I had to leave my typewriter in Washington when I moved to New Orleans. I was condensing most of my possessions into my car. Some might think it ridiculous to even own so many things that they have to choose what to discard before moving when they are twenty-two but remember- I am a twenty-two-year-old thrif-tshop-regular-American. I consume. I consume.
But I did leave my typewriter… whether I was driving my ’71 superbeetle or the decade-old Buick stationwagon I wound up buying and selling the bug… I was trying to lose weight. The metaphorical kind, that sticks to your subconscious ribs, that drags you into nostalgia, your heels useless in the proverbial mud of the past; and the physical kind, that kicks your gas mileage’s ass on cross-country drives.
And this mattered because it was 2008, and gas in Bellingham was $4.25 a gallon (almost half my hourly-wage).
So, my weighty typewriter was gifted to my good friend Tim (who uses it wisely in art projects and sarcastic musical binges that last until the early morning). And the heaviest piece of technology that I brought with me to the South was my already-ailing laptop.
It’s so slow that, after turning it on, I’ll go take a shower to wait for it to start up. It’s like warming your car up in places where it gets below freezing. I still regard it with that sort of (“re”-implied) reverence that I imagine old-timer-farmers have for their old-fashioned-but-still-functional equipment. The stuff that looks like iron monsters with rust and old
Now I bring it out, braving humidity, mosquito-bites, and the furthered alienation of my roommates, to clank on like a typewriter. It flops and rattles as I peck the keyboard- which I have to in this way: loudly, deliberately, and slowly. The keys seem larger and bulkier than models even just two years younger than it- and the visual text on-screen replies so slowly I have to stop often, mid-sentence, to allow the rest of it’s letters to catch up.
But I don’t mind it so much- (and not NEARLY so much as I mind the mosquitoes). It’s like being able only to write sloppily. It’s more honestly like handwriting than most other fonts. And maybe y ideas coming out as fast as I can type them isn’t the best idea. Maybe it’s something to have a small filter of time to involuntarily edit even your most recent thoughts from memory. Despite how often it feels like most of your best ideas have probably been forgotten.
But I did leave my typewriter… whether I was driving my ’71 superbeetle or the decade-old Buick stationwagon I wound up buying and selling the bug… I was trying to lose weight. The metaphorical kind, that sticks to your subconscious ribs, that drags you into nostalgia, your heels useless in the proverbial mud of the past; and the physical kind, that kicks your gas mileage’s ass on cross-country drives.
And this mattered because it was 2008, and gas in Bellingham was $4.25 a gallon (almost half my hourly-wage).
So, my weighty typewriter was gifted to my good friend Tim (who uses it wisely in art projects and sarcastic musical binges that last until the early morning). And the heaviest piece of technology that I brought with me to the South was my already-ailing laptop.
It’s so slow that, after turning it on, I’ll go take a shower to wait for it to start up. It’s like warming your car up in places where it gets below freezing. I still regard it with that sort of (“re”-implied) reverence that I imagine old-timer-farmers have for their old-fashioned-but-still-functional equipment. The stuff that looks like iron monsters with rust and old
Now I bring it out, braving humidity, mosquito-bites, and the furthered alienation of my roommates, to clank on like a typewriter. It flops and rattles as I peck the keyboard- which I have to in this way: loudly, deliberately, and slowly. The keys seem larger and bulkier than models even just two years younger than it- and the visual text on-screen replies so slowly I have to stop often, mid-sentence, to allow the rest of it’s letters to catch up.
But I don’t mind it so much- (and not NEARLY so much as I mind the mosquitoes). It’s like being able only to write sloppily. It’s more honestly like handwriting than most other fonts. And maybe y ideas coming out as fast as I can type them isn’t the best idea. Maybe it’s something to have a small filter of time to involuntarily edit even your most recent thoughts from memory. Despite how often it feels like most of your best ideas have probably been forgotten.
1 comment:
It was donated to a good cause.
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