Just so everyone knows, this is subjective stream of consciousness, fabulation, magic realism, black comedy, parody, satire, burlesque, zany, absurdism, parabolic symbolism, metaphor, meta fiction and creative surrealism...
Someone around here has a drum machine that lets off bubbles when they want to go wild and crazy and cause some motion. So I wrote a letter on my typewriter machine with my fingers flying to say that I wanted to be there wherever the motion was.
A reply came back full of surprises and asked me if I was Harrigan the pirate.
I picked up the typewriter and my bag of gold and scarpered out the window about this and was about to call out the moon when the typewriter started paging me to take another look at my life and see if there was anything that could be traded for what I wanted just then; so I groaned.
The typewriter moaned in sympathy with me and with much passion composed an alternative route that would be sympathetic to my heart if I was so willing.
As my breath was pulled in and out of me by some invisible force I began to dance around this as if it was all I was worth.
It was here that I came upon saint peter guarding the gate, and so gave him a wave as I flew by.
Around a billion years later I was too tired to carry on and so left off to go for a break and found the evil typewriter was still pounding away its diction out over the airwaves.
What could I do, I was only left of this because I had to be; but it was not my calling, so I took up another hobby to pass the time and found another route to my dreams.
But I could still hear the keys of the typewriter pounding and calling me to rain more of this to the left of centre where the half moderates lived.
Running back and fore with always one more thing to do I just had to take up fishing to calm down the nerves, and so sat by the river to learn all the ways of that.
Seems like I’m always waking up these days in front of the evil typewriter saying how things should be done with my back to the wind and my arm out-flung to the sun.
And then a part pressure began building up, and I could feel it under my tongue like some kind of lethargy hangover I had no control over that I wanted to curse, but the ship was sinking and I had no plans there.
Maybe I was growing up too fast, and knew that there was something there that was more than an echo of all I couldn’t forget, and all I wanted more than me.
But I couldn’t say it, not to me or anyone else, what I wanted; I just knew I wanted more than I was afraid of.
So I burned in all the nights that came at me, and fired all my guns to be something, and knew: the evil typewriter had got me again.
Over at the wishing well the night was still somewhat young before midnight as it came, so I had me a fireworks party to pass the time, dancing in and out of where I stumbled.
Not overly fond of stumbling, I sat on the wishing well, before I fell over, and counted everything I had, before the next bus came along to take me far away.
As I began counting the last of my toes and leaning over heavily I heard a snigger in the background that was coming at me sideways that turned into an angel doing cartwheels to land nearby and grin at me.
Well I’d had a thing for angels for a couple of years now and so turned into the grin and said: have you come to rescue me from the grave?
But you’re not dead yet, said the angel.
So; I said.
Oh you are funny, said the angel and flew away, leaving a feather behind for me to pick up and carry with me to poke into the eye of the evil typewriter.
Is it that time of night again when all is quiet and I’m alone and nothing is expected, yet the time goes on repeatedly in my expectations where I have been downgraded and so must live here until I expire; but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m old and new at the same time; so I’ve spent my time doing this and never knowing what I will say next, to one day leave it all behind.
Yes I’m intransigent and leaving it all behind; I’m wandering on nowhere, and I’m closed, and I have nothing to say…
But I cannot worry about that now, I have other things on my mind: I need a place to eat soul-food for I’ve not had my gravy and I’m feeling loose and kind of wild and really needing.
Loose ends and bound labels and love tied in ribbons.
I’ll take that
I’ll go there
Any time it comes to me to be known.
The evil typewriter tapped on through the night…
Images from Pixabay
This is part one...
https://steemit.com/streamofconsciousness/@wales/the-evil-typewriter