(165): Sometimes I Just Stare Into Space
In the darkness, the typewriter clacks in the old manner, back when you had to have power in your fingers to make an impression. The hypnotic sound lulls me into a sense of timelessness, a series of rote repetitious actions, without thought or action. The darkened room helps me drift off to sleep, waiting for my father to finish his typing.
I am small, small enough that my body and swaddling can fit completely into the chair next to the polished meeting table in my father’s office. It is 2 a.m., but I can’t tell time. I know it because he knows it, and his manner reflects his nervousness and the drive to finish off his assignment. This is a ritual, and I am completely comfortable in the chair.
I sleep easily, the percussive tune of the typewriter acting as my lullaby. Sometimes I awaken and stare into space, the shadows familiar, not threatening. I spend many hours in this office with my father. We have no need of words, that is, beyond the words he types. I can’t read, but his words are comforting.
Now, I sit in my small apartment, tapping on a silent keyboard that takes little force to record my words; one lamp, shaded beside me. The shadows are deep, and it is the middle of the long night. A muffled clicking lulls her to sleep on the rollaway couch. She is swaddled, her breathing slow and even. I fancy the sound of my fingers on the keyboard has wafted her into a dreamland that brings her into contact with my father in his long ago newspaper office.
We hypnotize ourselves into that realm of timelessness, where the generations can meet on the same ground and enjoy the same hypnotic existence between the imperatives of time. Imagining a different reality as we sit and stare into space, driven by the rhythm of dancing fingers.
This has been a stream of consciousness driven by the prompting of the photograph you see above. I hope you enjoyed it, and nighty-night y’all!