Graph Paper

Being a teacher allows for a unique perspective in retrospect. It allows for some questions to be answered and the ability to continue learning about yourself and the world at large. This is one such incident.

Not too terribly long ago I came into possession of a spiral filled with graph paper. I am sure it is not an unfamiliar aspect of education. Quadrille lined in a light blue ink, three-hole punched, and wire bound in all of its mysterious beauty. Graph paper is absolutely transfixing. Perhaps it is just me, being a teacher and all. I must admit to being a little fixated with office supplies. Besides a bookstore, an office supply store is my favorite place to browse and shop. So it comes as no surprise that this abandoned spiral of pristine graph paper caught my eye, lying there in the deserted hall after a school day. It was too much to pass up.

I snatched it from the once magnificent linoleum floor. It was mine. A simple act brought about a little joy at the end of a tiring day of teaching. It was a proverbial breath of fresh air, putting a little lilt in my step that afternoon. For just a little while, there was a bit more certainty and clarity in my world. Reflecting upon the situation, I cannot explain or define the reason, and I do not want to. It was just enough to experience the feeling.

Of course, the adventure did not end there. A larger question loomed over the horizon. Lurking in the corners and shadows where we must look if we are to truly experience life. My revelry was curbed with the gnawing question of what to do with this newly found treasure. What was I to do with it? Perhaps it is my blue collar blood that everything needs to have a purpose. It is more than just existence. One must have a calling or job to do in this life. The same sentiment fell upon inanimate objects such as this orphaned spiral.

At the time, I was taking some graduate courses. It was inevitable that the thought of using this spiral as my notebook for these courses would come about. It just seemed right, at the time. And it was. It served my educational purposes well…at least until the end of the semester. Of course, the spiral did not even make to being partially, or even half filled with notes, outlines, and rough drafts of responses. Technology is to blame. I have learned the craft of composing on a computer.

However, I still hold strong to pen and paper writing...

Lately, I have tried to pick the spiral back up and utilize it as a sort of journal. Its pedestrian appearance makes it ideal for composing at staff meetings and grade-level conferences. I like to think of it as a form of professional camouflage. It works quite nice, especially in the educational world. More on that another time.

A little history…Like most kids, graph paper beguiled me. It was the utmost enchanting thing to write on once college ruled notebook paper lost in brilliance. There was just something mysterious and enticing about all of those precisely measured out lines. They were begging to be written on, traced over, and asking to hold answers to mathematical problems and scientific inquiries. It was manly to be seen writing on graph paper. Even if it was pulpy science fiction and sappy poetry, at least it was on graph paper. Growing up in the oil fields of East Texas during the ‘80s, this was the parchment of possibility. Engineering was on the minds and mouths of most young boys who were not stellar athletes or stoners.

I suppose I am a victim of my own Romanticism. I cannot look upon a piece of graph paper without it igniting a sense of urgent possibility. A subconscious command to seize it and write comes over me. I suppose there are worse inclinations to be afflicted with. Excavating this particular spiral from one of my desk drawers, I was once again filled with the same expectations that I had when I first picked it up in the hallway of my school.

Fluttering past the pages of notes and rough draft, I quickly came to the first available blank page. And I stared at it. I could think of nothing to write…nothing! At first I thought is was a simple case of writer’s block, a constipated imagination. I was wrong. Something had happened. At first, I didn’t know what it was. While this does not sound overly disconcerting, it was.

Think of a cook or chef looking at fresh produce and meat without being able to conjure up a recipe much less a meal. Or, picture a lifelong fisherman picking up a favorite rod and reel and not get any type of longing for the lake. This was the dilemma I was right in the midst of. It was horrible. Nothing came, and it was debilitatingly painful.

I didn’t know what to do. What happened was a knee-jerk reaction. I quickly closed the spiral and stared at its faded yellow cover in shock. “How could this happen,” I thought. Not that I am immune to writer’s block, but this was something more. It was the paper itself.

The perfectly measured and printed blue, quadrille lined pages were mocking me. I could not write anything upon them. They were just too confining. It was like I could not breathe, much less create. Perhaps this was some sort of existential anxiety attack. I don’t know. Nonetheless, I quickly closed and reshelved the spiral in my office bookcase where it currently resides.

Now, I am not totally sure, but sometimes I feel as if the spiral of graph paper is lodged comfortably in my bookcase fiendishly mocking me. Almost like a nagging failure palpitating like the haunting heart in the short story by Poe. I have asked my family and they have only ended up questioning my sanity or lack thereof. But I swear I can feel it staring at me sometimes, especially when I am at the computer trying to compose a piece of writing…any writing…and laughing.

Needless to say, the spiral still holds a place on my bookshelves. And perhaps one day I will venture into its pages again with more wisdom and confidence that when I originally pulled open its covers. Then again, maybe I won’t. This incident may be one of those mile markers upon the road of life that announces when you have reached a certain stage in life.

Having grown a little older, and hopefully a little wiser, the spiral may not hold as much significance in the future. Perhaps it is something akin to fist fighting. At least for my generation, before the rampant litigation, it was a regular past time for young males. It was a way of defending your honor, friends, and family name, or just proving you had the moxie and wherewithal to brag and swagger just a little. At some point in most men’s lives you outgrow this endeavor. The urge and possibly the ability to fight have been channeled, thankfully, into other activities. Pretty soon, you just don’t care. Some day the need to compose in a graph paper spiral may do the same…just fade away.