I have a respectable collection of typewriters in my home and this beast of an Olympia SG-1 is probably my favorite. It forever sits on this little desk in the corner where I punch out letters and journal entries and probably annoy my neighbors with the noise. Anyone who knows anything about typewriters will tell you that the Olympia SG-1 is a massive machine. I actually have trouble lifting it all on my own. It’s a solid hunk of metal that gives off the impression one day it will grow its own consciousness and take over the planet.
When this machine came to me it was inoperable and full of rat shit and dirt and decades of dried oil and dust. I spent two weeks pulling it apart, cleaning it, tinkering, and watching YouTube videos figuring out how to fix it. Nearly every single key was stuck and the majority of the work was just plain old elbow grease with an old toothbrush trying to get the gunk and years worth of grime off every individual part. Now with a fresh ribbon it types like it was new again and will probably continue to type for another century at least, hopefully long after I’m gone.
Now it makes words again. Not very good words mind you. But my words. I try to make it a point to type something on it every single day. It reminds me that the words we speak, the thoughts we give, don’t have to exist purely in this virtual space we call the internet. It’s ok, even heroic in a way, to commit words and thoughts to paper and not share them with anyone but yourself. Or if you do share them, do so with a small and more intimate audience.