This was the practice: I was starting to get rid of my possessions, at least the useless ones, because possessions stood between me and death. They didn't protect me from death, but they created a barrier in my understanding, like layers of bubble wrap, so that instead of thinking about what was coming and the beauty that was here now I was thinking about the piles of shiny trinkets I'd accumulated. I had begun the journey of digging out.
Fantastic piece on decluttering. For that alone, this is worth a read. But there is one part that sparked my interest even more:
I didn't need the glasses or the silver, those things that represented who I thought I would become but never did, and I didn't need the dolls, which represented who I had been and no longer was. The typewriter, on the other hand, represented both the person I had wanted to be and the person I am. Finding the typewriter was like finding the axe I'd used to chop the wood to build the house I lived in. It had been my essential tool. After all it had given me, didn't it deserve something better than to sit on a shelf?
Typewriters. What a coincidence. These last few days I've been getting deep into a rabbit hole and perusing eBay, local websites for classifieds, Facebook Marketplace, Etsy. All in search of functioning typewriters that I might be able to fix myself if anything were broken.
I never fixed one. I have no clue how to fix one. I found a few guides, but my knowledge is limited to what I read online. I still have three coming by the end of the month.
I used to own one as a child, and according to my mother, used it to write stories. Now I will own one again.