Come late Sunday night I was struck thundersick and pained and curled to sleep around our prized pink hot water bottle that makes everyone feel okay. Monday morning I swore I could do it, I was okay, I could make it to the dentist just fine. And I did. Then I came home and passed out on the couch.
Today was better, but I swear, I wear out and writing just doesn’t make it as high up on the list. And now it’s just around the corner to midnight and my fingers are going through withdrawal.
I don’t know what the skinny was, but today Twitter was all a tizzy with writers writing about typewriters. I love typewriters, the old clickity-clackity ones with deep punch letters and black and red ribbons. Thwap. Thwap. Slide. Thwap.
There is a cafe we used to frequent back in the old dating days when Sunday hours swerved around cappuccino and biscotti. The walls are painted a muted yellow, old school lockers stand ajar spilling with merchandise, the counter tops are poured concrete, the tables, brushed aluminum. And the typewriter, my favorite of them all, stood chest-puffed and outmoded next to a haystack of gluttonous ramblings.
It wasn’t my lot to ever write a serious thought on one of these cantankerous old beasts, but the satisfaction punched out from A to Z tempts the Luddite in me. I love the look–the jutted jaw, the flat-top teeth, the teeny-tiny letters. I love the feel of the thwap.
And I want one. Did you know Neko Case has a barn full of pianos? She collected free pianos, had them tuned and filled a barn. All over the place people pick a thing and collect it and it becomes their thing. I don’t have a barn or even a room, so about as good as I could do would be to get my hands on one of these stuttering old men and sit it on a table next to my Merriam-Webster Unabridged and swoon.
What is it with old gadgets anyway? Is it a connection to the tools of a chosen trade? A passion for a certain brand of history? What old thing are you itching to get your hands on?