Tag: dream
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Sunday Coffee

- by Typewriter Fox

Blue Owl S. Washington The days all seem to start out the same way. Same intro; same cup of coffee. Same view of the same people. Admittedly, there is some comfort in that familiarity. But change is more fun. I guess maybe that is why there is always that push. Because laurels aren’t meant for resting. They are meant for pasta water—we just call them bay leaves when we do that. So let’s get something cooking, yeah? Maybe even incorporate that low hanging literary fruit I just picked. Mash it up. Let it ferment into a higher proof. Or like me, decompose slow at the back of the fridge, forgotten and unpalatable. Mix up the metaphors. Shaken, not bacon. Squeeze out the gooey center. Because that …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

The Opening Part Two: The Closer

- by Typewriter Fox

Eerybody has been asking about the status of the second part of the story.  But honestly, I debated even writing it.  She did say that Part One was a lovely opening to an experience that had left her mind reeling.  As admittedly mine had been, too, ever since the taillights of her green Subaru faded south, leaving The City to feel that much more empty in her sudden absence. My weiner was starting to feel a little peculiar about it all, too.  Not sure about how hers was feeling.  Things not meant to cling were starting to get sticky.  Weird, but in a way not entirely unpleasant.  Like going to the gym drunk. But I still found myself hesitating. And it didn’t really help literary matters …

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The Opening: Part One

- by Typewriter Fox

She walked right into the story, just like she had always done before. And exactly when I fucking needed her the most—funny how we always seem to work that way.  Through a string of ridiculous occurrences, a significant collection of my doodles ended up on an actual art gallery wall. In an official show. In all their quirky, unrepentant glory. Such was my excitement at the stupid shit I drew garnering some actual attention, I broke the cardinal rule of “coolness” and showed up early for the opening celebration, rather than fashionably late. And I cannot help but blame that faux pas on the nature of my day job. Which is actually a night job. One demanding a strict adherence to time if we are going …

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Barking Foxes

- by Typewriter Fox

Good morning again, Michigan.  This one isn’t going to be easy to write. Or much fun to read. But I am going to say it plainly anyway. No need for flowery verse. Or clever wordplay. This isn’t the time.   Because I wish that the people I care about would just quit fucking dying unexpectedly.   That would be absolutely ducky.  Another transcontinental text; another fallen friend. Another gap in the collective hive-mind of memory. Another empty seat at a table whose ranks are rapidly dwindling with each passing new year. And that widening void breaks my fucking heart. I have been writing long enough to understand that our stories are themselves living creatures. Constantly evolving. Adding pages. Taking notes. Absorbing punctuation. And occasionally, delighting in the masochist …

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REO (Not Speedwagon) Town

- by Typewriter Fox

Good morning, Michigan. In the land of endless potholes, life plays tricks on you. One minute you’re cruising along, doing your thing. Thinking everything is fine. Not really cognizant of the dumpster fire simmering just underneath the surface. Because the focus is on fighting up the fish social ladder to make things just a bit better than they were the day before.   But complications hit with shocking regularity. Obstacles, that make about as much sense as having to turn right in order to go left, constantly threaten to throw you off the path.  Because things here in Lansing are a little weird; nothing makes any sense. And it’s difficult for a transplanted brain to fully comprehend the subtleties so deeply ingrained in the rhythm of Ingham …

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Homecoming

- by Typewriter Fox

Heading back again across county lines a bitten straggler.  Just a dirty, exhausted Boulevard Boy limping back to where he doesn’t really belong.   Not the homecoming once imagined.  That foolish ideal was born years ago––an unearned right surrendered to the whims of violence.  But in those adrenaline tainted moments of its birth, just the idea of that ideal was enough to help keep me alive.  Because it meant that in some improbable way, I was actually wanted.  And that everything I had sacrificed somehow mattered.   But then came that night when I should have died.  That changed everything.  And afterwards, not much else seemed to really matter.     Including me.   Somewhere between those extremes, I was left an intimate trespasser.  A sweaty nightmare …

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Flapper Dreams and Other Strange Things

- by Typewriter Fox

  There is nothing worse than finally meeting the woman of your dreams, in your dream, only to wake up and realize that you’ll never see her again.    And just to twist the knife a little bit more, when you do finally wake up, there are messages waiting.   Messages from a girl who has come the closest so far to meeting the imaginary benchmarks set inside the unpredictability of those dreams.   Much of it was washed out and ethereal, as dreams often tend to present themselves.  But some of the specifics stuck inside my head–hard.  And their lingering presence made me ache desperately to return to their simple, uncomplicated joy.   We were browsing at some ridiculously large antique mall.  Obviously on the hunt …

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