I don’t know why, but when I bring out my collection of typewriters and invite people to experience (or re-experience) manually creating text-on-paper, I get the urge to start writing poetry. Maybe that’s your thing too, or you’ll write a letter to your younger self, a confession or a love letter. We’ll have new ribbons in the machines so you’ll get that crisp black on white paper effect, and a stock of paper. If you promise not to MOOP, that is.
If you’ve experienced the noise that a typing pool or a typing class used to generate back in the day, you’ll know that these aren’t quiet machines. For that reason we’ll be banishing them out the back, beyond the book garden, where we’ll set up a table and bench, and hope for fine weather.
Roots coiled
down round
deep soil and rock.
Sap rising
water that fell
months and years ago.
Leaves breathing out.
Every breath
we breath in.
