A Royal Blue typewriter fell straight out of the sky and landed right in front of a philosopher, a poet, and a chef who finally had the day off of work. Or so he thought.
The day had already been vacuumed clean by a freezing cold, yet steady high desert breeze. The sky was as blue as the typewriter was. It was almost the same hue as the chef’s eyes.
There was no solid explanation—without sounding batshit crazy—as to why a typewriter would fall out of the sky. No airplanes were passing by overhead at the moment, and it wasn’t Black Friday or anything like that.
The first logical thought gathered steam within the left hemisphere of his mind. That was the hemisphere that always started thinking about things first. Then the right hemisphere followed with a few more creative thoughts.
In short, his mentality was preparing for war.
He always found it odd that the right hemisphere didn’t start doing the thinking first. The right side started thinking about things so close behind the left side that sometimes he wasn’t sure which hemisphere started thinking first. Such are the tendencies of a Virgo who always carried a hunch with him that it was the left hemisphere.
He was a pretty perceptive guy, but not necessarily perceptive enough to know which hemisphere of his mind started doing the thinking about things first on any given day.
That is, if anyone reading this could use such a tiny tidbit of information as to any right kind of rigid definition in regards to that of their very own mental perception.
“Well, look at that, a typewriter damn near tried to kill us," the poet said out loud.
Poets always speak up first, especially if it is possible for them to speak of something poetically out of the ordinary in an ordinary way.
“No it didn't you clown,” said the philosopher who wanted to ‘be a poet’ himself. “What if it was just a gift from the heavens?,” he continued with mindless sarcasm.
The chef just stood there saying nothing. It was his day off. He was merely looking around, paying the other two and the typewriter no mind. His utmost attention was focused on which way the wind was blowing. He didn't feel like rocking the boat just yet. A day off in America is to be taken carefully these days.
“It just fell from the sky as if it were a gift from the heavens,” continued the philosopher, looking up into the void of a clear blue sky.
“Well I'll be damned,” said the poet.
The chef who was enjoying the peaceful morning said nothing because he didn't want to think about what to say. He did not feel like jeopardizing whatever faint possibility there was of getting himself all worked up on his day off. It was better off for everyone in the long run if the philosopher and poet did all the thinking and writing.
The three of them looked everywhere they could at the landscape around them for a reason as to why a typewriter would have just dropped out of the sky like that. But they couldn't find one if their sanity depended on it.
The typewriter looked worn down and brand new just the same. It’s innards had taken a significant hit from the fall. It looked destroyed to say the least. It was just sitting there lying at their feet with all of the crooked letters of the alphabet baking like a Freedom cake in the sun.
“So, why would a typewriter just fall from the sky?” asked the poet to no one in particular.
The chef enjoying his day off started wandering around in his mind if he could maybe spin the typewriter on one of his fingers. His right index one to be precise.
Now, both hemispheres of his brain were firing on all thinking cylinders, like a war going on between religions. His wild eyes raced with thought after thought trying to escape his mind, running all at once in front of each other, bumping into one another. It was complete chaos, to listen to the thoughts competing to come to life on a piece of paper as if they were competitors in the Winter Olympics of Free Thinking with visions of a finish line and a various assortment of shiny colored medals in front of them.
Or quite possibly, just running for their fucking life.
“Oh God,” said the philosopher and the poet simultaneously, “here we go again.”
The poet reached into the typewriter as if he were pulling a little black dress over the shoulders of a silhouette of some gorgeous woman in her lovers bedroom as the light of a newfound spiritual zeitgeist seeped through the blinds at dawn.
Instead though, the poet removed a makeshift piece of paper with all the words that have been written here so far except for the thinking part, which he had no idea he was doing it because he had never thought like this before.
It’s kind of like drinking from a chalice of excited creativeness, so amped up that you drink all of what's inside of it up on accident when you weren't even at all that thirsty and do not barely remember doing it a short time afterwards.
The chef stepped in saying nothing out loud, yet speaking with his eyes. He grabbed the piece of paper that had everything written on it that you have yet to read about the Royal Blue typewriter and why it fell from the sky. Then he tore it up into thousands of lives worth of red ribbons.
He tore it up very meticulously and poetically into ribbon-like seeds of literary sweet nothings and blew them into the blowing easterly winds with a metaphoric kiss, while both the poet and the philosopher just stood by and watched him do what he did in awe.
Tomorrow morning, the three of them would begin again and create something else that would have nothing to do with a royal blue typewriter falling out of the sky. But for today, he had to go to work.
His business was cooking and maybe one day he would go about writing books as a profession. He wasn't a very well known philosopher, or a poet for that matter. It was impossible to find a bookstore that carried at least one of his writings in it because he hadn't written anything worth being published yet in his own personal opinion.
So why is he thinking so much about writing and a typewriter then?
Wasn't being a chef enough?
The answer is quite simple.
That damn typewriter could've killed all of the voices in his head.
Kaput. Finito. No mas amor.
Though that didn’t mean that writing about deadly typewriters still couldn’t be fun, because creating something in lieu of an untimely death has always been the best part of art.
That was the reason for all the thoughts that fought amongst the hemispheres of a chef's mind on any given day that he could no longer remember, except possibly for thinking about them too damn much, which had now become an everyday occurrence since he started writing again way back when.
But writing to him had always been fun, especially when he wrote from the hip of his heart and soul.
And this confusing post in the end—mind you all—is merely a eulogy for the now retired Royal Blue Typewriter that once belonged to some guy named Ryan Love.
“But why would a typewriter just fall out of the sky like that?” the poet and the philosopher asked again simultaneously frustrated.
“Aren’t you clowns supposed to be the creative ones here?” the chef on his day off that was no longer his day off finally spoke out loud, before continuing,
"It’s nothing but a metaphor for all the words we’ve yet to write that’ll soon fall out of the sky, Royal Blue typewriter or not.”
“But what about the amazing woman in the little black dress that has an uncanny ability of getting the voices in our head to conspire harmoniously,” the poet partingly inquired?
“Quit thinking so much and grab the goddamn typewriter so we can give it a proper burial,” demanded the chef with that look in his eyes that would've shattered any mirror within the vicinity of them.
“Remember boys, it's all about balance from here on out.” as he walked out the door.
“Heard chef,” said the philosopher.
“Yes chef,” followed the poet.
Yes indeed, most days those three voices fought and thought so goddamn much that you woulda thunk everyone believed that a chef that liked to write on the side was crazy for dreaming and going to war with himself as much as he did.
But he isn’t dreaming anymore.
Til next year…
Cordially,
Ryan Love
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