Writing
Misc. Art

Type In Event

- by Typewriter Fox

Typewriter Fox Studios is pleased to announce the areas first ever typewritten event, SHIFT LOCK: a Metaphor for Changing Perspectives. A collaboration of Struk Studio and Typewriter Fox Studios, the gallery will be transformed for the evening into “The Typing Room,” a live art installation where you are invited to come experience a wide variety of vintage typewriters. Custom stationery, incorporating the talents of local artists, will be available for you to write a letter, a poem, or whatever the muse dictates. There will also be a screaming of the documentary California Typewriter. And since a movie is more fun with snacks, free popcorn will provided by Cravings Gourmet Popcorn and refreshments by Toms Party Store of East Lansing. So shift your perspective and come unplug …

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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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Probing Uranus

- by Typewriter Fox

I am not sure I will ever understand why things tend to get weird around this time of year.  Maybe it’s the turn in weather away from the arctic nothingness. That seasonal pivot towards the mushy in-between time. Maybe it’s the fact that the days are getting noticeably longer. Or perhaps it’s the lingering threat of springing into some as yet unknown direction. But something is triggering all this seasonal uncertainty. There are too many variables left lurking. Too many unanswered questions; too many chances to take another wrong turn. Too many tests still left to take. And too fucking many important things yet to be said.  So I have to be careful. It had been a typical mittened Monday night spent kicking uncooperative 517 metal …

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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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Deer Prints

- by Typewriter Fox

It has been nearly impossible developing original language. Finding fresh explanations. Breaking new words to better fit old desires. Capturing the code of communication between us.  Words can just be tricky that way. But I still had to try. Language remains the only bridge between where we were and where she is destined to go. Because we were in very different places. Even though we were walking there together.  We started at the park. The one where we used to meet. Years ago. In the before times. Back when life wasn’t this fucking complicated. She confessed to wanting to find her spot. And expressed her gratitude that her favorite fox, the one sporting an alarming amount of grey in his fur, was there to help her. …

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Where the Sidewalk Ended

- by Typewriter Fox

Somebody lit the house on fire. It burns to this day. Even though I have temporarily retreated safely back across state lines. It is a tangible buffer; it keeps us separated. And responsibly distant. Which, considering the severity of the situation, is probably the best possible outcome. Because I felt that familiar compulsion to jump in. Head first. Consequences be damned. Just like I always do when tangled up in a situation where wounded hearts are on the line. But at the same time, I don’t want her to jump with me. Only one of us deserves to tumble down these dirty alleyways. Better that it be me—I am expendable. And she is already destined for a different kind of fall. So I will take the …

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