Sometimes, the exhilarating rush that comes with the thrill of putting ink to paper as I am so often wont to do upsets my mental balance. I find I get over-excited and my hands start to shake, my vision blurs, and I often get a headache behind my eyes, where headaches are wont to go. What I need is a creative, meditative outlet that doesn't involve so much stress and laborious effort, one where I can freely be creative and make things that I can tell my friends about.
Now, in my previous life I used to do a lot of things like shooting guns or martial arts. These days, both are too loud and too painful (though I do wonder about Tai-Chi at times,) and most certainly too violent for my tastes. Back in grad school I DID used to work a little bit of chemistry to keep my manual dexterity sharp for the rigors of corporate research (I don't know what the fuck I was thinking) and I enjoyed adding a drop of this, a drop of that, etc. to a beaker full of gently boiling vodka. (Mind you, this was before I was capable of appreciating the harmony inherent to all things natural.)
I considered taking up the culinary arts, but you know what? It turns out cooking was invented by tribal indigenous peoples to render meat safe to eat before the advent of farming. We no longer live in a world without vegetables, and consuming animal products of any kind is therefore unethical, and I view cooking as an extension of consuming animal products. So that was NOT an option, and I was slightly offended that I even thought of that in the first place.
Unable to concentrate on thinking of a hobby because I was overwhelmed with umbrage at what society had just caused me to consider, I retired to my bedroom only to find puppy bear chewing on a black permanent marker, reposed on the duvet cover which now had a spreading black stain on it. I shrieked loudly and dove at her, but she was too quick and ran into the next room with the pen in her mouth. Exasperated and at the end of my emotional rope, I resignedly fell backwards onto the bed, lower lip quivering and jonesing for a trip to the dentist so I could get a Xanax. My eyes wandered to the coal-colored blemish on the duvet cover when it hit me - what better hobby for a professional writer with a chemistry background than making his own ink!
I rushed to askjeeves.com and looked for a good organic ink recipie. Several searches yielded this result from National Geographic: How to Make Ink from Recycled Berries It was perfect! I put on a floppy straw hat and set out to collect as many different kinds of berries as I could. Maybe I could make a rainbow-colored ink! That would be truly exciting and make a wonderful gift to give my friends as well! My Russian neighbor has a well-stocked garden, and I spent the afternoon picking through her extensive selection of deeply-colored berries to get just the right hue to my rainbow ink. She spent the whole time watching my labor from her window, and I occasionally waved in acknowledgement. Strangely, she never waived back. Must be a Russian thing or something.
Now, when I got home I just needed to adjust the recipe (I don't say "formula" or "synthesis" anymore,) to fit my needs for a fast-drying ink so that I could give it as a gift to my left-handed friends (they tend to smear ink as they write, the poor slobs.) So, I substituted a measure of acetone for the vinegar in the form of nail polish remover. I also did an extra step called "driving the pigment into solution," where you boil the mixture so all the pigment can dissolve into the liquid. Very technical, I know!
I prepared about a half-gallon of crude berry mash in vinegar and acetone, and started driving the pigment into solution on my stove, as writers who make ink as a hobby are wont to do. Strangely though, it didn't start boiling even though the thermometer said it should have been. So, I turned up the heat a little bit to encourage boiling. Nothing. So, I turned up the heat a LOT. Just then, puppy bear asked to be let out and I went scrambling to the rear door to let her go and frolick in my backyard, as puppy bear is wont to do.
As I was watching her antics in my neighbors garden, (digging for bones, etc.) I suddenly heard a dull BAWOOMP! and a sharp hissing sound from my kitchen. The air instantly permeated with a familiar fruity smell. I ran into the kitchen and as soon as I hit the linoleum (I was wearing Argyll wool socks) my feet fell out from under me and I slid through a steaming puddle of freshly rendered ink. Hitting my head on the floor hard. I immediately disrobed, throwing my ink-soaked clothes on the carpet and took a long shower which did almost nothing to remove the ink stains from all over me.
Now, the stove, the kitchen, my finest clothes, the carpet, the ceiling, and some of the walls are covered in ink stains. This is all puppy bear's fault - she can be so stupid as dogs are wont to be. I had to put the clothes in the donation bin, and Katie refuses to speak to me. I do however like the ink on the ceiling and walls. It's fun to pick out shapes of what I think the ink stains look like, like I am wont to do with clouds. Now, I can do it anytime, and so that is my new hobby. I call it "ink gazing."
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