There’s something about an old typewriter — especially a really, *really* old typewriter — that tickles my nostalgia, the quaint yearning for a past that I know only secondhand from films and photographs. Perhaps it’s sentimentality for a more analog, less virtual world. Or an association with authors, journalists, black and white conviction, the physicality of muscling thoughts into words that endure, for a while, at least.
I pause in an antique shop to caress an antique keyboard, stalling to discretely snap a photo. Again. And again.
I feel the pull, the yearning for something I don’t even understand. I cling to the enigmatic promise, play with the idea of purchasing the awkward machine, repairing the sticky keys, re-inking the misshapen ribbon, and then hammering the poem, the story, the hope into existence.
What am I seeking? What poem? What story? And what were Susan and I seeking when we adopted Rosslyn to be our home?
“Whatever it is you’re seeking won’t come in the form you’re expecting.”
— Haruki Marukami
Marukami’s words resonate as I endeavor to answer these questions. And in recent months I’m reminding myself to stay open, to amplify the expectations I’m considering, to become receptive to new and unfamiliar possibilities.
Type. Write. Explore. Wander. Wonder…
Afterword
It’s worth noting that I did have a manuel typewriter as a boy. Late 70s. Early 80s. Perhaps Olivetti, I don’t recall for sure. Grey plastic case, if memory serves. I appreciated the click-clack. But the ribbon was worn, and the typewritten page was barely legible. More novel than useful.
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