I think it's because I'm not a hipster...
Before I forget, here are the details to my featured reading that is coming up:
What: A featured reading for myself and another gentleman (I don't know his name). We each get
20 minutes to read and then there is a Q&A.
When: July 3rd at 7:00 PM
Where: Farley's bookstore in New Hope, PA (look it up online if you don't know where it is.
It's an amazing place.)
* I will be selling copies of my chapbook "Brain Droppings and Other Poems" to benefit the ATG Learning Academy; a non-profit school for children with learning disabilities (we're trying to start a community garden).
That should do it as far as the facts go. Let me know if you need any other info.
Now, back to typewriters...
I own a lot of them, and it's not because I have a habit of running out to antique stores and buying them in bulk (I don't. I'm broke.). It's because they are usually gifts from friends and relatives. It's an awesome thing because when I sit down to write, and end up finishing a poem, I get to tell that person that I gave man-birth to prose on the machine that they were kind enough to give me (There's a nice image for you "graphic" types).
Typewriters have also been a great source of inspiration for me because of the noise that they make. The clacking of keys, the ding of the carriage's bell, and the humming of the electric models are bits of the machine's personality that I have peppered into several poems and stories for the past couple years. Below is an old poem.
_____________________________________
The Redhead and the Typewriter
I was watching a film
about an old drunk
who was attempting to read poetry
over the sounds
of a bloodthirsty audience
when she decided to play
with my typewriter.
“What’s this thing?”
she asked.
“That’s the size selector,”
I replied.
She slid the machine in front of
her
and began pushing the keys
ever. So. Softly.
“Come on,” I said.
“This is where the battles are fought.
You gotta push those keys.
A typewriter is like a boxing match:
you gotta hit back harder.”
She began to push the keys
with more effort.
And as she winced at the pain
that was being inflicted upon
her fingertips
the gunshots grew louder,
and I began having flashbacks to when I first started
the war.
She then reached the end of the margin,
heard the bell signal for the next round,
and looked at me.
“Pull that metal bar in and
slide it
until it sticks,”
I said.
She did.
And then,
fell silent
until she was done.
She then grabbed the paper,
turned the knob,
and the page was free
from its beating.
She leaned in and kissed me.
You can’t read this,”
she told me,
as she folded it into a square
and left the room.
And since I didn’t get to read,
Or hear,
what she wrote,
neither do you.
___________________________________
Decent... Needs work. But, then again, I've always been hard on myself when it comes to this shit.
Yours,
~Torres
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