Dear Typewriter Man,
We’ve got a problem. Well, my inner writer does especially. And my inner child’s none too sparky about it neither but I went to write my grandfather a letter last week and Candy is down, shamefully, down due to neglect. She’s been sitting there on the shelf, on display surrounded by a mossy, boxed edition of “Green Mansions,” the plastic-covered star spangled skull of “…Campaign Trail ’72” —a 1st library edition!—, and an inked portrait of Bukowski, angry and staring right at it, the problem, I’m an amateur mechanic and I’ve been neglectful and Candy is down, down collecting dust, down gumming up, down with no fire in her heart. Candy, will you forgive me? Even Candy can get too sticky if she’s left to sit on the shelf too long. She’s not a bookend. She’s a means.
Oh, excuse me, TM, introductions; Candices Rhea Ex Machina (Candy) is my high-mileage Smith Corona Silent (#2S LXVIIXXXIII, circa 1938-ish, I think) in that luscious & dirty eight-dollar-merlot-swilly-but-don’t-call-me-red-just-yet maroon, black keys rimmed in chrome, cupped, worn, ever so, to fit my calloused & meaty & amateur & and sometimes fiery fingertips. Ages ago we flew, her and I, we flew, we fired, we sank a few by gum, ages ago, O, Candy will you fly with me again? O, how We would flow! How I’ve neglected you so, Candy. How this analog time seems to drag and grind and dust us up when we don’t go anywhere together…
Sorry, I’m feeling apologetic so I get to rambling. Candy is now on my workbench, down for maintenance. A spa day. I will shower Candices with TLC and compressed air and good music and I think she also requires a ribbon & a spring, that delicate spring that brings the chrome carriage-return lever ever so delicately back into place after indexing a fresh new line, as if it can hardly bear to let go of your fingertip until the end of the line and you’re thinkin’ to yourself that it’s really not that far over there but then you realize you don’t want to let go of her lever either and, O, yeah, that’s right, I’ve been writing poetry on Candy & scrap paper and
She’s used to hangin’ on every few
Words or so
In a row
Before returnin’ that carriage again
& since the spring’s also missin’
Don't forget
To turn that worn knob another
Click
Candy can become pretty poetry-
Warmed whilst crankin’ out verse,
Especially when her glowing
Chromed parts
Are shiny and slide along reflecting as we11
I think that’s my favorite part as far as e1egant parts go, that 1uscious 1ever, that si1vertine, subt1y, de1icate1y, darn near empathetica11y curved appendage reaching, Candy reaching for us, as in my soul, the contents thereof, wanting to know whatever my container’s fingertips wi11 share. O, I can’t stand it, I must get under her hood too and massage her lacework parts, I mean fair is fair, I must reciprocate, I must hear her go at fu11 chat again, I must make her Shift float, nay, levitate once more. Brevi1oquence be damned. So while Candy’s on the bench and on the mend, could I have a working substitute? I have letters to type and the words are piling up. It’s getting ug1y.
I think I’m ready to learn to share and dance with a new old machine, you know what I mean. Would you, Typewriter Man, Olivander of Olivetti, My Sharona of Smith Corona, Patron of Hermes’s Messengers, please choose one for me? One that feels right. Please choose one that’s ready to rip. And before you send it, please see that it’s fee1ing fear1ess because I’m not sure how Candy’s gonna feel about my fingertips blazing trail and slingin’ ink with a deuce ex machina. She’s gonna know right away.
Thank you!
Sincere1y,
PS Lorcan