Stories Moths Tell

Just to illustrate the ubiquity of stories waiting to be told, just this evening I made note of the overhead kitchen light casting a star-like pattern of lights into the sink, from the holes in the nearby pasta strainer. Which then led us to discussing my wife's grandmother's old pasta colander, which she'd used for years until one of the legs broke off, after which I repurposed it into an overhead light fixture in my Man Cave shed. Which then led me to think, "That's another story needing to be told."



Here's a few thoughts I put together in video format, based on this piece, about the ubiquity of stories and the necessity to be a listener before we can be a teller.

Notes From Safari

TJ is a school teacher in Los Alamos, and I have his typewriter, an early-1950's Smith-Corona Silent. It used to be mine, until I sold it to him (or, more precisely, his school system) for use in his classroom. Sometime last year he told me some of the key levers had been bent, by overly-eager (I'm assuming) students. TJ was able to drop the machine off to me for repairs later in the year, during one of our Sunday ABQwerty Type Writer Society meetings. I easily managed to put the key levers back into good order, but since then it's been difficult arranging for TJ to pick up the machine. And now, with everyone (supposedly) in lock-down it'll have to remain with me for a while longer.

But today I decided to set the machine on my workbench and test it out, to make sure there were no other nagging issues. It does type very well, no mechanical issues of note, even the ribbon is sufficiently fresh. And I'd forgotten how much I like the typeface. But I needed a piece of paper to test-type with, so I grabbed an instruction sheet from a pile of clutter on the bench, for a safari rack that me and my grandson had installed earlier this week on his truck, and I was sufficiently inspired by the word "safari" in the instructions to hurriedly compose this vignette on the reverse side. Afterward, I read it to my wife, and she was sufficiently impressed that she's now encouraging me to continue this story in installments.

No, I don't really know if you can weld broken steel in the bush with a makeshift thermite furnace, but hey, a little exaggeration never hurts! And don't go four-wheeling with that Smith guy, he'll get you in more trouble than you can shake a stick at.

The other day I'd felt sufficiently cinematic (is that a real feeling?) that I wanted to record some B-roll black & white video on my Lumix G7 with one of my Minolta MD lenses. It was snowing lightly, a rather rare occurrence in April (though our mile-high altitude doesn't preclude such an event) and the inclement weather was rather inspiring, since sunny days are rather commonplace. For adapting manual focus lenses to my digital camera I'd already been using the 7Artisans 25mm F/1.9 lens and the Minolta MD 50 F/1.7 at various times, but had never given the 58mm Rokkor lens a real test. After some test shots around my office and outdoors, I decided that the 58mm was at least as sharp as the 50. Naturally I'd need to reduce the light incoming to the sensor if I hoped to use the lens wide open at F/1.2, so I put on a variable ND filter, after futzing around with finding the proper adapter rings.



By itself the Panasonic G7 isn't that big of a camera, but with that big 58mm lens and even wider ND filter hanging off the front it's rather sizable. But it has a reassuring heft, and the haptics are about perfect for manual focusing, since the G7 has focus peaking and the G-series cameras pioneered the "tilty-flippy" screens (that other manufacturers pretend these days they invented), that makes these cameras so convenient to use.

One thing led to another, and before I knew it I was creating a motivational video on creativity and writing during this unsettled period. I thought the B-roll intervals between shots worked pretty well for the video.

Thermal Receipt Typing

I've written previously in this blog about the old Albertsons grocery store down the hill from our neighborhood. It started out in the early 1960s as a Safeway and Skaggs drug store, then became Skaggs AlphaBeta, then AlphaBeta, then Furrs, then Albertsons, as the grocery store industry went through mergers and upheaval. In all of those changes, the store has remained its usual dingy self. There have been repeated attempts at renovation, but it was always done with the store still open, resulting in a perpetual sense of disorganization and clutter. Even today, it seems every month or so some seasonal change results in some category of grocery loses its shelf space and gets split asunder to the "end caps" of various aisles, making it hard to find things. Since many of the store's customers are older, you'd think it would be smart to keep things in the same location. But I keep shopping here because it's convenient, and I enjoy observing the clients and employees. A people watcher's paradise, for certain.



Besides the grocery store, the local library also gives receipts on 3-1/8" wide thermal paper. This one is from the Tony Hillerman library, formerly the Wyoming Branch, behind Hoffmantown Shopping Center in northeast Albuquerque. I've visited this library since I was a kid. Hang out at the library in the hot summer months (I was on foot or bicycle), with its cool air conditioning and cold drinking fountain, then walk across the street to Hoffmantown and have lunch at the Campbell Pharmacy. Conveniently, the book receipt gives room for a brief book review, this being the auto-biography of Michael Moore, which I enjoyed more than I expected. It also helps the aesthetics to have the receipt coffee-stained and wrinkled.



Since all these receipt were the same 3-1/8" width, it was easy to scan, keeping the left edges even on the flatbed. I like the way the front sides of the receipts slightly show through the thin paper.
Typecast via Olympia report electronic. Other receipts typed via Royal QDL (aka Adobe Rose).

Mr. Smith From Corona

Post-Script: Perhaps it's the feverish summer weather (actually, it's been rather nice in the high desert this week), or because it's July and with it comes the commemoration of both the Trinity Test and Roswell. I'd like to think, being the rational person I am, that in 1947 the only nuclear-certified and combat-experienced bomber squadron on the world, the 509th Composite Group, happened to be stationed at Roswell Army Air Base. And over in White Sands they were beginning to test German V2 missiles. So perhaps there's nothing more to it, right?

What else happened in 1947 besides (supposedly) Roswell? How about the National Security Act, that created the CIA and NSA. How about the US Air Force becoming its own military branch. Or the US was (supposedly) "enjoying" a global monopoly on nuclear weapons, that would only last another two years. Lots of changes in a short period of time.

But if you're a sci-fi fan like I am, and also a typewriter nerd, you can't help but notice that Corona typewriters and the town of Corona, NM share a common name. And Corona, NM happens to be near one of the supposed crash sites of the 1947 incident. So, naturally, this story comes together with that in mind. This is becoming a theme for my fiction, what you might call typewriter insurgency fiction. Is that yet a thing?

