"What do you think Paris looks like tonight?" Rick was swirling the last bit of our fourth bottle of Chardonnay.
JoHannah, who had been toying with the last few Haricot Vert on her plate, did a slow slide of her eyes from her French beans to the voice that she thought had mentioned Paris.
"Yea, I was just thinking how great it would be to get away...do something spontaneous, something besides ordering another bottle."
"I dare you."
"What, to do something spontaneous?"
It was my turn, "Yea, something beyond ordering a fifth bottle of wine."
"Okay y'all let's go."
Before the buzz could wear off the three of us were on the last plane leaving La Guardia that night. It wasn't Paris. We could only get as far as Chicago. Without the aid of sobriety Chicago seemed way far enough. We spent the weekend doing the Midwest including a trip up I90 to Madison and a Wisconsin dinner of steak and potatoes with my family. It was New York to Wisconsin.
Why do I spend so much time at this broken down typewriter? Isn't it just a big waste of time? I could be watching television or get into a game of cards or some other recreation. And what is so great about writing? There is an answer and I will try to tell about why in the following paragraphs.
Something happens to the inner side of me when I sit down to type. I just get completely lost in what I am doing. It is just like I have entered a different world. My imagination is at it's highest peak. I am kind of floating in a sea of thought. I am lost in thought, please don't disturb. I want to be alone.
The spoken word is very volatile. It disappears into the atmosphere and does not stay with us. It is gone until spoken again. It only has instant impact. Words are usually soon forgotten.
A written message is different, it does not disappear and can not be altered unless rewritten. Interpretations by others might differ, but the wording remains the same.
Some times I have an instant desire to say something, but when I do say it it doesn't come out right. What I say and what I mean are often different. I am not a good speaker. But, let me at this old typewriter biding my time, I think I do a much better job of expressing my true feelings. Some thing just builds up inside of me and my one finger just keeps on telling what I am thinking. I think that I do a better job when this old machine and I are to-gether. We get along. I just love to type. Ideas come easier when I do. I wish I had found this out earlier in my life.
504 Oak Pk Dr.
Shawano, Wis. 54166
Framed on the wall in the bathroom at Joseph Leonard
Waverly Place, West Village, New York City