Small Object Analysis

 

Small Object Analysis 

            The clock strikes 8:30am and my dramatic writing class begins once again. I attempt to sit up straighter and stretch my sleepiness into wakefulness before I carelessly retrieve from my bag my notebook and writing utensil of choice: my Ticonderoga #2 Pencil. Surveying the rest of the class, it is curious that I am one of the few to yield such a device. Ballpoint pens, mechanical pencils and even laptops pervade the classroom and I almost believe the complexity of such objects causes my plain #2 pencil to shudder in its elementary composition. But #2 pencils don’t get nervous you might be thinking; or do they? Object Oriented Ontology (OOO) would like you to at least believe that objects matter beyond the uses we force upon them. As a leading OOO scholar, Ian Bogost states that “Objects do not exist just for us” (Bogost 9). OOO places objects and people on equal levels of importance so, for example, my #2 pencil is as equally important as your pet chameleon Charity. Try to wrap your head around this while I return to the story.

            My pencil rests at the ready in my right hand, elevated by my middle finger and supported my thumb and index finger. I’ve stared at my #2 pencil countless times and it begins to seem impossible to see it differently. To make my efforts a little easier, I employed three of the seven rhetorical processes as outlined by Laurie Gries to better understand this familiar, yet alien, object I held before me.

            A great starting place is the composition of my #2 Pencil. Most important to the build of the pencil is the octagonal wood which composes the body. This is what the operator uses as a lever in order to write but it does even more than that. It houses the lead which runs centrally through the wood that, when sharpened, creates the pencils tip. On the other end of the pencil sits a metal band that melds the rubber eraser and the wood together as one single piece. The yellow paint rounds out the composition and I suppose the etched green lettering has its part as well. It’s quite the collection of unrelated parts but together they form what we commonly refer to as a basic #2 pencil. By dismantling these pieces we can begin to gain distance from this object we always assumed to be a unit rather than a collection of units.

            As I place my pencil onto the paper and begin to write I begin to piece together the second rhetorical process, which is the assemblages my pencil gathers. Not only does the #2 pencil assemble my hand to hold it, but also assembles my thoughts. I have heard from many teachers that the using a #2 pencil to write creatively makes for more interesting prose due to the fact you are actually creating something unique (i.e. scribbles on paper) versus punching keys on a keyboard and prompting uniform text to appear on a screen. I agree that such an effect exists. With a pencil I am not distracted by the amount of words that I have produced or even made aware of the formatting. I am rather caught up in the style of my handwriting, the inconsistency of the marks of the pencil and just overall gain a greater satisfaction in the creation of prose. Others may argue that they can’t handle this inconsistency, they may be nervous that they forgot to assemble the pencil sharpener so their writing may come to an abrupt end or they may hate the eraser but I welcome such risks. Pencils leave obvious traces of mistakes. The rubber eraser can only remove so much lead and in the end your paper is left smudged. Pencils assemble smudges and imperfections but they are clear indications that your thinking is progressing and refining for the better. #2 Pencils also assemble the small bump on the inside of your middle finger. For some they also assemble fancy eraser tops, pencil pouches, standardized bubble tests, high bun hairdos and an intelligent air when placed to sit atop an ear. #2 pencils most commonly assemble artists and students but it is clear the list expands beyond such groups.

            I begin to etch out the final lines of my play as my teacher warns the class we will soon read our latest creations out loud. Before me rests a satisfyingly original document composed of my strictly capital letters that reads far easier than my lower case scrabble. This is just one of the final processes that can be identified with Gries list of seven and it is called Consequentiality. #2 pencils have many consequences. The script created in a personal diary with a #2 pencil can give later insight into the lives of an individual; the marks on a scan tron test will determine the level of learning a student has reached; the renderings of an up and coming vehicle or building design can come from a simple doodle in a sketch pad. Pencils have a seemingly endless amount of consequences. Even now, it is difficult for me to fully disengage my thoughts of creation which I have long associated with this object but Sherry Turkle assures me that this is not surprising. Turkle makes it clear that “Objects bring together thought and feeling” (Turkle 9). This collection of thought and feeling is the basis of our experience in this world and as such, the connections become complicated. Challenging these cemented thoughts and feelings affords us deeper insight into an object and after all is said and done, I begin to appreciate the efforts of my #2 pencil. Though #2 pencils can easily be found on the floor of a classroom or borrowed from a friend, each individual pencil, like the one that I carry daily to class with me, has the power to create profound effects in the way we approach school, do our hair or take a test.

            As my dramatic class ends and my creative juices have been juiced out of me and onto the page through my pencil, I remember how my commonplace writing utensil actually has strong effects on how I navigate the world. I gently place my trusty #2 pencil into my bag where it will stay until I call upon its aid in class once more.