i just read an article somewhere that said a person should keep their blog posts short and to the point in order to keep the reader engaged. hunh. they must not live my so-called life. so here goes an epic story of Linda vs Life. it all started out fabulous! the thought of an entire weekend to myself spread out before me like a buffet of dreams...oh the art i would make! and this morning when i woke up...a fully formed project idea popped into my vision while in the shower. a blessed day to be sure. ignoring the stifling heat that hung in my a/c-challenged car, i ventured out to the huge garage sale at the stamp store where i loaded up 2 bags of wooden antique dominos, a bag of jewels, and stuff i had no idea how to use (but looked cool). cheapity cheap. on the way, i saw my favorite 2 words in the history of life: Barn Sale. whoo hoo. now let me back up to the shower part. this project involved using the keys from an old Smith Corona typewriter. i have been looking for an old Smith Corona typewriter for years. the ones i find are at flea markets, and they want more for them now then when they were new. i have standards and boundaries. so i go down the Barn Sale road, and there's a turtle walking along in the driving lane. a good sign for me, but maybe not for him. it was right near the barn sale, so i asked the woman for some gloves so i could move him along, but she said he was almost home and she didn't have any gloves. my first hint that maybe there were mixed blessings to come. as i weighed the odds of arguing a pair of her (she lived on a CHICKEN farm for goodness sakes - she MUST have gloves!), i spied a Smith Corona typewriter still in it's hard case...the old antique kind that weigh a t-o-n. ohhh! guess how much?? one dollar. ONE DOLLAR! sold. i held back a gasp as i saw a few more elements i needed for this showervision project. $3 later, i head back. no sign of the turtle. whew. he made it across the road. perhaps the barn lady did know a few things. home & straight to the deck with screwdriver, pliers, and anticipation. i opened the case, and this typewriter stared up at me in all it's spledid glory. the rolls royce of its kind. i love old typewriters. i love the feel of them. i love the smell of their oil and the ink on the ribbon. i love the sound they make as the striker hits the paper. just so author-ly. so wonderful. and here i sat with tools of destruction. i couldn't do it. yes i could. i wavered. then talked myself into it. i probably would never use it as a typewriter...i mean, with email, we practically don't need mailmen anymore. i'd smack my toe on it every time i pass it in my studio, just like the remnants of the Mac computer monitor that seemed like such a good fetch at the time. so i was ready. at first, settling in for a meditation of sorts...get lost in the bits and pieces ...the un-engineering of it. i marveled at the workmanship...they don't make 'em like this anymore. and all those screws...teeny tiny ones...medium sized ones. i set the typewriter case next to the actual machine, to put the removed parts in, much like a surgeon puts pre-used and removed body parts in a shiny sterile kidney-shaped bowl for later inspection. i studied the typewriter to find THE screw that would release just the part that i needed. hmm, not THAT one. nope, not this one. well, not to bore you, so let me just say this: 4 hours later. sweating in the 93-degree humidity. the smell of B.O. mingling with oil and 2 different colors of grease. i've Purelled 3 times and have resorted to Clorox wipes. i have ruined RUINED my husband's best screwdriver. there are screws and springs and bits and parts flung into the case and i could Care Less if i ever i said EVER look at them again. the poor typewriter looked like a gnarled broken tree limb - keys all wretched and sticking up with no modesty or respect whatsoever. i am screaming at it to COME LOOSE like some TV evangelist, which fits since i am sweating like a pentecostal in a rented church hall. (and i should know). i try reasoning with it that in this electronic age, it has outlived it purposefulness and i, yes I, can miraculously give it new life as art thank you Jesus. just come loose from your bindings hallelujah. be free Lord help me. no reply. and the devil reminded it that it's very company, yes the very one, that employed most of cortland ny, that company, had moved offshore...gone were its brothers and sisters...gone were it friends and neighbors...gone were its replacement parts. no reply. i slammed it on the table. my glasses slid down my nose. sweat trickled down my cleavage. the dog barked. the bees stopped buzzing. i threatened, cajoled, became distracted by my own personal feelings about cortland ny which are famously & hideously etched in my mind and wake me at night clutching my pillow. just another chance for cortland, former home of smith corona, to trample on my zen. i wailed and tore my clothes.(well, not really but it seemed like such a good visual, i took the chance). i beseeched the heavens to mercifully release those striker keys from the bondage of that ONE screw that will NOT let go. no reply. so i put the stricken strikers and the twisted return bar and the still stuck screw into the case with the other miscellaneous parts large and small, and set it on the counter in the kitchen. carefully. so as not to disturb it, since this is clearly a Steven King Christine typewriter. it will go into a locked garage tonight just in case it indeed comes to marionette life and attacks. if i am found dead with inky letters beaten about my head and chest, please let the detectives know it was the typewriter. make them understand. and because of this event, i hope you will understand why i will never ever not ever make art again. i would have been better off if i left the "smith" off, and just got disheveled on "corona." L.