Pencils were okay, kind of boring, and when sharpened, allegedly dangerous. Be careful with that, you could put your eye out! The pencils danced between blue lines on faded gray speckled notebook paper, letters into words into sentences into paragraphs, the user marveling that letters formed words which formed language, and that the human brain could process such things.
Pens were ballpoint or felt-tip or fountain type, multi-coloured inks flowing and exploding between journal covers in stream-of-consciousness rant. The pens illustrated the rant with peace symbols and palm trees.
Typewriters were heavy and metal and evil, causing young brains and fingers to produce clatter and noise and mind-deadening language – I knew this. I had friends who typed.
Word processors were somehow not as bad as typewriters, though either could take away the magic and rhythm of the organic flowing pen – typing somehow being out of tune with channeling.
Years ago in ink I used to write “A. F. Waddell” and draw peace symbols on my denim-covered cardboard school binder . . . Dear History Instructor Becker, if you are not dead and are reading this, please return my confiscated journal. I need the notes.