One thing I love about sci-fi is it doesn't have to be realistic, though in order to be successful it does rely on realistic characters.

This is my entry of Typing Assignment No.18, on the theme of sci-fi. If you're so inclined, write up a one-page sci-fi story on a typewriter and post a scan of the piece to a publically-accessible photo hosting website, then post the link to your image in the comments section of this YouTube video. Deadline is this coming Sunday, July 29. I hope to see your story in the upcoming review video. Until then, keep watching the skies, and be careful out there!

Story first-drafted on SCM Skyriter, completed on Royal QDL.

2018 Phoenix Type-In Gleanings

The 2018 Phoenix Type-In was the highlight of my year (so far). Meeting faces both new and familiar, interviewing Typosphere notables, trying out a wide assortment of machines - these are the things that make for fond memories. And also solidifying past relationships, made deeper with more intimate fellowship.

Besides coming away from the event with that combination excited/cozy feeling (and a Smith-Corona Skyriter), I also had a sheaf of typings, gleaned from the plethora of words left upon papers scattered across the tables. I thought little about them until, weeks later, I took the opportunity to study them, only to realize that here were some gems in the raw.



What follows are snippets gleaned from the detritus of the event. I've taken the luxury of permitting these images to be 800 pixels wide, busting the template for the sake of readability.












Post-Script: Some of these snippets are rather obvious - commentary on how the particular typewriter looks, operates and feels. This is normal; all too normal. I've attended enough of these events to become a bit jaded when all I glean are commentaries on how people like certain machines and not others. I suppose there is value in this, reinforcement of one's biases. In all fairness, it is interesting to happen across a comment that disagrees with one's own feelings about a particular machine. Like, how could a person not like a Hermes 3000, even if the carriage return lever is a bit high? Each to their own.

But then there are other typings that are wonderfully evocative of notable 20th century literature. Like the little quote from the beginning of Kerouac's On the Road.

And then there are the more cryptic, mysterious typings. Perhaps foreign to me through my lack of exposure to a depth of literature unfamiliar to me. Or truly original and bazaar. These are what I love, the mysterious notes that makes one wonder...

I culled these clippings from pages filled with the likes of "the quick brown fox." And now they remain as little snippets torn and frayed, yet invaluable. I supposed I'll put them in a folder and stash them away. Maybe I should consider putting out a book, of Type-In gleanings, interspersed with typewriter erotica, gleaming black lacquered paint and shiny round keys. Have Mr. Hanks write the forward. Perhaps. Until then, enjoy.

Big Chief Gas Station

Post-Script: Photos via Panasonic Lumix G7. I was also shooting video on my recently acquired Canon R800 camcorder. Yes, an actual camcorder. I'll be making a video about this soon. Here's the This is Not a VLOG video for today:



Typecast via Remington Quiet-Riter and roll of thermal fax paper.

Going For a Walk

Post-Script: I wrote this on the new (to me) IBM Model 71 Selectric I. The ribbon was nearing the end, hence the poor imprint quality until I switched it out with the new roll supplied by the repair shop. Two aspects of this experience of composing on the IBM come to mind. First, I distinctly noticed the absence of a combination black/red ribbon. Being able to highlight certain letters in red is something I do miss with this otherwise fine machine. Second, there were times when I reached for the platen knob to manually move the carriage back for some needed correction, only to remember that the carriage is fixed, and instead I had to press and hold the backspace key, then impatiently listen to the cyclic kerchunk of the mechanism as it did its backspacing.

I originally thought, when the idea for this piece came to me during my walk, of composing it by hand via fountain pen, then doing the finish work on the IBM; but time was running short this afternoon and I instead composed the whole piece at the keyboard.

I've yet to find my writer's voice doing these kinds of pieces; the sense of nostalgia is too strong. It's hard to maintain some objectivity as an external observer. I consider it an exercise, which I hope you find acceptable.

A Visit to the Neighborhood Walmart

You stand in line at Customer Service, adjacent to the entrance. Nearby there's a cloistered foyer-like area between two sets of automated doors, where shopping carts are corralled, awaiting their customers like steeds their cowboys. Next to Customer Service, in front of the automated doors, in an open area seemingly too empty, representing potential wasted retail square footage, not even a display kiosk, stands a security officer. He appears to be just a few years out of high school. Fresh-faced, tall and skinny; hardly intimidating to the type of person who might be inclined to commit crimes on the property.

I'm here in Customer Service because I need to exchange an item purchased the previous week. There are three people in line ahead of me. Behind the counter, a middle-aged lady is tending to the line while two others are seemingly supervising, at least according to their badges. Behind them, there is a sign on the wall with the eery message Blood Disposal, below which is a dispenser of biomedical hazard bags. Adjacent is a return bin labeled Celebration. I find myself amused by the dichotomy of this found phrase, Blood Disposal Celebration. This could be a good band name, or title of some experimental video. These are the thoughts that come to you while waiting in line at the neighborhood Walmart Customer Service.

Other than the blue vests and ID badges, it would be difficult to tell the employees apart from the customers. There is a kind of default civilian attire on display by both classes, casualness bordering on grungy, a kind of grunge so authentic as to make the most acute culture-maven pine with jealousy. I ponder the dichotomy of the fashion-conscious who seek out authenticity in appearance by appropriating the cultural artifacts of a socio-economic strata completely foreign to them. Here, the casual grunge is not an affectation but an artifact of hard economic reality. I ponder that thought, as I slowly shift my weight from one foot to the other, and back again, tending to a careful balance between impending impatience and a purposeful attempt at keeping my attitude at bay, taking the high road, reminding myself that standing in line is a rather normal anti-activity for dense populations in the civilized world. I remind myself that I am an accomplished line-stander from way back, so far back as to pre-date the terms "old school" and "back in the day". This too shall pass, I tell myself. The line barely moves. I can almost sense the lights momentarily dimming, but am not certain; maybe it's just me. I have visions of cloaked, huddled masses of Slavs, partly obscured by sleet and snow, standing in some Soviet bread line, grim determination their only solace. Perhaps it's not that bad, I tell myself. Or maybe, I ponder, perhaps the Customer Service line at the neighborhood Walmart is our own kinder, gentler form of Soviet bread line. I find a strange comfort at that thought. The line still barely moves.

