Tag: writing
Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Clip Show

- by Typewriter Fox

“Have a good weekend!” they said, shuffling out.  But like always, that sentiment wasn’t really meant for me.  Because it was a superfluous holiday. An unappreciated recess tacked on to the tail end of a shortened week. A week spent soaking more blue into thrifted collars, while all around bigger engines whined and spooled white smoke. An echo of a day left to wander unsupervised. And, unappreciated. Watching the people all scurry and shuffle. Packing their bags for better places. The ones I am never destined to see.   The summer race was on.   The race to escape the stink of The City. And to chase down the refreshment promised by the U.P. That sprawl of a Mittened peninsula, jutting out into colder water. But I was …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Letters

- by Typewriter Fox

I thought about writing a letter tonight.  But I am admittedly a little afraid to actually know her. It has honestly been a minute since I have tortured someone with my rambling correspondence; I feel out of practice. Out of touch with more gentle thoughts; out of time to the rhythm of all these 517 hearts. I find myself terrified of letters. Probably because it’s only been a little over a month now. And I haven’t yet found the courage to read the last one I received. The one that came at me hard on that awful, and beautiful, Wayne’s City night. But it’s still right there.  That letter is still tucked away, unopened, inside a locked typewriter case. The vintage companion that has traveled with …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Last Call

- by Typewriter Fox

She was there when I needed someone the most. She was there on that awful stain of a 517 Thursday. A shitty day, full of shitty airplanes, tacked on to the end of another shitty week. Maybe I was just grouchy; maybe I was just manstruating my way through another shift of maniac, Mittened madness. Maybe I was still hungover from the night before; maybe it was an indecipherable combination of reasons spawning all the suck.   I just knew that I needed to tap the fuck out for a second.   I needed to catch my breath. And to realign my head into a better place. Because I was honestly about thirty seconds away from jumping headfirst into a rotating jet engine. Figuratively, of course. I’d never …

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500 Mile Drive

- by Typewriter Fox

I still think about that drive. The tenacity of those Tennessee roadside concessions. The ones fueling those dirty dashboard confessions; the ones screaming at a Pigeon Ford quickly evaporating in a smoky rearview mirror. Because I never had the opportunity to properly explain myself. I just remember Knoxville coffee punching hard against softer insides. And how that burn helped to round out the sharpness of those elevated curves. And smooth the stark indignity of unused emergency runaway ramps. The ones scratched and clawed into an unnamed mountain’s downward slope. Cities were on fire then. It felt like the whole world, locked down and suffering, was about to collapse. Which I thought was fucking hilarious. Because I was tired of the abuse. And wanted to break free …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

Time

- by Typewriter Fox

Time is such a weird thing. And 18 months is the current manifestation of that peculiarity. It simultaneously seems like both a lifetime, and the blink of brown eyes crying in an Indiana kitchen. 547 some days. A whisper over 13,000 hours.   But even that isn’t a guarantee. Because I learned a long time ago to never trust the white-coated math. In a way, I guess it makes sense. Because even our arrival times are imprecise. So why should our departure dates be any different? Born into broken water, we leave amongst the tears of others. Adhering to some imprecise system. One based on patterns I’m not sure my pickled monkey brain will ever comprehend. Because I can barely be trusted unsupervised with a tube of …

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Songs for Indiana

- by Typewriter Fox

I just couldn’t face the idea of Indiana. Not after what she asked me, when last I was in that nugget shaped state—I am still caught processing that request. So it was safer for me to remain temporarily behind inside an angry Mitten; my heart was in desperate need of a “lost weekend” to help get my head bent back right again. As often happens inside gaps of untethered time, I continued my feral run. Seeking shelter inside of bottles. And unsolicited bar room conversations. Ducking and covering inside of increasing ABVs. Eventually wandering the empty capitol streets with a leather collar turned up against the wind blowing in off the big lake again, when numb enough to finally ignore everything. Inside the fleeting gaps of …

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Blog Posts / Random / Writing

The Rockies

- by Typewriter Fox

She came at me strong. And unexpectedly.   Her notifications hit different on that 517 Saturday; I was already off the chain and running. Because it was another unsupervised night, bleeding inexcusably into another stupid Michigan Sunday. So I was surprised by a rare interference in the drunken tick-tock rhythm of my irresponsibility.  It seemed somehow significant. And influenced damaging intentions—I was alone at the bar. Again. Punishing myself for the inexcusable oversight of somehow being alive.   I saw the missed messages. The ones initially left unanswered, despite the fingered intimacy of a quick pull-down peek. Because I didn’t know how to respond.  I read a few of the words. An overdue tag-along link to a requested song provided a new sound. Reactionary emoticons decorated coloured boxes …

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Soldier Mode

- by Typewriter Fox

Through a hundred-proof crack of fatigue, I slipped. Revealed a rare glimpse of my bruised humanity. Briefly opened the split curtains of emotional camouflage. Raged openly in a measured overnight temper tantrum.  I threw up honest words. All the way across an ocean. The words not often accessible to those of my gender. Or station. But I wrote them all the same. Then I collapsed, exhausted and exposed, into another night of 517 nothingness.  Alone. But weakness isn’t allowed. Not for those whose destiny it is to provide, anyway. The ones responsible for protecting the weak. The silent guardians of righteous intentions. The stoic peacekeepers of emotional equilibrium. The ones tasked with the difficulty of building a new world from nothing. Only to be rewarded with …

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Fireball

- by Typewriter Fox

Pushing hard east on Michigan Avenue. Fireballing through traffic lights. The burn in the gut helping to burn down everything else. Because it is the kind of night to not really give a fuck. Just like every other night in these godforsaken flyover fields. The compulsion is always to put things with things. Even when there isn’t a handle to hold. Or a viable exit strategy. If I’ve learned anything over the years, it is that there is always something else left to lose. So it’s always a scramble to maintain some semblance of a grip. But everything eventually slips away anyway. Behind spinning tires lingers the stink of tin monsters. Those temperamental, dual-engined beasts. The ones nightly vomiting out “need it right the fuck now” …

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Blog Posts / Poems / Writing

The Gekkering

- by Typewriter Fox

The Gekkering i will make joyful the bright noise of my reimagination. i will stand determined on the side of more patient angels. i will walk unfettered by the stain of savage predator hearts. i will run free across the less travelled pathways. i will adapt quickly to the unpredictability of rhythm. i will hunt joys of better days lurking on tomorrow’s horizon. i will write honest the story of my vagabond experience. i will achieve what is hard; i will demand what is great. i am feral. i am free. i am FOX. ##)S.D.(## 21 JAN 25

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