The Warming Up Of a Singer. Just a title for this post…

[First, I’m sort of interested in the prospect of having some guest contributors, and this could mean original writing on any subject or just adding to the pseudo writing source page. If you’d be interested email me at Andrew.h.kuharevicz@gmail.com and maybe we can throw around some ideas. Also, I’m available for freelance magazine/travel/entertainment/reviews/any kind of writing and editing and book making, as well as journalism and blog/website creation. I’m pretty good and cost about as much as a cup of coffee a day. So if you’d like to outsource some of your work to me, send me a letter to the email address  already given. Besides that this will be my last post for the month. I have some life things to take care of…and anyway, so here’s an old school traditional long post (read) that I think will contain some infotainment value for the eyes that scan this webpage.

In the book I’m working on called Notebooks and Three Dimensional Boxes, what you’ll find below is one of the nine sections. The years of this volume are 2005-2013, and I don’t know what happened but I’ve been sort of crazy and written way too many manuscripts to even start to consider  editing everything unless I was paid handsomely to do so (which probably won’t happen) and not because I won’t end-up editing them eventually, but because I’m getting better as a writer and as an overall human being, and I don’t want to waste the rest of life editing the thousands of pages that I wrote before today.

… And once again, so you might have read some of these words before but they’ve been re-worked, and this book will be a taste of some of those manuscripts that I might not ever finish. Each one was a study in style and grew from theory, such as this one (Visions of Florida) that was typed mostly with spontaneous prose. It would take complete devotion to edit most of this backlog I’ve created (and dubbed as The Paper Mountain) but I’ve (or am in the process of) editing a bit of a select number of them, and after this book is over (it will be about 500 pages long) I’m going to focus on a brand new book of all new writing. I’ll get back to adventures of a dying young man books (b) and (c) before the end of this year, but I’m ready to paint something brand new while using the tools I’ve been sharpening, and I don’t know what the subject and genre will be yet, but it will be good.

Below is the first chapter of seven chapter  of the manuscript that will be included  and be Published by West Vine Pres in a future book that will be available in e-book and hardcover physical edition. Peace, and as always, thank you for reading.]

visons 2

SECTION THREE: VISIONS OF FLORIDA
Chapter One
Let me start off by saying that this is a classic boy meets typewriter love story. With that sentence said… well you’ve been warned.

The clock reads 9:57A.M and I woke up in a big bed. My pal let me sleep in the darkness when he left for work because he knew my trip was hell. I got lost in Atlanta and thought a plane was a different plane. I was tired and a lady tapped me on the shoulder and said “we’re boarding now” and so I boarded. The year was two thousand twelve and you’d think that since this is post Nine-Eleven that I couldn’t get on a plane going to Lauderdale when I was supposed to be getting on a plane going to Tampa, but that’s what happened and I said “sir you’re in my seat” to a guy and no, he wasn’t in my seat and the T.S.A Agents were laughing at me because I’m an idiot. They said “go wait for the next airplane and don’t fall asleep this time” and I said “alright and I’m sorry but”…

And now I’m awake, and what I’m really doing is gambling my life away, and a friend who lives in Brooklyn told me that I “still have a chance but I’m going to have to get real lucky if you’re going to make it”. I told him “but a gypsy said I have the worst kind of luck after I took a bracelet out of her hut at a market in the park, and there was a real spider crawling on the bracelet and I told her I’ll take this one. The lady was very pretty and gentle and had green eyes and dark skin and she said “no Andrew, try another one”. I said “what do you take me for lady, superstitious… this one has some nice leather and I like the coyote markings because it reminds me of my grandmother’s dog”…)

And that’s the strange thing; I seem to always forget how you have to hold your fingers when you type on a typewriter, and it’s not the same as when you sing with a computer. With a typewriter you’ve got to press down much harder and each word comes out slower…and this is much more difficult than I remember it being. It’s been so long since I’ve had the chance to type like a bird and be who I am… like this, and I’m missing letters and stuttering like an infant, but it will come back to me… and this is much more natural, it feels more than the word free and my body is like the typewriter, and both of us machines just have to warm up… and just like my mind… it’s all coming back to me and wait….there we go and the rush is on and my mind hasn’t been used like this for a while now… wild and true and inside of my mind just like this old machine that was just sitting on a desk for decoration or perhaps for inspiration to be used when the right time came…but the right time never came for the owner who is my old pal who is once again letting me crash in his pad after I’ve proven nothing to him…well he said he hasn’t used it because who the heck uses typewriters anymore? And that was a good answer but I do, I use a typewriter…

The door is open and the heat is great and the record player is playing and there’s beer in fridge… but not yet, and I’m not going to type very much tonight because that gets loud and this is my friend’s typewriter and it’s in his house and he said he got the machine for five dollars at some thrift store, and my last one was left here back then and it was the first time I was here, and I asked a girl who lives in Tampa where it’s at and she said that she sold it in a yard sale. I said that was mean because you knew I kept here to get when I came back, and she said I was an idiot beatnik. I thought she loved me and was joking but she doesn’t love me and wasn’t joking, and after that well then…. she got in her S.U.V that has a broken sunroof and so that translated into a problem for her because she can never shut-it when it rains and her leather seats have holes and mold and fuzz growing like the seats are front lawns because the buttons are broken and sometimes it really lets loose and rains a ton in Florida…so good for her, and after she called me an idiot loser again she gave me the middle finger and drove to acting class, and so now I’m alone at this table and there’s a ton of dust within the organs of these old gadgets like us, and the typewriter is just like the man and the writer and the old wanderer that I am and the forgotten keys that are below my chin on the red cherry table look so tired and out of shape, and that’s why I’m cracking my knuckles watching the cat look at me, and that’s why I’m like a dentist and making sure each letter works and they do work and then when I see that they work….well that’s when I realize that I can still do this and well… that’s when I know it’s going to happen…but not yet…but soon…and for now we just need a cleaning, we just need to warm up; we both need to remember what we were made for. The typewriter and I share a symbiotic relationship, and it’s been awhile since we’ve been reminded about how much we need one another. It was just sitting here and I was just sitting there, and there’s plenty of dust within my head; there’s a ton of crud and dust bunnies inside of the guts of the machine full of lint and dirt and crumbs that are jamming up the heart of the galaxy twelve smith corona and this is the third typewriter that I have used in my life; the third machine that my fingers have walked across and so it’s going to take time before it can catch up with the way that I roll and flow my narrative and tales and legends of places that I’ve been. It’s going to take minutes and maybe hours to work up the necessary amount of strength in order to get back to where I was… before… I became covered in this kind of invisible but heavy dust that seep down deep into your soul when you’re meditating within the editing process, and this is more like it, this is the way I am and this is when I’m happy; the act of creation is for the writer and everything else is for you and them and for businesses and lawyers and rulers and generals and politicians and sheep and physical trainers and whatever else people do and so yeah… this is more like it. It was so easy and I just needed to be back in Florida typing up a storm and when it comes down to it I’m a writer and these days if you’re a writer you’re bound to be somewhat a bitter writer, and I’m tired but no I’m back and so I just have to build-up the momentum so I can get back to a time when the words came out like punctured blood vessels. I don’t know what’s happening to me and who I am. I accept that. I like to write and so I’m going to write, and that’s it. I’m not worried about the consequences anymore, because I know I’m going to die very soon.

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