Eventually, as each customer is attended to, their returned items are packaged in one of those ubiquitous gray plastic Walmart bags - the kind that eventually become part of the landscape, snarled around tumbleweeds in an adjoining vacant lot - which are then stapled shut and tossed in the appropriate bin behind the Customer Service desk, piled high with other identical gray plastic bags, for some other nameless, faceless soul to restock. I can't imagine what it would be like to have the job of restocking; and yet, if you walk into any 24-hour Walmart, late at night, you might be witness to those ghastly silhouettes of the doomed, frantically restocking shelves. You wonder what form of hell this must be, what crimes were committed that this punishment would be meted out upon these tortured souls; until you suddenly realize their labor is self-inflicted, fueled by hard, cold economic reality. Jobs are hard to come by, out here in the badlands. I check my watch and the second hand has barely moved. Other people behind me in line are twiddling at their phones. Me, I have a flip phone and try not to feel too superior.

It's almost my turn at the Customer Service desk, and another employee is making subtle motions implying a second station might be readying to open; you never can be too certain about these things - only God and the shift manager know for certain, and neither are telling. Should it open while I'm still in line, I'll have to decide which station to choose.

Each choice has some risk. If I choose the newly opened station, does that signal my impatience with the middle-aged lady at the first station? That I'm meting out my exasperation by snubbing her? Or, if I choose her station instead, does that mark me as stoic and inflexible; that, damn it, I made my choice and I'm sticking with it? Is it a signal to the other employee that they took their own sweet time opening up a second station, ignoring us poor saps in line, so to hell with you? Yes. Maybe. Actually I'm not certain, but now it's becoming less important because there's only one guy in front of me, with a shopping cart containing some partially wrapped contraption-like thing that looks entirely out of place here, like it could not possibly have been sold in a Walmart, but instead some secondhand junk truck stop bazaar, something long and gangly and coiled up, with a tinge too much patina and wear to have been purchased recently new. I begin imagining some gang of thieves who hock their booty at the neighborhood Walmart Customer Service in exchange for cash or credit. I begin imagining some one-offramp town near the interstate highway where the local Walmart has put all the other local businesses into receivership; and everything that every person in town owns and wears, aside from major appliances and automobiles, is purchased under that one roof, and how can they, like the tall, gangly security guard man-child, tell if a customer has shoplifted if everything they're wearing, from shoes to jewelry, was purchased there? I begin thinking of a wallet or purse stuffed to overflowing with receipts for everything one wears. I begin thinking about thermally printed cash register receipts and their intrinsically short lifespan before the paper begins to fade. I begin thinking that perhaps this is intentional, as I gaze into that internal maw of limitless conspiracy musings. I purposefully have to shut the door on my inner paranoia.

The guy in front of me, he's struck up a conversation with a lady in front of him, who I thought was his wife but now I'm not so certain, their intimacy seemed too overt for having just met in line; but then I begin to wonder, how long have we actually been in line, that they had time to become acquainted and intimate, and is this the new form of dating venue, instead of singles bars, meeting someone in the Customer Return line, and suddenly I realize I'm next in line and I have to make my choice.

It is only ten minutes later but feels like a lifetime. I'm now walking out through the automated glass doors into the bright daylight, partially filtered by clouds and a blustery, cold wind, into the vast parking lot that faces toward the south, my favorite direction because the vista is so sun-lit, so replete with possibility and the warmth of hope. I think I know which row I parked in, but suddenly don't recognize the rear of my vehicle until I'm almost upon it. I begin to notice that many of the vehicles around me look newer, fancier, except for some stand-out beaters that now sport a new-found patina of appreciation. I press the button on my key fob and that familiar chirp reminds me that my errands are not yet complete, but that I have survived for another day the Customer Service line at the neighborhood Walmart, and I am perhaps the better for it, but am not entirely certain.

(Composed and edited on the AlphaSmart Neo.)

"Time"

Post-Script: My submission for Typing Assignment # 12, on the subject of thankfulness.

The Strip Mall Jesus and First Church of Perpetual Video

Post-Script: Inspiration for this short-short story, my submission for Typing Assignment No. 10, was from remnants of a dream I'd had, last week. It seems I've have episodic dreams over the years, set in the same or similar environs, that evolves over time as my life experience and employment changes. The dream I'm certain was based on a TV repair shop I'd worked in, decades ago, in a nearby strip mall, at the corner of Eubank and Menaul Blvds here in Albuquerque. While the owner of the shop wasn't exactly a messiah-type, mixed in this dream is also something to do with small storefront churches I've been in over the years.

Typed on my aunt's repaired-as-good-as-it's-gonna-get Royal 10, now situated on my office desk and ready to deliver back to Colorado, when I have the time and the weather cooperates.

How about you? Do you get inspired to write creatively from dreams? Perhaps this is another topic for the Typewriter Video Series. Hmm...

"And Don't Call Me Freddy"

Post-Script: This whole project began as an inspiration, late at night, sitting at my office desk with Underwood Portable at my side. These machines indeed are tools for writing inspiration, especially this kind of writing that's imaginative and, being fiction, doesn't have to conform to reality.

Since I needed a photo to adorn the beginning of this article, I figured a pinhole image would be needed, in order to get sufficiently close to these garden ornament ants. I used a little cardboard pinhole camera I'd built some years ago, with a 4" square format and wide angle of view (about 1.5" focal length). I attached a rectangular wooden base to my tripod, already fitted with 1/4-20 tripod bushing, and clamped to that a larger sheet of old plywood. This served as a mobile foreground stage, which I could move around my yard and adjust its framing with the tripod's head. A 25 second exposure in bright sun was made onto pre-flashed grade 2 RC paper. Inversion of the tones was done in the Preview app on my Mac. I really need to get some more full-featured photo editing software, but that'll involve spending some money and doing a bit of research.

