sometimes there's this thing. a chest, a box, a case.
it's always more mysterious when there's a handle,
but you know it's not a suitcase.
and then when you open it, it's not that you're amazed,
it's that you're enlightened. amused. satisfied.
you compliment yourself. "oh, of course it's a typewriter. of course."
and then you ditch the carrying case and give it a once-over.
then you give it a good, hard look.
yep. it's a portable typewriter. smith-corona.
midcentury. in excellent condition.
cool design. fabulous color. funny smell.
the ribbon still holds ink.
we fool with it for a few days.
we vow to research it.
we walk past it, behold it, chuckle.
then we put it in its case and go back to life.
still, the art of it sticks with me, and no surprise, when i take it out to look at it again, there's a character here. she's typing, furiously. because, goddamnit, she has something to say.
In the fall of last year, I wrote a few posts about a slew of midcentury objects coming into my experience. In those months and the months since, many changes have taken place in my life. Endings, beginnings. And yes, middles. Lots of middles. And because it can be a tendency of mine to get stuck in the middle, I've been pushing for more starts and finishes. I've done okay. Even with some unexpected care-taking of a family member. Even with a home sale, a home purchase, and a remodel underway.
Still, I'm not quite up to the standards I set for myself after a 3-day creativity course in January. And here it is April. Fast approaching the exact middle of the year. So, this week I've been taking stock of the things I want to start and those I want to finish. I'm realizing, joyfully, and celebrating, quietly, that I've set a good foundation for my starts and finishes. Ticking off items on the pre-work list and, often in the moment, moving the finish line. Because with writing and art there are many finish lines. Like with this vintage typewriter.
From the start, I felt curious and amused by it, but not really inspired. I mean, what's not to love and admire about the thing? But my true connection to it was a mystery. Until today when I imagined that girl, typing. She's not a writer, either. And she's not using the typewriter in a workplace. She's alone. She mumbles as she types. Daylight's flooding in. And what I know for sure is she's driven. Determined. Blindingly determined. To get her message out.
For now, that's the end. But at least it's a start.