Sitting down on her tiny table top chair furiously banging on the keys on her cute old school turquoise typewriter, typing right in front of the Apple Store during a busy holiday season at the Grove. She was in her own universe creating her own world as she typed out poems on demand by people who gave her donations, but honestly I think she would have done it for free because it looked fun. After finding out the epic thing she was doing I was totally enamored by her. Plus, I wanted to check out her work maybe even writing a poem for me.
I wait patiently even though I was the only one waiting in line for her to create a poem for me. At the moment she was in the middle of finishing up a masterpiece for a nine-year-old girl. Her parents looked like artistic hipsters, who also thought what she was doing was cool as well. The tiny tot looked on as the bigger version of herself typed with a purpose occasionally missing up on a word and manually fixing it on the fly, which we all take for granted with Auto-Correct. We all forgot the simple pleasure of carefully typing in words but if you messed up, you really had to care a lot to correct your mistake but it made you into a better writer.
As I watch her being in the zone as the little girl danced around her and her turquoise machine, a crowd started to gather like a Sprinkles Cupcake store when they have giveaways but you don’t get sick of too much poetry maybe a little crazy but that’s a good thing. Some people looked puzzled at her prehistoric machine. Even workers from the Apple store where a bit confused on what she was typing on, making comments outside of the store like,
“What is that? Is that an old computer? Where is the screen?”
But then the comments became a little more abrasive as the employees showed off their Hater Degrees, telling each other that she shouldn’t be there, which did not faze her one bit. She continued on finishing the little girl’s poem even with the rude comments from the Apple employees.
When she finally finished her poem, she handed her completed piece to the toddler. The look on the little nine-year-old girl was simply priceless. She made her feel like it was Christmas morning and the parents were so happy giving the poet a generous donation. I couldn’t wait for my turn like a fat kid next in line at an ice cream truck on a hot summer day.
I confidently step up into her office as she asks me what she wanted me to create. She wanted hints or pointers on what the poem should be about. I tell her that I was in terrible mental and physical discomfort like a prisoner in solitaire from working at the Grove for then last thirty days. She gives me a smile from chin to chin as she could see the pain in my face but also knew that I had a good sense of humor. She confidently tells me to wait on the side giving her ten minutes to type it up.
I was simply amazed. 10 fucking minutes, it took me that long to type up a title!
It takes the poet prodigy ten minutes to create a poem? Now I was totally intrigued because what kind of art can you create in less than ten minutes or less. She takes a minute to digest what I said to her then she takes one last look at me then off to the races. She begins to get to work, systematically and carefully constructing my piece. But like everything else great in life, nothing lasts forever. Security finally notices her surrounding her in the middle of my poem.
“Excuse me miss but you have to leave,” as security kindly tells her.
Without lifting her head, “Sure, but tell me why,” continuing to finish my poem.
“Ugh, I’m not sure miss but you have to go.”
“No, that’s not a good reason,” she calmly tells the security guard making him look at the other security guard for support but he just shrugged his shoulder.
I couldn’t believe what was happening. She was so feisty and rebellious towards authority like revolutionary poets of old not giving one fuck for anyone’s opinions except for their. Before the security calls his manager she tells him she was done, “I’m finished. I’ll leave now,” handing me my poem, which by the way she completed a little over ten minutes.
I handle it like an ancient piece of artifact making sure I didn’t smudge or bend it. She quickly wraps up her operation before attracting any more heat to her picking up her typewriter and folding her chair. I was so excited that I get my poem, which I didn’t even get a chance to read it. I was like just a happy kid and I was simply amazed how she continued to do what she loved to do in the midst of so many haters. I graciously thanked her and gave her a generous donation.
She gathers her things proceeding to leave to the Grove not because of the security telling her to do so but own her terms because she already made her point. That you can’t stop art or control it, you just have to let it be.
You can make art anywhere you want to with any kind of device, just make you sure you have passion for it and don’t give a fuck what people think because any good artists will tell you that you must have a bit of rebellious nature if you’re going to be a great artists because you’re pissing off the status quo.
Good art is a little dangerous because it can evoke emotions, which sometimes is not all positive but at least it makes you feel something for it. Art is supposed to make you feel alive making you forget the mundane motions of your life. Great artists add the beautiful bright colors to this dull grey world making us believe that we can do and imagine anything that we want to be in our lives.
Sometimes we have to act like rebellious typewriters in a world dominated by obedient computers.
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