Here's the video of this project:

"A Fine Mess"

A brief short story, composed at the nearest Duncan Donuts accompanied by a cup of their brew. No, not Starbucks fancy, but serviceable, not too strong coffee. I was inspired by a round of typewriter repairs I did last week. For this Olympia SF, I found a fix to the nagging issue of the line spacing problem, which I'd once thought was a permanent condition. Just a bit of courage, inspired by the Right Reverend Ted Munk and his Typewriter Repair Bibles, was all it took. No, there's not yet such a manual for the Olympia, but I did further tinkering and had some success.

This short story is for all of you typewriter collectors out there who think their collecting problem has gotten out of hand. Read and heed. And maybe chuckle.




Post-Script: Here's the video on what I did to fix the Olympia.

Personal Discoveries and Barry's Folly

Ageing Hippies at Winning Coffee

Is there some universal law that dictates when a person first makes a personal discovery? What if that discovery involves a public venue, like Winning Coffee Company, in the University Neighborhood of Albuquerque? These things are like wings you don't even know you've put on, they've become so comfortable. In the case of Winnings, I can't now recall how I first heard of it, or from whom, or the circumstances of my first visit. All I know for certain is that there came a time, in the mid-aughts, when I began spending many a morning at Winnings, eating breakfast, drinking coffee and writing in a journal.

The circumstances of how these places come to be are mysterious, or so I'd like to pretend. In fact, some one or group of people had the vision to start this business, in 1996; but that's not what this story is about. The story I'd like to tell is that Winnings is as unlikely of a hangout for creatives as one can ever imagine in this dry, dusty southwest city, seemingly perpetually insulated from the balance of civilization by many hundreds of miles of badlands and years of history.

If Beatnik culture were a "Thing," let us presume, and someone with the vision and aptitude to make a buck off the declining entrails of mid-20th century American Beatnik culture were to have a free hand in fashioning a simulacra of that culture, they could do no better than start at Winnings, study what it is and what it is they do, and try to franchise the results far and wide.


Simulacra of Decrepitude

You'd need, at the very least, an aroma of cumin and cayenne wafting from an ancient-looking kitchen, just as mood music fills the modern spaces of Starbucks out in Suburbia. You'd need some corporate specification defined for how intense the aroma becomes, along with how to simulate the decrepitude of years of caked-on paint, crazed plaster walls and tin ceilings in some state of disarray. An exacting simulacra of decrepitude, canned and marketed for the suburbanites in newly built communities of cracker mansions out by the Interstate, neatly set down in their precise rows of grids, enticing them to drive their SUVs down to the strip mall and experience a bit of inner-city, beatnik funkiness distilled down to its essential ingredients. Employee personal hygiene would be optional, in order to preserve the aroma of the unkempt philosopher, specified in the corporate policy manual, which also mandates faded bell-bottom denim, braided beards and bandanas securing greasy locks. Most essential would be the front patio, where tables and chairs offer a convenient place for revolutions to be fomented in billowy clouds of hand-rolled cigarette smoke; local ordinances would require special exemptions, palms would need to be greased. We have money to make, boy!

Of course, no true revolutions will arise from our imaginary chain of faux-beatnik coffee shops (Now Nationwide!), only harmless little pretend ones; for the affluence of American Suburbia is predicated on the notion of keeping one's head to the grindstone of Corporate America, doing as one's masters might dictate, and don't rock the boat.

On October 1, 2011, (un)Occupy Albuquerque, a protest group loosely inspired by the then ongoing and worldwide Occupy Movement, began a weeks-long protest and occupation of Yale Park, across Central Avenue from Harvard Drive, the location of Winning Coffee, which became for participants a de facto support triage, with food, drink and moral encouragement. For myself, Winning had by now also become my own personal triage, a place from which to escape middle-class suburbia and it trappings. I'd visit almost every week, notebook and camera in hand, simultaneously inspired and also desiring to capture on film a fleeting essence of the ephemeral. Like capturing fairies on glass plates, how does one capture the essence of a culture defined primarily by the negative space of protest and opposition? It's like that old optical illusion: is it a pair of faces or a candlestick?

I think it always comes back to that most essential approach, storytelling. People are intrinsically interested in the lives of other's, especially if those others come from a different walk of life. I've always felt a bit out-of-place visiting Winning Coffee because of the imagined disparity between my station in life (middle-class suburbanite) and those Winning regulars closer to the streets. And yet, as I've come to know some of them, I've found a richness in their diverse backgrounds that is wholly unexpected and irreplaceable.

Some of these people I've gained only a casual familiarity with, enough to catch a mere glimpse into their psyche, but enough to serve as inspiration for fictional characters in a series of short stories based on Losers Blend, the parallel universe fictionalized version of Winnings.

It's been many months since I've visited Winnings; their coffee roaster guy quit and we'd begun buying beans elsewhere. It's been several years since I was a regular enough visitor to spend hours there writing, or visiting with fellow patrons. So it came as some shock to learn this week that they are having financial difficulties, brought about by the Albuquerque Rapid Transit project, which has resulted in the entirety of Central Avenue being torn up, disrupting traffic, parking and shopping for miles. The project has earned the scorn of most every business along Central, known by its initials ART; but there's nothing art-like or redeeming about it. The Mayor, Richard Barry, heavily promoted it as a way to begin transitioning the city's transportation infrastructure away from being so automobile-centric; a noble cause. But instead of placing it in a part of town most needing mass transit - the suburbs of the densely-packed northeast heights - he instead located it along the one thoroughfare already better served by bus lines than any other. So while the city might call it ART, I call it Barry's Folly.

It will take several more years before the project is concluded, and funding has not even been appropriated for any more than the initial demolition phase currently underway. Neither was the public given an opportunity to directly vote to determine the project's future, but it was instead mandated from the top, down. Theoretically, a democratic society works by the government working for the people, not the other way around.

