Objective: typewriter.

Courtesy ETSY.com

Brevity is torture for every writer. Ubiquitous internet access makes it so that I cannot say what I want without the haunting suspicion that better information exists elsewhere. My blog entries are not miracles, of that I am sure. But to distill a single line of confident text always is.

With a typewriter, I am convinced that all the letter soldiers would go marching down a straight line to meaning. The driving keys from left to right would send up a delicious chatter, scaling the alphabet of my thoughts. I would stay up all night to use this typewriter, yes I would. I would happily abandon the backspace bar for an eternity of feeding papers one by one through a mill of ink.  
I was recently asked what one material possession I would take if my house was burning down. I really couldn't think of anything I would need that badly. But if I had a typewriter, not even a fiery inferno could make me part with it.

Like Ralphie on The Christmas Story believed that an "Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle" would transform him into a vigilante hero, my red typewriter would be the chronicle of endless revelation maybe and a love letter or two.

I'm getting ahead of myself. It's time for some research.

Heightened expectation.

Something has to spark the muse. Awaiting the untimely dispensation of creativity, I am driven into the night,empty handed of even one inspired thought to pen. By default, I then look to the work of others. Evermore consumed in the desperation and dejection that is the barren wasteland of unemployment, hopeful words are a continual feast to my heart. Here is a reading I can handle for the day; a heart that forsees future glory clipping the heels of the present..

Hush, hush, hush…

    I heard a sound, come from the ground

   All of the trees are a buzz
 Talking in tongues, talking with lungs, talking of freedom

    All of the earth is soon to give birth

  Look at the mountains alive

         Birds and the bees, insects and leaves

    All of us longing, longing for home

                
J.Foreman