The Graphite Anchor in a Digital Storm

Why I keep coming back to analogue tools even as the robots learn to paint.

A pencil drawing for which you will receive no explanation.

February 27th 2026
Hell’s Kitchen, NY

---

The espresso machine was screaming like a dying banshee. I was sitting in my local café on 9th Avenue (the one where the baristas look at you with the hollow-eyed, weary judgment of a Victorian chimney sweep who’s inhaled too much soot) and trying to focus on the job at hand, but my brain was a bag of cats.

I had my iPad Pro out, performing the modern ritual of “Pretending to be a High-Tech Creative Professional.” This mostly involves furrowing my brow at a blank screen to signal to the other patrons that I am thinking, while actually trying to focus on a touchscreen without accidentally ordering a three-pack of industrial-sized air purifiers.

Then, my $1,200 slab of glass and aluminium decided its $130 plastic pen companion was dead to it. The notification popped up: Apple Pencil Disconnected. A breakup I didn’t see coming. A specific kind of modern cruelty: a software glitch (the pen was fine), no doubt engineered by a cabal of Silicon Valley sadists who enjoy watching grown men weep in public spaces.

I stared at the screen. The ringing in my left ear started. I felt my executive function evaporate. My brain is a browser with 400 tabs open, and 398 of them are currently playing a different live version of the same Nickelback song. (Kidding*) When the tech fails, I don’t just get annoyed. I spiral. I start wondering if the emergency light in my brain is finally about to stay on for good. I began to feel that familiar, itchy sensation of paralysis- the kind that makes you spend forty minutes researching the historical accuracy of buttons on 18th-century naval uniforms instead of doing your actual job.
(*It’s Creed.)

That’s when I reached into the depths of my bag, past the crumpled receipts and loose pup treats, and pulled out a blunt old Blackwing 602.

It doesn’t need a firmware update. It doesn’t require a Bluetooth handshake. It doesn’t ask me to agree to a 40-page Terms of Service just to make a goddamn mark on a page. It just requires me to not be an idiot. (Mostly.)

I held it up to my nose and took a long, deep breath of that California incense-cedar -the only smell that can successfully punch through the noxious waft of stale hot dog water and desperate ambition that permeates this neighbourhood. (Why did I decide to live in Times Square? Why?)

If you enjoy watching my sanity unravel in real-time and would like to support my work, please take out a premium subscription for just $1 a week. It pays for the coffee (not the therapy).

There’s something profoundly defiant about a pencil. It’s a 19th-century solution to a 21st-century nervous breakdown. When I put the lead to the paper, there’s no lag. There’s no colourful spinning wheel of death. Just the scratchy, physical reality of graphite meeting pulp. It’s tactile. It’s honest. It’s the only thing in my life that doesn’t try to sell me a subscription to a mobile gaming app while I’m using it.

---

Related:

---

So, I started to draw. I drew the hollow-eyed barista. I drew the internal “Check Engine” light. I drew the utter absurdity of a world that demands I be “connected” to everything except the ground beneath my own feet.

By the time I finished the sketch, the iPad was still sitting there, dark and useless -a very expensive cutting board for a man who has no vegetables. But I felt better. My pulse had slowed down from “caffeinated hummingbird” to “regular anxious blob of a man.”

I packed up my things, tucked the Blackwing behind my ear, and walked out into the sonic miasma of 9th Avenue. My phone buzzed in my pocket: another haptic heart attack informing me of a meeting I was already five minutes late for. I ignored it.

I had a pencil, a slightly traumatised dog, and the lingering scent of cedar to get me home. If the world ends tomorrow, I won’t be able to find my keys, but at least I’ll have a very well-rendered drawing of the explosion.

‘til next time!
Your pal,