There is the very real prospect that, even if the project is successfully completed, those areas of downtown, the University District and Nob Hill who were to benefit so directly from the transformation will be burned-out, boarded-up shells of their former vibrancy, a zone of economic blight brought about by the reality that the cure was worse than the illness; that in attempting to revive the city's core through infrastructure improvements they've killed off those essential but delicate economies of small businesses which make up most of this city's commercial liveliness; the very opposite of what Mayor Barry promised. Unique places like Winning Coffee might very likely cease to exist.

Conspiracy theorists might even conjecture this was their intention all along, so that real estate could be bought up cheaply and sold off to new corporate clients waiting in the wings.

This morning we had a late breakfast at Winnings, a hearty burrito filled with eggs, potatoes, green chile sauce and cheese; and their wonderfully rich lattes. Bradley, the bookseller, was there, setting up shop in the corner nook by the coffee roasting machine. He has a younger assistant who does the heavy lifting of setting up and tearing down, whom I asked how the books are organized, and the answer I got revealed once again the rich diversity of this crowd, as he told me that they're organized by genre: beat authors here, soviet realists there, feminist lit over yonder, Latin American fantasists over there. Only at places like Winnings will you find the guy with the strong back also has a strong mind for literature.

As we entered through the front door (there's also a rear entrance from the alley) the regulars were seated outside at the patio tables, while the big oval table inside by the order line had the usual old guys, the knights of the round table I call them, including the one who always sports some puffy-sleeved shirt and black vest, with black top hat. As we stood in line waiting to place our order, I overheard one of them inform the others "One of the Chicago Seven is now a stock broker."

I'm hoping Barry's Folly will fail to have its full sway, and that these unique venues like Winning Coffee will survive and prosper. In the meantime, Bradley informed me that the new coffee roaster guy now has his act together, and so perhaps next week, when our stock of beans begins to run low, I'll make a drive down to the University District, brave the construction barricades, have breakfast and perhaps do a bit of writing. Maybe I'll take a portable typewriter, sit out on the front sidewalk tables, sip my coffee and pound inky words into paper, the aroma of hand-rolled smokes wafting in the breeze.

Post-Script: I enjoyed writing the first draft of this piece on the teletype paper roll using the Facit 1620. Spaced at 1.5 lines, the piece came to 31 inches.

Notes on Lap-Typing

Post-Script: As you can see from above, I did end up making another video, on lap-typing. I happen to love portable and semi-portable typewriters, and what I find most distinctive about them is their relatively compact size and weight makes them ideal for moving out from the traditional office/desk setting, into more creativity-spurring environments. After all, this is why they are called "portables" in the first place.

I was hoping to try my hand at making a medium-size portable like the beloved Smith-Coronas Silent into a more take-anywhere machine, by removing the top of the hard case and, keeping the machine secured to its base, enclose it in a soft material like an old pillow case, then slip into a backpack, for carry-anywhere portability. But alas, my little day pack is a bit too narrow for that idea to see fruition. Perhaps a slightly wider back pack. Of course, a person could lug the case by its handle, but who wants to do that for more than just a few minutes at a time. I was also brainstorming some idea for attaching straps to the hard case, so it could be portered on one's back, but no winning ideas have yet to see the light of day.

Speaking of Smith-Corona Silents, yesterday I brought out the Silent-Super for a bit of test-typing, and noted that, after it's been sitting for several months unused in the cold garage, the troublesome escapement issue returned. I spent several hours yesterday afternoon with it and its stablemate non-Super Silent next to each other on the bench, as I used the less problematic machine for a comparison, and found a few mechanical adjustments needing to be made, and some hardened pivot linkages needing to be freed up. Afterwords I spent an extended period of time with the machine and it hasn't skipped once. But that doesn't necessarily mean that it's fixed, no sir, because one has to remember where it came from: a Craigslist ad from a fellow who I'd generously describe as a "hippie," living in the filthiest house I'd ever stepped foot into (and I used to do TV repair service calls, years ago, and have seen a few grungy dwellings in my time). I spent several days initially cleaning and degreasing this machine. Even now there's a bit of funky odor emanating from the hard case, just a subtle reminder of its colorful pedigree.

This typecast was via the recently acquired Brother Charger 11, a humble but willing writing companion, and truly fit for lap-typing.

Thrift Store S.W.A.G.

There was a time, a few decades ago, when I found myself in possession of a handful of slide rules. This ad hoc collection had started when I was in high school, and slowly grew in the subsequent years while I served in the military.

Back in those years, people weren't as keen on collecting ephemera or peculiarly specialized objects as they are today. My folks, of the WWII generation, were more apt to collect curio bottles, pretty trinkets and nicknacks than things like slide rules or typewriters, which were to them mere practical implements; it made as much sense to them as collecting shower curtain rods.

Sadly, in the intervening years I've lost that collection of slide rules, my most prized item being a circular slide rule. This happened due to a number of moves, from one apartment to another, during which I'd unload as many items as I could. I've also lost other items which I now wish I had, such as my mother's Kodak folding camera.

I know the usual advice people give about clutter: it's best to move every few years, to permit oneself to declutter and rid themselves as much as possible of unneeded items. Myself, the more I age the more I wish I yet had a few more of those precious items from long ago, as momentos serving as a physical link to a past that only resides in memory, a temporary dwelling at best. This is a benefit of living in the same house for decades upon decades: the clutter itself becomes like some personal archeology, a mapping or extension of one's cerebelum; the forensic evidence of a life actually lived. Sure, one's clutter can all too easily get out of hand, but there's value in considering the artifacts of one's life, in going through each item periodically to relive those memories.

I'm reminded of the android Leon in the film Blade Runner, who carried with him his precious photographs, reminding him of a childhood he never had. Momentos are like that, they're something tangible we can hold in our hands, talismans we can fondle to make contact with another time. Snapshots I've always held in special regard for that reason, especially polaroids and the like.

The interesting thing about periodically reviewing one's clutter is, as we assess each item for its personal value, it gives opportunity to reassess the things we'd been hanging onto that we no longer find of value, like my penchant for once having saved newspaper and magazine clippings from long ago.

