Sunday, November 22, 2015

typing. at long last. typing. again.

This, today, will be different.

Oh my mustard-colored baby.

All because I had a vision, pictured something while sitting riverside. I do not always go with visions—should not always go with visions, “visions” being a rather lofty, pretentious word, frivolous even, and after all, I’m not a nut or anything—but when a vision reverberates just right apparently I do go with it, for better or worse, I mean, look where I live, and it’s about time I accepted that and got on with it.

At the library I picked up this publication Book Page and read  this article
about a Michigan author who writes his books on a typewriter in a cabin
with a woodstove nearby. He uses a 1953 Royal, which looks like
a typewriter my dad once had.

There is a sift of snow on the ground, just enough to mark footprints, and walking to the river the other morning the sky was so low I did not have to reach far to touch it.

Be it ever so umbel ...

I found my typewriter online, emailed a bit with the seller, bought the typewriter and soon it arrived, showed up on the porch one day, and now it’s like being reunited with an old friend. But I do not understand the weird key with the arrow pointing right. When I hit it, I go back one space, to the left, and I think it just clicked … to go back one space, to the left on the page, the carriage—the platen—must move one space to the right. Whoa. Just tried it. Absolutely right. To go left, one must go right. Talk about everything being its opposite …

To go back, you must go forward.

A typewriter certainly makes one think.