typewriter: an ode
It was so incredibly sad to hear the end is nearing for the iconic typewriter. There is a wealth of meaning to this simple writing machine. It holds an immediacy of print. Something akin to carving names and dates on wood stumps and drying concrete. It will be there for a very long time.
It’s proof of letters, words and sentences all neatly lined on the page in black and white just like you’ve imagined it. It’s a creative machine that you can control with the muscles in your hands. It weaves the wheels that spin ones imagination. A type writer is a literary loom.
Gone are the days of journal writing. Even though I carry one with me always. It’s similar to tedious needlpoints and embordiery. Theres is an industrious element to the typewriter. From the weight to the sound, there is movement and momentum between mind and machine. Typewrites facilitate the fever of creative extacy with the clicking of its cogs and the tapping of its keys and the euphoricly bright “ding!” when you hit the edge of page or come to an incredible metaphor. There is no wonder that typewriters are accompanied by ash trays.
And at times, it can cruley stare you in the face when you’re uninspired. Looking at you like a dumb drooling fool. Mocking you, almost. That’s when you trade the ash tray for a glass of something.
But through it all, the thick and thin of it the typewriter is always there. It never budges, never moves until you push it. It is a constant frienemy. Completely open to your creative abuses.
Alas…no more…
