#typewriitten

evenings in the studio

Last weekend I went to a festival. It was in the woods, just past a small town along the Snoqualmie River, the most pisquereque place to hold a music event. At some point my friends both went off to source food, and I was left alone to people-watch and supervise our belongings. 

Just far enough in the distance I noticed a man, youngish, maybe 30, sitting alone in a lawn chair. I thought his location odd as he was just far enough from the event, clearly disinterested in the music, yet still deep into the woods behind a quaint small town, obviously here on purpose. Even odder, all he had with him was a typewriter. I ditched my one job and walked over to read the sign at his feet. It was just a bunch of random words, but I still get the impression he’s selling something. I ask, “How does this work?”

He casually replies, “You tell me what you’re chewing on, I write you a poem, I read it to you, and you compensate me however much you think it’s worth.” I only have $5 on me, but assume there’s no possible way this individual can quickly drum up a poem that I think deserves more that $5.

We talked for 10 minutes. I tell him all about my day (I almost got hit by a literal airplane while cruising down rapids in a kayak with a random family on a inflatable unicorn/pineapple contraption then hitchhiked my way back to the festival with them). We laughed and chatted through that adventure, he asked about other fun things I’ve been up to recently. I describe my recent visit to The Enchantments and tell him about an old friend resurfacing in my life. We briefly touch on what I do for a living and quickly transition into how I absolutely love dive bars… He starts blasting away on the typewriter and from that short conversation, comes up with this masterpiece:

strange river landings

a dive bar is a sincere place in the heart

between ventures up and down

through the enchantments

along the road of life

that runs like a river of soul

working its way through our hands

ringing meaning into shape

out of the raw material of

our wandering imaginations

pulling faces out of the passing of time

and weaving relationships into a braid of memories

that pull at our hearts

like cinema

drawing us deeper down the stream

further into the forest

each moment passing

reminding us forever

where we’ve come from

and leading us

sometimes quickly

sometimes slowly

into exactly where we are

going

ARE. YOU. KIDDING. ME.

I never once got the impression he was doing this for money or fame anyone else but himself. I think he just really enjoys writing poetry, and needed some exciting muses. If that takes driving out to the middle of the woods on a Saturday, so be it. 

;-0 i don’t have the kind of creative zeal to sustain long replies very often (im super envious of them both for their lit stuff)

writing on photography

  how do you feel about DOGS!! DOGS! DOGGO! GOOD...

((Out Of Character: I just heard this in the Roy Mustang voice))

Tell me something nice about my writing because I’m an insecure fuck

(( you’re way too nice omg;;

to be fair, it doesn’t take long to actually open the internet browser, type “history of Finland/Sweden” in the search bar, and press enter, I promise it’s That Easy, and it’s highly likely you’ll get a decent source on the first google page

[What is the most noticeable thing about my writing style?]

[!!! Aaah! ;A; I’m crying—I’m so glad you mention the detail I put into writing this old bastard, he is such a fun and interesting and relatable character. Sometimes I worry I stray from canon too much, but I’m glad people enjoy my approach either way! :’) ]

     oh, she certainly has his attention! he’s seen a number of old antiques in his trips -- more oft than not, a number went home with him as well, into the many rooms of his sprawling home for people to oooh and aaah at at their perusal. 

     this one hasn’t caught his eye because it was a typewriter. truthfully, it was one thing he’d never bought from an antique shop, because he had his own from many years back. it doesn’t get much use these days, but there’s still something satisfying about the rough clack of the keys under his fingers.

     this one is click-clacking along without any help, though.