I was pleasantly surprised this week to find a card in the mail from my Aunt, the last surviving sibling on my father's side. She'd unearthed an old trunk from her basement and, searching through it, found an old school picture of your's truly, a red-headed, freckled kid I'd barely recognized after all of these years. Looking at that print, it was like some kind of magic mirror into the past, as I rediscovered someone I'd totally forgotten.

Last week I was in a thrift store mood. I will periodically make a thrift store run, in the hopes of finding some wonderful find, like yet another typewriter. Yes, I did spot a handful, but nothing that interested me. As I've matured as a collector, I'm a bit more selective than when I first started out. But one item I did pick up last week was a slide rule, of all things.

I see these all the time at thrift stores, and rarely do they interest me, except to remind me of that collection I once had. So, what made this one different enough to warrant purchasing? Well, it came with the original box, leather holster, plastic bag, packing material and owners manual. It's a Pickett N902-ES Simplex Trig model, intended for students I'd suppose, since the reverse side of the rule lacks the additional set of scales, but instead has a table of fractional/decimal conversions and instructions for use.

The clincher in the decision to purchase was the orange triangular sticker on the box proclaiming "3 moon flights - Pickett rules have been aboard 3 Apollo missions - PROOF OF PICKETT PRECISION." I don't have an exact year when this particular rule was made, but I'd suppose those three missions might have been Apollos 8, 10 and 11, which dovetails nicely with my interest as a young man into all things space-related.

Items such as this slide rule are not particularly valuable, monetarily, since they were made by the millions. I don't collect such items with the mistaken idea that doing so might make me a rich man. Unless one counts their riches in some other valuation than monetary. A bit of online research shows that this version is a later model, circa 1970, with the more modern Pickett logo and the yellow color indicating it's the "eye saver" version, as indicated by the ES in the model number.

What does interest me is the owners manual, a booklet titled "how to use Trig SLIDE RULES" by Professor Maurice L. Hartung of the University of Chicago. I like this introductory sentence in the booklet's preface: "A computer who must make many difficult calculations usually has a slide rule close at hand."

This idea of referring to a "computer" as a person rather than a machine directly reminds me of the early days of mechanized writing where "type writer" referred to the user of the machine rather than the machine itself. I'm surprised this terminology was yet in use as late as the date of this preface, of 1960.

Slide rules remind me of photos I've seen from the Apollo era of the 1960s, of large rooms of engineers, each in their white shirts and thin black neckties, hunched over their drafting tables with their sleeves rolled up and slide rules in hand, an overflowing ashtray nearby. It's amazing to think that we got to the moon's surface and back six times using, along with early digital computers, these humble slide rules.

Of course they're an anachronism. The idea of taking up a slide rule to do a bit of multiplication seems like sheer nonesense. A bit like sliding the beads of an abacus to balance one's checkbook. But I've been known to do a bit of that, also. I like the idea that a purely analog tool like a slide rule yields merely approximate results to math problems that should otherwise be entirely exact. For example, a simple problem like 2 times 2 we know to be 4 because of us having learned our maths tables in school; but what about 42 times 37? Using the C and D scales of the slide rule informs me that the answer falls somewhere slightly less than halfway between 1550 and 1560. An approximate kind of answer, entirely analog in nature, requiring a bit of extrapolation to find that last digit. Only after I stop and think that 2 times 7 equals 14 do I then realize that the answer should also end in 4, implying the result should be 1554.

The funny thing is that I had to verify my result with a cheap, plastic digital calculator of questionable heritage. Yet that cheap calculator gives the same result as a hundred dollar Hewlett Packard scientific model. Not necessarily so with analog instruments like slide rules, where the accuracy of the result is directly dependant upon the precision of manufacture of the instrument and skill of the operator.

I like the concept of extrapolation as being absolutely necessary in the operation of a slide rule for deducing the last digit of precision. This is something that many technical people seem to lack these days, the ability to find a ballpark answer to a problem. I like the real-world skills of being able to approximate the scale of a problem by mere deductive reasoning, an insightful hunch based on common sense and a bit of thought. The value of being able to make a SWAG - a scientific wild-ass guess - should never be underestimated, and will get one far in life.

I remember some of the slide rules in my former collection were bamboo, and required to be dusted with talcum powder periodically to remain smooth in operation. This Pickett is all metal, and thus the booklet recommends a bit of petroleum jelly on the edges to maintain smooth operation, along with the advice of holding it by the ends when in use, so as not to bind the scales together too tightly. I like the idea that this humble calculating device requires a bit of simple yet necessary maintenance in order to function properly; whereas with that cheap plastic calculator I'll mash it buttons until it no longer functions, then throw it in the rubbish bin of history.

The most essential observation I can make in comparing slide rules to typewriters is that few of us have need in our daily lives for solving math problems any more complex than addition or subtraction; which makes slide rules not nearly as useful as typewriters, since slide rules don't "do" addition or subtraction. (Actually, they multiply and divide by adding and subtracting logarithms, but you probably didn't need to know that.) Which means that for most of us, a humble abacus would probably be more useful. Which I'll discuss in another installment.

Journey to the Center of the Donut

Post-Script: Bonus Image:


This city park was once the location of an historic steam locomotive from the days of the Santa Fe Railroad, when Albuquerque was the site of a major locomotive repair facility. That engine, once viewable by the public for free in the park, is in the process of being restored and resides elsewhere.

Typecast via Olivetti Underwood 21.

Tools for the Toolbox

Today I want to discuss writing methods. By the term 'writing' I don't mean the art of putting words together, but instead the mechanics of how that's done.

Real writers, those who financially sustain themselves through writing or the teaching of writing, might dismiss this overt emphasis on the mechanics of the process (at the exclusion of creative content) as the dabbling of the amateur; more like street-level scribbling.

But to us street-scribblers, the mechanics of writing are all important, at least as a way of getting over the distractions that come from an ill-thought-out writing system, which is a prerequisite for good writing: get rid of all the encumbrances and roadblocks in the way of one's writing process and the rest will follow suit.

