Sunday Schooled

I will never be called to the river. I will never be washed clean. Sorry, Preacher Man.  There is just no saving my soul. Some sins simply defy absolution.  Some mistakes linger irreparably in their durable definitions.  And some regrets rage and fester, like an undiagnosed cancer storming unchecked through the soft tissues of an untimely surrender. The wrongs I have committed far outweigh the rights; the karmic balance remains stubbornly shifted forever in favor against me.  And I have neither justification, nor diligence, against what is ultimately coming due. There is no defending the indefensible position- therein lies only exhausting madness.  There is no justifying the indiscreet indiscretions- therein lies only more lies.  There is no forgiving the unforgivable- therein lies the undeniable tragedy of …

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Total Ellipsis of the Heart…

It seems the whole of my existence is bound by the rigid principles of punctuation. All these tiny marks punched into thin paper help to anchor me, late into an unseasonably snowy spring night when the muffled blanket of unexpected purity strains to cover this sickly City of Wayne shivering alone in the dark.  Little tangible reminders, peppering the fragility of an entirely different whiteness, deeply regimented and somehow keeping time with the lullaby piano music echoing through an empty blue house teetering on new collapse, stand out to me and I realize just how deeply I am caught in their embrace.  Sometimes, they hit harsh and unforgiving.  Sometimes, like a heated, diasterous love affair tragically crumbling into that inevitable bittersweet nothingness, you simply cannot escape …

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NSFW- The Naked Lettera 22

After perusing one of the local antique malls recently (on my birthday, actually), tucked way in a quiet corner of the very last vendor booth I happened to spy what I have come to call a “bowling ball bag”.  I knew from experience it would would contain something interesting and it just so happens that I was right. A quick unzipping and there it was….an Olivetti Lettera 22.  And a price tag.  A price tag that stated $25.  She was a bit dusty, which is about the norm anymore.  The paint was scuffed in a few places and stained in others…  In other locations, the paint had somehow gotten mucky.  Like, really mucky. I’m not sure if something had been spilled on it, or if it …

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Run! It’s a Copper!

The other week I found myself lucky enough to have won an online auction for a sterling that nobody else seemed interested in (I was the only bidder).  Even with shipping and the additional handling charges added on, it was $20 typer. I knew going into it that the paint was a bit rough: Not too bad at first glance, BUT in the long, sordid history of this typer, it seems as though someone had spilled coffee onto it.  So even after cleaning the paint, the stains remained.  So, it was time to play.  But first, some more “as found” pics…. Showing some of the surprises inside, along with coffee stains…. Such a dirty girl…. Scuffs and stains…. Worn and dusty…. First step, disassembly and washing …

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80s Hair Band(ing)

Early last week I had a bit of rare free  time before having to make a school pickup, so I stopped into one of the local thrift shops that tends to be on the upper end of the scale for the resale places around town.  Over these past couple of years it has proven mildly positive as for typers.  I think I got a really nice Remington Travel-Riter there and also a tailed Adler (that has since been re-homed to another writer, I am very happy to say), so I figured maybe I would get lucky. Tucked inside and made my way to the back of the store where bigger items, such as typers, are kept.  And I saw a black, ballistic plastic case up on …

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Typer Brief: Case #1

 ~Re-purposing with a Purpose, Royalite Style Part One~   Over the summer I managed to acquire, as part of a group typer purchase, the sad remains of a 1958 Royalite.  The main body was dented and totally out of alignment.  The ribbon cover was broken AND bent, so it was pretty much pointless to try and repair.  The mechanics were sound, but cosmetically?  It was in rough shape.  I mean you can tell exactly how hard it fell and how it landed at some point in it’s journey to me. It had apparently belonged to the seller’s late wife and something about parting it out always bothered me.  It just sort of seemed too…sad…to turn it into a pile of parts to use in other machines.  …

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Birth Of A Studio

Welcome to the very beginnings of Typewriter Fox Studios, a multi-media, multifaceted, multi-ratcheted, multi-orgasmic, organical, non-vegan (because fuck all that), bacon beer whiskey boob depression-fueled trove of juvenile-jerk-off-jibberish and infantile doodles.  Give it a peek, try to break it, just don’t be too harsh in your assessment….it’s still just a baby.  And you have to be nice to babies.  Because, for some fuckered-up reason, it is frowned upon in modern American society to non-gay-sashay up to an infant and tell them, in tenderly adulty tones, that they need to just shut the fuck up.  Or comment upon how ugly they are and that you truly hope that they will eventually grow into their faces.    

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