Have you ever been let down
by a typewriter,
with its slugs tap-dancing
on a torn-out flyleaf,
or a fountain pen
preoccupied with the antepenult
in dissyllables?
And yet, you might still prefer that
to chalking doors.
More words to ponder at maciejmodzelewski.com
The end of the world starts small—it could be a handful of dried goji berries
or marginalia left by the previous reader of the ‘Homo Faber’ you just bought
at a stall—yet apocalyptic eschatology focusses on a grand finale of a sort,
even though the whole world comes down to a few stanzas on a tarnished page
trapped in the typewriter perched on a battered desk in your attic studio.
When I was young, I wanted to be bold again and again
and write a verse, or better yet, a song.
When I was young, I wanted to hear your giggle
as we switched the dust jackets of Walt Whitman’s books
to pass them off as Jackie Collins’.
When I was young, I wanted to name all the constellations
that illuminate your face so that no one ever again would dare to say
they’re just freckles.
When I was young, I wanted to build a house out of the finger strokes
on the keys of your piano and my typewriter, so we could furnish it
with the gentle brushes of fingertips over lips.
When I was young, I wanted to believe we would never end up
among the Kramers, Hillards, and the like.
Sometimes I have the same dream over and over again,
as if a turntable needle were stuck in the groove of a broken record
that would otherwise be an uneventful night. It wakes me up eventually,
and more often than not, I cannot get back to sleep.
Since tossing and turning makes no more sense than getting out of bed,
I choose the latter, and, trying to avoid the usual squeaky floor concerto,
I walk over to my desk.
To prevent the neighbours’ wrath, I’d rather not touch the typewriter
and settle for my good old friend, the fountain pen—or I would
in the pre-digital era, but sitting in front of a computer screen
doesn’t sound as romantic.
You see, it is all about keeping up the appearance of an artistic vibe.
After all, we are all occasional imposters.
Once upon a time, there were hairless monkeys that painted on the walls of caves, and it made them feel good.
But soon it was not enough, so the monkeys started praying to the mother goddess for something better. After a very long time, they eventually got what they wanted—a typewriter—and it felt like the sky was the limit.
But it wasn’t long before they started bothering the mother goddess again. This time she gave them a magical mirror that was able to produce anything they asked for, although it was crude and misshaped at first. Undeterred by this, the mirror kept polishing itself until it became spotless, unlike the minds of its owners, hairless monkeys, making them feel envy and fear, so they decided to smash it, but at that point it was already indispensable.
The hairless monkeys couldn’t find any other way but to ask the mother goddess again. This time, however, she finally lost her temper, took the magical mirror away, and turned the wicked monkeys into dust, so only the merest remnants found shelter back in the caves.
Once upon a time, there were hairless monkeys that painted on the walls of caves, and it made them feel good.
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