Of memories, typewriters and Stream of consciousness babblings

Another grey day,

but,

snow is softly falling,

makes things,

pretty and clean,

well,

cleaner,

for a time.

The Habs are on a losing streak,

hopefully,

they’ll snap out of it,

soon,

hope springs eternal:-)

I’ve been feeling,

a little bit,

antsy,

experiencing ,

ups and downs,

my pet peeves are worse,

than usual,

and,

I feel my eyes tear up,

for the oddest reasons.

Combination,

hormones,

and,

Christmas season,

sentimentality,

I guess.

The oddest things,

trigger,

memories.

For instance,

I have ‘discovered’,

a whole bunch,

of people and their blogs,

devoted,

to typewriters,

vintage typewriters.

I love typewriters,

always have,

I was banging around my psyche,

searching for,

why,

and,

here came this memory,

of playing ‘house’,

with one of my cousins,

and,

taking turns,

going to work,

she was a secretary in an office,

typing noisily away,

on my grandfather’s,

old Underwood,

and when it was my turn,

I was a writer,

typing stories.

Sometimes,

I was a reporter,

working in a busy newsroom,

even then I was butch, no being a secretary for baby BB:-)

like I had seen,

Cary Grant do in the movies.

The fact is,

some of my early,

role models,

wore suits,

ties,

and,

fedoras,

smoked,

too many,

cigarettes,

and used,

typewriters.

From ‘His Girl Friday’,

with Rosalind Russel,

and,

Cary Grant,

a classic,

and they both were brilliant,

role models.

My man Hem,

nobody could look more,

‘writerly’,

Will Rogers,

a man of ‘common sense’,

and,

corn pone:-)

Dorothy Parker,

a woman of wit and hubbris.

Harper Lee,

she wrote one book,

but,

what a book.

Tom Waits,

same Underwood my grandfather had:-)

What a guy:-)

Dylan.

Cohen.

There’s an old Waylon Jennings song,

‘My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys’

I guess,

mine,

have always been,

writers,

of books,

of news,

of songs,

and,

poems.

Writers and their ‘machines’,

<Sigh>

So,

I long for a simpler time,

where you hear the clank,

of keys hitting paper,

instead of car alarms,

were the air is filled with smoke,

not smog.

I long to type letters,

and,

thank you notes,

where the ink smudges,

just a bit,

and the signature,

is done in fountain pen.

Memories are so much better,

when you make them up,

trips down someone else’s,

memory lane,

what a hoot,

that’s why we read,

I guess.

Well,

enough stream of consciousness,

babblings,

have a great day.

Later girls,

BB