old.

On Sunday afternoon we bought this typewriter.  We had gone to browse our two favorite stores (8th Ave. Antiques and Pre-to-Post Modern Vintage) in search of used furniture and otherwise useful, cool things for our new house.  We've had great luck at both of these places, from which we've purchased a coffee table, end tables, nightstand, dressing mirror, desk, and artwork; our requirements are only that the item be useful, cheap, and better made than anything at Target. 

On Sunday we considered this typewriter for a long time.  It's not particularly useful, as the store owner estimated it is probably from the 50's or early 60's (design on the typewriter, tweed case).  It wasn't particularly cheap (marked "Vintage Typewriter: $50").  And there's clearly no Target-brand typewriter to compare it to.  But it came home with us, and now sits on my desk where my laptop used to be. 

We're by no means antiques collectors or experts (as evidenced by our rules - many antiques are neither cheap nor useful!), but somehow we both knew that I really needed this typewriter, even if it never actually types another word in its life.  It's less about the present functionality of the typewriter and more about the presence of an older version of the art I so love, a reminder that while the means may have evolved from cave walls to papyrus sheets to stone to typewriters to computers to cell phones, the true art of it - the writing - has staying power.  Meaning.  Purpose.  It's a reminder that people have written before me and people will write after me and the only way for me to be part of the timeline is to write, write, and keep writing.  And it's a pleasant old spirit, a ghost I'd actually welcome into my life, of the writer(s?) who used the typewriter as the most contemporary, up-to-date way to get words out into the world.

I'm very attracted to the idea of owning and using things that have previous lives, which is why I like used furniture so much (except for couches and beds - ick).  It's humbling to remember that the world hasn't, doesn't, and will never revolve around our tiny slice of life, and it's refreshing to know that pieces of us can still remain when we're gone.  It has nothing to do with reincarnation and everything to do with reinforcing the connectivity of our lives, of remembering that what we do, say, write (and own) has the potential for profound effect on other human lives, and on the world.  It's why men like owning their grandfathers' broken pocket watches and women hold on to stained cookbooks that know nothing of healthy, modern cooking.  It's why we frame and hang black and white photographs of family members we never knew.  We like being the part of the Venn diagram that overlaps, the part that's safely couched between two edges - we like to know there was a past, and we want to be assured there is a future.  Perhaps this is why I have to write, on a deeper level than fame or showcasing any talent I may have.  It's a primal need, an instinct, to leave my words behind.

Kevin shares these ideas of the past being part of the future, though he has more functional ways of expressing it.  He uses a vintage drum kit, a '65 Slingerland; the wood of the shells resounds with 45 years of beats, vibrations, practices, performances, recordings.  The kit survived the turmoil of the '60s, the revolutions of the '70s, the punk music of the '80s, the grunge of the '90s, and the onset of a music culture influenced by electronic kits, drum machines, and the-louder-the-better drummers.  The Slingerland, as Kevin likes to say, "keeps it classy."  He knows the previous owner, the guy who sold him the kit.  But before him, who knows.  A jazz cat, an Americana session drummer, a Beatles junkie.  He has no idea - all he knows is that whoever first purchased the kit made music - drum music - and now he is doing the same, adding his own layer of musical history to the old shells of the kit.  Even though the shells no longer have perfect pitch, even though the bass drum has a slight buzzing sound due to water damage, even though Kevin has accented the kit with a brand new set of cymbals, he likes the soul, the spirit of the drums.  Like me, he welcomes the company of the artists who have paved the way before.

Despite the old typewriter and the Slingerland kit, we're actually in the process of trying to own fewer things overall, and own things that are either useful or valuable to us in some way (before we move into the new house, we are de-cluttering).  But the typewriter and the kit are not just kitschy flea market finds.  They are valuable to us because they represent the arts that we are specifically passionate about, and therefore the art that we are adding to the world.  This weekend at Gruhn Guitars we saw vintage instruments priced at $180,000 - more than the cost of our house.  Even if we had that kind of extra money, we probably wouldn't buy a mandolin from the 1920's - it's a beautiful instrument to see and hear, but neither of us plays. If we found an old set of paints or a broken camera from the 1950's, we might decide they were interesting finds, but wouldn't need to own them - not only would they not be useful now, but they would not be useful later, as neither of us is a painter or photographer.  Likewise, we did not buy a house described as "charming" or "a great project" or "a perfect fixer-upper;" while we have driven by such houses and appreciated the creativity, skill, and effort that goes into preserving or updating an old house, and while we have rented apartments in old houses and appreciated the history and previous lives of the house, neither of us is a carpenter, an engineer, or an interior designer.  Owning an older house would have no meaning to us - a cool old house is not the art we'll leave behind.

I'm currently in the middle of several writing projects - editing a friend's memoir, editing a friend's novel, and querying my own memoir again (agency query count: 128) as I brainstorm my next book (ideas welcome!).  This is in addition to my freelance writing/editing and my full-time job as a copywriter - but I can't get enough.  Even if I'm not working on a project for myself, I'm inspired.  The fact that one friend is furiously typing away right now to add 30,000 more words to her novel (words I will get to read and comment on tomorrow!) makes me want to keep editing.  The fact that another is re-writing her first memoir while working to get her second one published makes me want to keep writing.  The fact that agents keep telling me no, even though I know my book is good, makes me want to keep querying. 

And while I'll never know what writing was born on my new/old typewriter, or if the writing still exists, I know that at some time, in some place, someone was writing something.  At this time, in this place, that someone is me. And knowing that is enough to keep me writing.