Real writers should have learned early on, as a matter of course in the development of their professional writing skills, the importance of finding and honing their personal kit of tools and methods that enable that creative flow. But for us street-level scribblers, we're always in school, and the streets are our daily lecture series, so we're constantly learning and refining.

The problem for us amateur scribblers is that it's all too easy to confuse the needs of our future writing skills with the necessary but much less important refinement needed to our physical toolkit; similar types of conundrums are evident in the world of photography, where the fledgling confuses the desire for a better camera or lens with what's really needed, that being refinement and development in one's technical and creative skills. So let this serve as reminder that however useful new toys might serve to help refine one's writing toolkit, they ain't gonna make you the next Great American (or insert your nationality of choice) Novelist. But you probably knew that already.

I must confess that I'm a gadget freak, like many males of my age; yet I also admit that I have yet to find an effective way to get over that fundamental blind spot in my personal development. It's probably an artifact of our culture, which sounds like a convenient excuse. Tools, toys, kit, gadgets - they're all fine, and relatively easy to acquire if one is of a sufficient middle-class lifestyle; but harder to acquire are the real skills required of a creative person. This means a protracted period of intense personal development; a lot harder than clicking on some button on Amazon and charging the expense to one's credit card. If only transforming one's mind were that easy.

I suspect this is a problem experienced by many people in our consumer-oriented culture, the expectation that real personal development can be acquired like some mass-marketed product. But ask anyone who's attempted such a personal journey and you'll soon find out that this is a matter common to our humanity throughout recorded history. Education, a true education, is most difficult to acquire, and takes a lifetime.

As to the matter at hand, the making of an effective writing system, this will differ for each individual. At one extreme, many people like the convenience of incorporating the entirety of their writing process, from first-draft brainstorming to the finished electronic document, contained within one system, the computer; and often that computer is a laptop, for reasons of convenience and portability. At the other extreme are people who prefer the hand-wrought crafting of words by pen, pencil or typewriter onto paper, only later to be developed into a finished electronic document. There are also many others whose personal writing system falls somewhere in between these two extremes, the choice often resulting more from personal circumstance and habit than any particularly specific philosophy or bent.

Such habits can be formed through a process akin to superstition, like the way that some sports athletes make preparation using a specific set of pre-game routines or articles of clothing; not because they actually believe there to be some supernatural connection between that particular method or object and the outcome of the game, but more like whatever seems to be working for them, they're not going to change it; keep as much as possible the same and perhaps success can be made more likely. Superstition, or a more effective psychological strategy? Hard to say; perhaps a little of both. Writers have been known to be a superstitious lot, frequently sticking to whatever works (like an obsolete word processor from the 1970s, or that old typewriter) because writing is hard and mysterious and why mess with what's working?

For myself, what has worked for me in the past - and by "worked for me" I mean been able to eliminate distractions and produce effective and creative writing, is both handwriting, either by means of mechanical pencil or fountain pen, and other methods like keyboarding into distraction-free text editors and also manual typing. Is this some magic formula? No; merely working out the application of past experience to future projects. I suspect the "magic" that comes from using these various successful writing methods is because of the confidence they inspire; the knowing that what worked for me in the past will again work for me in the future. It's more a trick of psychology, which is the realm within which all writers blocks originate. The mind is mysterious and unfathomable, its depths yet to be plumbed; especially the creative mind; which is why I consider the act of creativity to be the one essential test of true artificial intelligence.

But knowing that my past successes don't entirely hinge upon one specific set of tools or methods, perhaps I can find other methods that work equally well, or better. That is the approach I'm using with this recent endeavor of employing mechanical computer keyboards with iOS devices. There are many kinds of mobile electronic devices that can host writing applications, everything from Mac or PC to Android or iPad tablets. And bluetooth keyboards also seem to abound, though they lack that preferred mechanical feel. But knowing that some of my best writing experiences involve keyboards that exhibit a particularly satisfying mechanical feel (including both AlphaSmarts and manual typewriters), this new approach tries to synthesize the very best of that mechanical keyboard feel with the advantages of a modern and relatively error-free operating environment, like iOS.

Portability is also of essence to my preferred writing system, for I've found, over the years, that I'm not a static writer, but prefer a variety of places within which to write; hence whatever device I'm employing must be small and lightweight enough to be conveniently carried with me from place to place, even if those places are merely located in and around my neighborhood coffee shop or backyard shed. Over the years I've worked with a number of portable typewriters and, while they are effective tools for creative work, are not as convenient as a more portable device like keyboard and tablet; and are often less than welcome in an enclosed public space, due to their operating noise. For this reason, I've chosen a so-called "60%" sized mechanical keyboard, one that's about the same size as the keyboard of a mechanical typewriter, encompassing a mere 61 keys in total. The feel of this keyboard is every bit as good as, perhaps even better than, that of the AlphaSmart Neo - which is saying a lot; one reason being that, at the time of order, one can choose from a selection of six different Cherry MX keyswitches, thus the feel of the keyboard can be customized for one's personal liking. Mechanical keyboards, of the type I'm using, are now gaining popularity with a wider user base of writers, outside of their original gamer and programmer sub-cultures.

This is perhaps the fourth article I've written in recent weeks on this subject of mechanical keyboards employed along with electronic tablet devices. I've been typecasting - writing, scanning and posting mechanically typed prose to my blog - for almost a decade, which I don't foresee terminating any time in the future; but there is a convenience factor at work here with this new toolkit, the ability to, at a moment's notice, pick up iPad and mechanical keyboard, go somewhere, anywhere, and type out some thoughts, complete with spell checking and embedded HTML markup language, ready to be pasted to a blog template or elsewhere.

I recently went back into my archives of journal books in order to gain a deeper sense of my personal writing history, and what I found was that there's this huge gap, somewhere in the mid-aughts, after I'd supplanted hand-written journal books for various experimental and electronic writing systems, such as Palm-based portable devices and others, and before I'd begun typewriter journalling and blogging more consistently in the later aughts. I attribute this gap in my writing history not to a falling off of my writing activity but because these experimental systems simply hadn't worked out all that well as archiving systems. This mainly had to do with the way I'd managed (or mismanaged) backups to my computer system; but many of those writings are gone forever. It's clear that whatever writing methods one chooses, the stability and security of those documents is essential.

