That’s the way it is, I guess, for some reason I always feel inspired while writing with the Hanx typewriter keyboard. What! Why? Because I wanted. Is it because of the “ancient” feel? Or is it that for a moment I feel like a novelist of the 30’s, alone in a radiant room filled with tabacco smoke, whiskey scent, ashes, dark thoughts and these inaudible whispering fairies, any murmur will do, anything that can distract us from our omnipresent torment, the absence of another heartbeat.
For some reason, again, in this mental “mise en scene” the one thing that catches my attention is this submissive scribe, this eloquent yet silent fellow, the enabler of my dream, the guardian of my whispers. The Typewriter. Type, writer! oh I love you. Maybe it’s the noise, maybe it’s the weight, maybe it’s the sounds, maybe it’s the presence. But there is something in the typewriter I found, that I have never seen even remotely elsewhere. The typewriter is the only object that helps the writer fight loneliness.
I had dreamed to buy a Macbook to “feel like real writer” like those you see in series with a black cat on their left shoulders and a cup of coffee in their right hand. Always seeming to be writing some autobiographical superfluiteous toast. They always have nice bedroom though. I had this MacBook, and I wrote a book with it. But in spite of all it’s power, and beauty and functionalities, typing my first play on it was a great goal, but a bit cold. I did not feel any kind of support for, have I lost my mind, how could a machine do so? Weren’t MacBooks created for you to show off in Starbucks with the other scarecrows together, so that you feel a little bit lonelier. But you got a cup of coffee, in your right hand, and I think I was just too naive. Naive to believe that I could find some sort of support from that, “tool” but, you oh typewriter, you breathest.
I’ve always liked to create alone, but with someone watching that I was creating alone. Does it make sense?
I don’t know. Since Paul Auster‘s New York Trilogy, everything has changed for me. Or I should better say, everything makes sense for me. One of my favorite short-story, Ghost relates the story of Mr. Blues hired to spy on Mr. Black. And you should stop here if you don’t want me to spoil the end for you.
Basicaly, Mr. Blue was hired by Mr. Black himself to be able to write a story. I guess you’ve understood by now.
I am Mr. Black. And you are Mr. Blue.
But unless you use shrewd plans and trickery, it is impossible to find a willing Mr. Blue. For you have to be submissive to be like him, and listen. While people want to dominate and exalt themselves, to go where? The other day, I asked them “to go where?” none of them them could provide me with a decent answer and they went back home silent, confused and their heads low.
It’s like, when I move in my first flat alone, my mum told me to get a TV because, it creates the illusion of some sort of a “presence” when you are alone in your room.
Likewise the type machine provides with a sense of companionship nowhere to be found in any other inanimated object. This is why I love you so.
You’ll ask me, have you ever had a type machine. No, why asking?
I love you,