Typewriter Originals
When my grandfather, Bob Harmon, passed away, he left his IBM Selectric II. Never one for computers, he wrote with it consistently up until his death. I have tried to do the same. The following pieces are evidence of those attempts.
The organ sings to my soul and humanity whispers all around. I think my foot might be broken; I think I want to cry. I join them in exalting Him and taste Him on my lips (slightly salty, surprisingly delicious). I think of Her all the while. It’s easier to worship someone who kisses you back. On the walk home, I pass the magnolia tree from which I sent Her a winterized bud. Now, they are beginning to open, blossoms of holy-white bursting forth. March is marching, and soon I will welcome Her with open arms.
2/25/24
And Jimmy was right. “The sun gon’ keep comin’ up, the moon gon’ keep risin’.” Time speeds by like the local trains. LOUD. CONSISTENT. SCARY. Every once in a while, I think about getting on, but the constant screechings frighten me. I think about sprinting alongside over the ballast and grabbing hold like the child in me always wished I might, like the Twain in me always wished I might. But, no. Instead of the free ride to faraway lands, the only thoughts that spin through my head are those with my legs separate from my torso, alive and writhing before the blood drains and nerves fail. No, instead I wait for the train to pass, the metallic cacophony to fade and the warning lights to quiet. I drive slowly over the tracks, bumping across iron and asphalt, looking left, towards the trailing engine, and wonder: one day, will they stop for me, or do I have to jump?
8/23/24
Yesterday, I go to work for an old woman. She is alone, save for her dog, which she loves and hates all the time, all at once. Actually, she hates him most of the time, and the moments of love are kept from me. Locked behind the stained glass door. I weed whack and weed and cut down her dead conifer branches. It is her favorite word, conifer, and maybe one of mine too. I like the golden larches of October, although I’ve yet to see one in full dying beauty. A deciduous conifer. Colleen says her neighbors are insane, that she’s lived in Bellingham for too long, and that 18 years is still too short for a dog you consider family. We all have our own truths, I guess. The good ones, the special ones, the ones that stick out like sore thumbs from our body of memories are the ones we share with others. Which ones are those for you?
8/6/24
Little sounds, like the crunch of cornflakes or the whispering of snowflakes—can you hear them? Little sounds absorbing you entirely—heavy breathing in your ear, flittering birds outside at dawn, the soft turning of pages in bedside lamp’s light. Can you hear them? Will you hear the big sounds too? Will you hear the final page turn? And what about the thump—resounding, forever—of the back cover?
Listen Hard Enough
7/19/24
The wet mash of leaves beneath my feet absorbs me so easily, so softly, reminding me of how long it has been wet and cold and rainy, that I am almost welcoming of all things in life. I look to cross, stepping halfway out between two cars before an oncoming truck flashes its brights, all light seeming to reflect from the wet ground, and I jump back towards the decomposing bed of acceptance, slipping, almost landing in it fully, but catching myself before I do.
Walking
7/19/24
I am lying on the carpet trying to pull memories out, but they’re hiding. I remember pulling dandelions on 23rd in front of their house and getting paid in quarters and dimes. I remember the cobbler and saying Grace and the god-awful TV set in the house too. I remember using a winch on the Hood Canal to pull a log up the steps beneath the house. I remember the heart pillow he received after surgery. I remember some of the lunches Blake and I had with him and Gina at the HearthStone during summers. I remember the little Norfolk pine Christmas tree that characterized their balcony in Hawaii. I remember his handshakes and his voice. I remember putting him into bed before I left for California in January, knowing it would be the last time I saw him, and climbing into the car with my parents and not knowing what to say. I remember those hundreds of people at the service and wearing white pants and a patterned shirt - “Napili clothes” - and feeling like an idiot. Mostly though, I can’t remember the vast majority of what Chris speaks of. I never had the experience or “was too young to understand.” I think it was a lot of both. I wonder when the latter will change. I wonder when self-pity will become below me.
9/13/23
Draped with an American flag, the casket rolls and is not heavy. We wheel it up the aisle, through the double doors, and into the waiting hearse. A procession follows us out. Hundreds of people I do not know. Hundreds of people who knew my grandfather in ways I never will. When the hearse leaves and I can no longer see it, I climb to the edge of a shallow, decorative, slate-lined pool. White lilies float unmoving, and a thin layer of ice from the night prior lines the edges. I tap it with my toes. A piece breaks off, spinning slowly towards the center, before its reflection cannot be differentiated from the water and it disappears.