Contrast this with the fact that I have a sizable archive of paper-based writings which, although residing in the physical realm and therefore susceptible to the vagaries of both time and moth, seem to have weathered the digital storms just fine. I think what many of us tend to forget in this regard is that digital media are essentially physical in nature: there's some physical media within which the code resides, and that physical media- magnetic, optical or electronic - is often more fragile than the paper it was intended to replace.

I'm not suggesting that we go out with pitchforks in hand and burn down all the server farms; far from it. I think cloud-based backups, especially for relatively tidy files like text documents, are practical alternatives for us becoming our own IT specialists with home-based systems. But another practical backup alternative is to maintain paper documents. Having that irreplaceable story printed to paper has saved my bacon more than once. Yes, paper does take up room, and large boxes or notebooks of paper documents can be rather heavy. But so too is an article of furniture; I'd like to think of that physical archive of my essential work, printed to paper, to be like the furniture of the mind.

And so I'm suggesting that my mechanical keyboard + mobile iOS writing system will also be outputting a printed copy to paper; especially for writings such as personal journal entries, essays and stories, that are not immediately posted to the Internet, as would be the case with blog articles (which will be supported for perpetuity as long as the likes of Google remain viable businesses). Big Brother's IT department is well-suited for archiving my public writings, while my private work I think will be best backed up on paper. Had I done this back in the mid-aughts, I'd still have all of those personal journal entries.

I'll also continue to create works direct to paper via typewriter, pen or pencil. They're all essential, they all work for me, they each have unique attributes and purposes. But I find a good mechanical keyboard and writing app to be faster than hand writing and just as effective. Neither am I suggesting that I'm going to be abandoning typewriters any time soon. There are peculiarities to the experience of writing via a typewriter that are unique, and can spur uniquely creative results. Typewriters these days I don't see as effective tools for the final stages of editing a work into a finished piece, because word processors simply move text around so much easier. But for those early, creative phases of writing few things can match the typewriter for its ability to somehow pull out of the writer's guts the essence of what that piece will soon become. Hence the old saw about choosing the right tool for the right job. Luckily for me, I now have one more good tool in my writing toolbox.

On Storytelling

I was thinking about the similarities between writing and photography. Part of the reason for this chain of thought was because I'd been watching an interview with photographer Michael Kenna, who talked about photography being a medium of communication.

For those of us steeped in the technological side of photography, with its incessant equipment upgrade cycles and talk of megapixels and form factors, it's all too easy to lose site of the primary purpose for creating and sharing images, which should be to inspire and impart some experience, idea or emotion to the viewer; to communicate, as a creative person, to a wider audience.

Part of the blame for our lack of appreciation for photography as a communicative medium is that it is so gear-centric, and thus manufacturers, marketers and the photo media are incessantly busy pushing gear and software products; and laypeople are all too willing to talk it all up in discussion forums. All too infrequently is the conversation about how to communicate to others through the medium of images. Being a better photographer really means being a better communicator, rather than merely being better equipped at twiddling camera settings. Oh, sure, technical proficiency is one aspect of being a skilled communicator, but that's not where it ends; wielding a camera skillfully is only the beginning; like learning to write requires first some skills at composition, but doesn't end there.

I was also thinking about this art we call writing, the use of words to communicate ideas. The end result is much the same as in photography, although the means to that end is very different, as are the methods employed. We talk about word pictures, or use visual terminology to describe literary metaphor. A picture is worth a thousand words, perhaps more. These thoughts were floating around in my head today as I returned home from a day trip to northern New Mexico and found a package waiting for me, from the print-on-demand publishing service Blurb, of a collection of short stories I'd been working on for the last few years. It's one thing to see the finished book simulated on my computer screen, ready to upload to Blurb; but an entirely other thing to hold the thing in one's hand. These are called vanity presses for a reason, although in my case it was more a case of relief than egoism, since I was merely hoping to get these stories polished and in book form; to be done with them and get them into other readers' hands, even if those readers are only family and friends.

I placed the small stack of paperbacks on the table in our patio room, while my wife busied herself with whatever it is wives do after a day trip to northern New Mexico and the Three Ravens Coffee House in Tierra Amarilla. But once she settled down, she suddenly took notice of the books and immediately started reading.

She's read a few of these stories before, spread out over a period of years, but not all, nor all in one collection. I was gratified that she appeared to be engrossed; or perhaps it was mere curiosity, in the way that people are attracted to mayhem and disaster. But I think not; Loser's Blend is an okay collection of short stories, centered around a fictional bohemian coffee shop and its regulars. There won't be any Pulitzer Prize awaiting me, but that's not what motivates me to write, any more than hoping to be the next Ansel Adams doesn't motivate me to create images.

Like all good photographs, what I enjoy about writing is conveying a story to someone else. Storytelling is essential to the creative experience, and also might well be genetic, as humans have been telling stories since the beginning of language itself. Humans have also been picturing those stories as drawings since as far back as we can find evidence for humans, and more recently making those drawings by means of photography instead of charcoal or smashed berry juice.

I find myself, now in middle age, conveying family lore and personal experience to the younger folk in the clan by means of storytelling; just as my dad and his dad before him. This isn't unusual, but entirely normal. We're all storytellers; it's genetic. Storytelling is the mind's playback mechanism, imparting to someone else through oral tradition that which would otherwise be lost to posterity. It's history in the making through telling, and retelling. If we boil it all down, scrape off the dross of the world of elite literature and art, we are all storytellers at heart, in some way. It matters not if we are degreed or pedigreed or half-breed; we all have a story to tell, and some means to convey that story to a wider audience. The idea that only "professional" writers can tell stories is an artifact of western culture, its social stratification and elitism. Sure, to have your story more widely heard it might do you good to polish it with the skills of the learned writer (or photographer, or film maker); but the first thing, the essential thing, before all else, is to write, to tell, to create, to express.

What's your story, and who will you tell it to?

Post-Script: Here's the link to my Blurb books, including Loser's Blend.