Punch, drunk, moron.

November 26, 2012 § 1 Comment


Typebars in a 1920s typewriter

Typebars in a 1920s typewriter (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“I think that we are gonna be friends” – I think that we are gonna be friends – The White Stripes

I watch her in the corner of my eye. She’s in my peripheral vision. Peripheral vision is something your going to need. Work on it young. Work on everything young. She’s typing away on one of those old heavy suitcase type writers. She thinks it gives her some edge. Some sort of step above the rest of us. Typewriters are for people who don’t make mistakes. She’s with me, she makes mistakes. She was she found it but I think she bought it. She breaks the silence with a curse. Another slipped finger. Another ruined page. The novelty is starting to become as faded as the rusted green paint that covers the back of it. She loads in another page. Computers do lack that though. That cold mechanical feel. The bit where you slip and slide things into place. Like loading a gun. Sometimes more dangerous. She breaks the silence as she reaches the end of the first line. Ding. She smiles. Simple things. Our eyes meet. We smile. Simple things. I go back to pretending to I’m staring out of the window.

It’s only your life by Kevin Devine is threading it’s way out of the speakers. Sometimes music takes me back to where I first heard the song. For me this song will always be knee deep snow in the North of England, long walks to work, soaked canvas shoes, football socks, sweating off the vodka in the morning. Memories and music hold hands. Memories and music watch each other type.

My clothes fit well and I’m told they are in style. New ground for me. Unfamiliar territory. I was on my own, in a relationship sense, for a long time. There were girls, sure, there were girls, but none that I really cared about. It was just easy. Relax. Go easy. Since the last time that actually cared about a girl I thought I had grown. I thought I had grown emotionally. I hadn’t. Thirty seconds into the mad, drug rush, twisting blood, swollen blood vessel approach to feeling it all followed. Like a come-down, like a hangover, just two steps behind, I always run, it always catches. All those old feelings, the anger, the petulance, the twisting lack of faith, the sad. The things that make me act like a spoiled child. Oh what a terrible relapse. So this is why I stayed away from all this for so long. Just when I thought I could trust you.

Ding. The typewriter breaks my thoughts. She looks up and smiles some more. She smiles like a punch drunk moron. I should know, that’s my smile she’s wearing. Sickly sweet. I scan the window sill for my drink. Sat deep an inch from my left hand. Some movement out of the window distracts my train of thought which is set further off the tracks by more thought. I don’t know where this ends you know? I have no answers. I have no quick-fix. But I stopped being afraid of all that years ago. That is what affords me to live the way that I do.

Ding. Smiles. Punch, drunk, moron. But it’s OK. I’m keeping all that at bay. At a dull knife point. In a Mexican stand off it is usually the most apathetic man who dies. Apathy and luck. My old friends. Speak soon. Ding. Smiles.

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§ One Response to Punch, drunk, moron.

  • AguessT says:

    !the anti-romanticism of your writings is unsettlingly infectious, those (almost but not quite) calculated anti-heroic values bubbling under the typography… slowly curling off from the edges of your themes, like half-stripped wallpaper. Wonderful reading.

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