The Writings on the Wall

I've always been a writer. On what though, through the years has changed. Has evolved cybernetically. Once was a time the key ENTER was RETURN. And before that you didn't hit keys, keys struck wet black ribbons on platen roll like stonecutters stamping eulogies on markers monumental and marble.

RETURN was a swoosh, a beautiful silver lever you swiped aside with every line that came out but had to end for no more rubber log was there, and return you did with total flare and rhythm to the Muse played on, return once again in ritual the beginning of the rolling log on spit spinning, weaving, in this gorgeous tapered MACHINE, you slapped that lever back with a Vegas slot machine surety that all sevens would line up soon.

On a roll so to speak.

USB Typewriter kits! Click the pic.
Digital I/O will never replace such wizardly apparatus, but my fuzzy floppy cone hat won't change no matter the Harry Potter twink bullied in Magic School they try and sell. A cap of thinking that still has upon it a big star of gold no matter what they give me in the lab to bubble up potions based on their yellowing posters of periodically tabled words.

The typewriter is well loved. Start here.

Suns: What Goes Up Must Come Down

Although the Christmas lights out front have been OFF they have still been THERE, annoyingly, but not any more. Spent an actually pleasant Sunday afternoon high atop the ladder (once I got there) untangling them from the Ichabod trees. And then I coiled up all the highways of electricity I so ingeniously laid down.

Every once in a while, just a few feet off the ground out there on 601, you are literally in your own world. It was fun to stare through tiny bulbs into the sun, solar rays illuminating the red plastic covers from the OUTSIDE into Rubies of protest, in one last ditch effort it seemed they tried bring light to that which is barren, gnarly, forgotten and sort of surreal. Footsteps trod guilty across the mummified remains of last season.

Candy cane colors back in hiding. Electrics away. The dried browngray leaves and limbs lie like bones now in wait of the Green Man, whose light comes neither from within nor down upon, but bursts THROUGH thicket, around thorn, to greet some spring day sun yet unknown despite some gopher of a shadow or whatever tophats say happen.

He is neither green nor a man. He does however need the wood, at least for sake of a gathering of trees not so Edenly placed. A metaphor. As above so below, and thus a forest is the five limbed, five sensed Microcosm of all that awakens on a Grand scale, staring back through winter right at you, eyebrows as pompadoured and beard as wild as daguerreotyped Russian philosophers, but made only of bark.

And to think, I could have watched the Game on TV.