Typewriter Ramble #2

THE GONZO'S FEAR & LOATHING: REFLECTIONS ONE HAS YET TO KNOW

The air is cold, as it suggests for me to continue down the path I have yet to see. Still, I must continue — the scent is drawing me in. Closer I walk as the leaves from strangled trees wave past my eyes. Silently I sing a lullaby that my mother would recite before she kissed my head. I fell asleep there as the colors stop to be what they were. They took on a whole new hue — one no person has ever seen. I was compelled to see the vibrancy at its fullest.

I only had to hope for what I thought it to be and then it would become something even I could not believe in. Yes, something that even a mother could not dream up to tell her child. That great truth we seek for out whole life, but maybe we can only find it in death?

In the silence we can hear everything that has yet to be heard — all those soft little sounds that come out of our true being. For it is screaming a scream that has never, not even once, been heard. THAT is the sad truth of it all.

Only if we could hear, truly hear, the first great truth to ever be known. Maybe the truth is already in the situation? That could be the truth and the only truth we could ever know.

3/2/2009

Typewriter Ramble #1

Thanks to Dylan, who recently offered to give me a typewriter he had sitting around from some suburban garage sale many years back, I have acquired a typewriter. I guess Facebook truly can be a good social networking tool. I posted something to the effect, "John Purcell wants to get a typewriter," as my Facebook status. Shortly later Dlyan offered the gift. Who would've thunk it? I certainly didn't, but, thanks again!

Besides a new ribbon and maybe some small maintance it should be really set. I am not sure how to get the musty smell off it though. Even the paper I typed onto reeks of this musty smell. It is not the worst smell, though, kinda homey.

After a Gonzo Imperial Porter, Miller High Life and two White Russians (with extra vodka) I sat down with the typewriter at Dylan's house while other friends conversed around me. I am not sure what exactly I was going to write when I sat down, but I just wanted to nail out something. Whatever the typewriter made me feel — for better or worse.

This made me think that I might have certain reoccuring posts just be whatever I ramble out on the typewriter. Hence the name for this post, "Typewriter Ramble #1," so maybe there will be more in the future, but here is the first.

You have no heart ... he is the golden boy of your sick shit.

What does the boy want from his father? The golden goose of sincerity that grows under his father's pathetic job of regret. The man said yes to his offer, for he had nothing to hide from his son. He gave him the gold he desired and he didn't shed a tear. He was only full of hope for the future of his family — he could not see the scum bubbling into his mouth. Yes, the scum does rise.