A white box and a typewriter

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

This moment.

Sitting at my desk. The last ray of sunlight is glinting right into my glasses and shining on my nose. My legs are stretched out resting on the end of my bed and cars are roaring past outside, a constant ebb and flow. I am so full of doubts and dreams and common thoughts. Why is writing on the computer so much harder than writing on my typewriter? Because I can just go back and erase. The computer enables my self-doubt. My typewriter allows me to move past it and forget about what I've just written and move onto the next sentence.

I love the feel of the click of the keys. The way I can't focus on anything else but the letter I'm about to type next. I love the way the history shows up with all the little x's I put through word I don't want or place I messed up. I can't hide my mistakes. I can't be someone I'm not. I don't always make sense and something beautiful comes out of it sometimes and something tender or personal or something I won't show anyone. Or something I want to show everyone. I pile up all these papers I've typed on and I imagine my children or grandchildren sifting through them and knowing I was a real person, had real fears and doubts and cursed and had sex and cried. That I loved life and was ignorant and young and didn't know what to do with myself and was sick with pain, sick with doubt, but I found my way, somehow.

How can these expensive backlit keys capture all of that?

1 comment :

  1. These words are beautiful. And the stacks of paper that you're saving. They'll be treasures years from now. I do this with my dad's words now. It's great to live somehow, when he was my age. Even younger. But not.
    It's the best things that my parents gave my brother and me. It will be a great, and vulnerably honest reminder that it's more than ok to show the world who they really are. And to not be afraid to live live exposed (or free).

    I'm liking the new look of the blog too.


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