I got an antique typewriter from my mom, this year. It's a beautiful deep red color. A Smith-Corona Silent from 1934 or 1935.

I spent 2 days cleaning it up and making some small repairs to it so that I can actually use it for what its intended for.

It's kind of funny. The first time I saw the thing, I was almost terrified of touching it. I thought I would break it if I did something wrong, but this thing is a brick, in a good way. It's designed for heavy use, and still works wonderfully. In fact, you have to be a bit more forceful while using it. And not using it will cause the keys to gunk up over time. I'm reminded of a poem I read years ago. About ancient pottery behind glass in museums, aching and crying for use. (People are much the same way, I think.) Its a bit funny to me that many of these machines were designed to hold up for decades, yet they sit and collect dust and serve as decorative pieces. They outlived their obsolescence, and outlived their users. It will probably outlive me, assuming nothing catastrophic occurs.

I like tinkering with things. I find beauty in the things made by people, and I like taking care of and repairing of objects I own and rely on. I find it sad, then, that so much of what is made now is considered disposable. Our clothes, the devices we now rely on, our vehicles. In some cases it's just bad design, but its clearly more intentional in other cases. Why are the artifacts of our daily life disposable? I want the tools of my day-to-day to hold up to the wear and tear that is expected of them. I want a computer that will outlive me.

This is the first thing I wrote on the typewriter. It's unrelated to any of that. (Or maybe it isn't. I just wrote the thing. Interpretation is the job of the reader.)

It's past 2 AM on a Saturday. It's nearly the New Year, too.

This time of year is always weird for me. I'm never sure what to do with myself in this limbo. I always want free time so badly, but once I have it, it becomes unbearable. Creativity is scarce now that I work full time. I have my ongoing projects, but it feels like whatever boundless outpouring I had as a child dried up sometime after I got my first real paycheck. I want it back so badly it hurts.

I wish I could chase it down like a rabbit. They say my grandfather could do that. "Run down a rabbit and catch it in his bare hands." If I could stop the source of the anemia (god there's so much blood. 6.1 is really low. you know that, right? why didn't you get help sooner? why do you keep putting it off?) maybe I could run again, too. The wrong things come out of me. The wrong words. The ones I need to say won't budge. The important things I need to hang onto are all too eager to flee. I'm so angry with myself all the time. I don't think I can ever be happy with myself. With what I make. With what I do. It's just 2 AM talking. I know what the truth is, but the feelings don't. These things are shadows but they're cast by something real. The light comes on and they vanish, but the memory leaves an imprint. I'm past my expiration date, but I'm still here. I was born past my expiration date. I just keep running from it.

Like a rabbit.