I love using ink. For drawing with lovely bamboo pens or twigs. For writing with a fountain pen. However, in ways mysterious and invisible to me, I always seem to get it in places I didn't see it running to, like far up my sleeve or so that it escapes and falls in a little stream off the edge of the table.
In an attempt to make less mess, I have started to use blotting paper again. I found some thick pink pieces at the back of my cupboard - have had them stashed away for years.
Today, after finishing some writing, I noticed the piece I've been using these last few weeks. I wasn't aware of the accidental marks my history of desperate moppings was creating. Strange coincidental blurrings have made a little world of their own. And I like it.
I love the idea that while I was doing something else, a little bit of magic was happening beside me.