Superman is dead!…noooooo!

At least I feared he might be, when the movie was approaching to it’s end. Man, how can he be dead? Superman cannot be dead, he is “Super” man. He fell down from the sky, with out flying, because he was exposed to Kyptonide, the radioactive substance of his planet, deadly to him. But still, I was not ready to believe Superman was really dead. But when the nurse went for a checkup and found that Superman was not in his ward, she raised the alarm. Hey Luthor! You be sitting duck with your girlfriend on the beach with no gasoline on your helicopter! See that! Superman is not dead!

The childish joy was overwhelming. I was watching Superman Returns. I may have grown up, but I love what a kid loves. Super Heroes! There is no nostalgia. I still have my share of super heroes. And I don’t care if they call me a “Child!”.

resurrecting… a pen

It was a German pen, somebody sent it to my father as gift. I had a boyish fantasy for that pen, it was a roller-ball, with a special ink cartridge tube over the nib and a special mechanism to attach the cartridge. Overall, that pen was special, and unlike any pen I had seen before. It was a marvel.

It was six and a half years ago. I forgot about it. A few days ago, I recalled. Where is the pen, that beautiful pen?! I asked my mother. She was able to give me the location. I found it, and scratched a paper with the pen. Oh man, out of fuel. I opened the silvery cover and found the cartridge attached to the black complex machinery inside the orange case. I had to refill the cartridge. I took a injection syringe and pushed ink through the small hole of the cartridge, as I saw the ink flying out of the capillary needle, I felt happy about the pen, I was going to write with a marvel. I put the cartrdige back again, turned the anterior part of the pen towards a paper, scratched the surface, but still no avail. No ink ran over the fine ball that crowned the nib. I was discouraged. This pen is really dead? Oh Man!

I went to my father, “Can you fix it?”. My father told me that the ink tube is clogged with the dried out ink that was in it before. Now, how would I fixed it? Some solvent maybe, but which one. Father said “Isopropyl alcohol, that’s readily available in the shops”. Okay, I took my syringe again, got some alcohol in it, and pushed it through the duct of the pen’s anterior part. Hmm, that should work. Replacing the cartridge, it still didn’t work well, but a faint line appeared when I scratched the surface of a paper. Well, that’s a good sign. Father noticed it, and said, “You just have to scratch it patiently, it will work” I didn’t have to do that myself, my father just took a piece of paper, and started to draw. The next day, I saw the pen on my table, I wrote with it, and it was fine. It was a rare pleasure; to find the whole thing back in action again. It was good at writing, and I was impressed with the pen.

I am not saying that the pen meant much to me, but it is a different kind of feeling you have when you find a so rare pen not working. You feel, that you really need to write with that pen.