10/31/23
I am living on Garden Street, and the rain is finally slowing. The crocuses have come and gone and now the lilacs, in all their purple glory, are on the way out too. The rhododendrons soon to follow. I hold their sticky stems in my hands while I can, seduced, like the bees, by the single speckled petal. Next door, the young sword ferns unfurl. Baby cries of “en garde” can be heard as dawn rolls west. My world spins heavy with green, full again, of life.
5/6/24
Heaven-sent, God-given, Earth-bound, Man-made. The light of a clear, blue morning is not present, but the energy is. The energy is always present. Waiting, wandering, ethereal, ephemeral. Mostly absent from the legs of church-goers, wholly attendant in the sweated, wetted-out tips of the child’s blonde ringlets. She is pushing the Merry-Go-Round. Hopping on, hopping off, spinning circles, circles, circles, until the clouds above begin to break.
2/18/24
He is lithe and jumping, he cascades toward water. Yet he falls slowly, like a mist, catching light and thermals, lifting even for a second before the apple falls on God’s head and his trajectory again changes. There are moments like these in our lives, all of them. Can you spot them, glimpse them? Better yet, can you grasp them, hold them? Or, best of all, might you whisper to them, calling out their wordless name, take their hand and waltz?
9/10/24
In the mornings, when the rains have passed, I awake to the sound of droplets falling from the gutters above my airy window. Icicles dot the same gutters, their shadows casting angry, jagged teeth on the far wall. The sun rises, casting cornmeal-yellow inks through my thin curtains, and I, half asleep still, watch the hazy dance of springtime, reminded quietly of the coming day, the coming week, the coming years.
8/24/24
Nothing in the world to tell me so.
I am listening constantly and plus,
every time I shower, I clean my ears.
I cup my hands to hear the whispers
on those breezy evenings
But christ! CHRIST! All is quiet
on every front.
7/16/24
I awake at five, maybe to the blare of the train, maybe to the scream of my own yearning. It is not enough. The bed remains empty, the pillow still fluffed, cold air seeping through the cracked window on my outstretched arm, which Her hair does not cover. Outside, the hard frost cackles at me from beneath the scraper. Locks, handles, nearly life itself, frozen and unbudging. I am nine again, lying with sweaty, clenched hands on the dentist’s chair but now also considering the absurdity of the man above me who rose at 6 am to pull my tooth. Insane! And I consider my own life too. Less absurd, of course, it being my own, and thus familiar.
Rise.
7/19/24
I join Cam and Ross in some shoulder exercises. Front and lateral raises. I do some core, first from the bar, then on the mat. This is when I cry - curled up, facing the wall - so no one can see. I go do fifteen minutes on the stair climber. Mostly Dylan in my ears. Two repetitions of Forever Young (Slow Version) with the volume all the way up. I tell people I see that, "I’m pretty good.” Sometimes, for those seconds that follow, I even am. Other times, like today, I lie facing the wall, knees to chest, the mat below extra wet, and my breathing extra labored. I walk home with my shirt off, and the air is cool but wonderful and almost summertimeish.
When It Ends
4/23/24
Gracie and Sadie were apparently at Kangaroo and Kiwi but we never saw them. The morning after, Will had reserved a ten top at Costa’s and I finally got to experience the wildly hyped up bottomless mimosas. Gracie came last minute. Some of John’s buddies from Amazon showed up whom I spoke some to, and there was Will’s close friend from his internship at Turner. It was the greatest I’ve felt in a while. Jokes flowed like champagne and orange juice and I couldn’t stop laughing. Food was excellent, plates were large, I’d had a somewhat productive morning. I went to the bathroom and then on a short walk to appreciate my feelings. It began to rain lightly. On the steps of the Episcopal church around the corner, in front of a deserted cardboard bed and a crumpled, dirty jacket serving as a pillow, was a sign cut from the same cardboard. “Your problems are yours, not mine - Jerry.” “Yours” was underlined twice. In case God missed it, I took a picture.
9/24/23
She is here this morning. Waking up beside me as the cool air pours in the open window and post-dawn light breaks the spaces between the shades. We decide to make a Dutch Baby. First, though, I go to class, and she goes to buy ingredients. When I return from math class, she is still gone, but my room smells of her, and I imagine hugging her, kissing her, burying my face in her hair. For an hour and a half, I get to. We watch the batter rise, smile, sitting, grinning, my stomach full, my heart beginning to ache at her leaving. But she must, so soon she is gone. South, towards home, and then east, across the continent, towards another home. I miss her.
Magical Realism
6/6/24