 2023

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  • Clipped Gothicized Italics

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    This week I started playing with a variant of Gothicized Italics where part of each letter is written with the hairline edge of the pen. It’s a bit of Edward Johnston slamming into graffiti scripts.

    Unfortunately, this hand is not easy to read. Then again, a couple of years ago, I had an epiphany that legibility is overrated.

    I’m really digging the contrast of thick and thin. It brings me back to the old days of hand drafting, with thin verticals and thick horizontals, though I’ve had to retrain that preference since standard calligraphy is the opposite with thick verticals and thin horizontals.

    It’s a joy to write, especially at full speed. I suspect it’s a bit like talus running, though I don’t have the courage to risk life and limb on high octane activities—such excitement is confined to my home studio.

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    And here are a couple shots for Easter.

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    Cheers!