graphite & wood

I've always had enormous affection for pencils. Even as a grade schooler I enjoyed opening a box of pencils and seeing those smooth, golden sticks of wood-encased graphite patiently waiting their turn to be pulled from the box. Pencils are wonderful really, so utilitarian yet so full of possibility. The original user-friendly instrument, you can chew on them, sharpen them to nubs, play a drum solo with them, use them for back scratchers- they won't care. They live to serve. They will perform the mundane, adding 1 + 1 as many times as you ask with nary a complaint. Yet they will copy Einstein's theory of relativity with equal cheerfulness, and not the least sign of conceit. Pencils are inherently forgiving, offering a helpful eraser for your convenience, and at such personal sacrifice! How willingly the humble pencil stands on its head to serve the hand that holds it. With no will of its own, no possibility of original thought or imagination, it is as limited as the wood and graphite from which it's made. Yet in the hand, its possibilities are limitless. I always see the endless potential in a box of pencils and wonder what story, what poem, what play, song, theorem, cure, enlightenment, inspiration, salvation lies waiting in that paper carton of graphite and wood?