,
It’s Week 15 in loco lockdown and I’m stuck at home anticipating
the delivery of a parcel from yesterday.
It’s been quite the wait. I’ve
marked the hours and it’s been more than 60 plus years, but who’s counting. After all, I’m in quarantine with nothing else
to do and nowhere to go. What’s a decade
or six when you’re on the brink of conversing with history and swapping stories
with pen pals of generations long past.
The thrill of unwrapping and mapping the narratives of my
fellow scribes from so long ago is an added bonus accompanying my long awaited
FedEx package. My shipment has been in
transit for the better part of half a century.
I’m giddy with glee to finally be privy to prying open the box that
encapsulates the musings of wordsmiths from a bygone era.
And voilà, as if on a magic carpet ride, on Day 112, my
vintage Hermes Baby finally landed on
my doorstep.
Let the click clacking begin!
The ding of the ping is music to my scrivener soul. A blank piece of parchment rolled into the
carriage heralds the start to curating a legacy of art. Aligning the smorgasbord of ABC’s into a
cohesive order that threads the plot from beginning to end are the tasks
delegated to the symphony of keys that co-exist to create and please.
My slightly battered and well-loved writing machine is eager
to make my acquaintance and who am I to displease.
Let the introductions begin…
We’ve a lot in common.
We both are originators, scribblers, linguists and poets, besotted with
the arrangement of words. Enamoured, to
be exact.
Whether penning free verse, sonnets, Japanese Haiku or
ballad quatrains, our connectivity lies in our appreciation of the craft of
re-inventing and re-imagining experiences, not to mention, emotions. We’re soul mates, kindred spirits, long lost
sisters…
Oh, Brother! OK, now you’ve gone off the edge and “lost
the plot”, so enough of the Blah, Blah, Blah!
You get the visual, dear Reader. Masterpiece
Theatre drama queen is on a roll yet once again…
So, where was I?
I was so caught up in the excitement that I momentarily
lapsed into reminiscing with yesterday, submerged in the delirium of catching
up with an ancient soul.
And so I ponder and wonder whose home did my beloved writing
machine grace? Did she belong to a
be-speckled granny who lived in a shoe and pecked rhymes all of the time? Or, was her owner a dapper young fellow who
pounded the pavement pedalling his freshly polished screenplay? Or, a starry eyed 12 year old, eager to shoot
to Hollywood glory, envisioning his name on a star of fame in the land of make
believe?
I’m not certain whether I’ll ever know the answer to that
question, yet it’s the magic of the mystery that keeps me peeking through the
window of not so long ago.
It’s my turn now to share the privilege and type out the
story…
Next post:
The conversation with my 1957 turquoise/green typewriter continues….
Next post will be published either w/o July 13th
or w/o July 20th, Tuesday or Wednesday or thereabouts. Stay tuned!
Stay home, stay safe and catch up with your
reading!
 |
| Scribbling the dream. |
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