Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Reflections on a typewriter


We got together at one and a half spaces. It wasn't long before we had swallowed the stars in anticipation of celestial tingles. Once under the cover of lilac, we strode ahead without fear, true of conviction. That conviction was passion. It was intense love of flesh and spirit. And it was something that shone in our eyes when they looked in each other's direction. Oh yes, I saw it there too. It was impossible to miss.


A moment's hesitation led me into an office, where I cautiously awaited instruction. Rewrite this on a typewriter, she said. Good job, she said, when the task was complete. That is nostalgic now, because there was a typewriter, and a darkroom. With chemicals.


Trusting the audacity of birdsong, I refuse to board the train, with its limited directions: this way and that. I trust the remembrance of a feeling that consumed me on the train, of repulsion at middle class navel gazing and questionable romance marching forth amid the harrowing morning commute, on the mission to pay the mortgage on the love nest before conceiving more footsoldiers. One for mum, one for dad, and one for the country; a noble pursuit of narcissism.

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