When I was seven, masterpieces were composed on this typewriter. Pieces on lorikeets and on Australian mammals and on objects that looked ordinary on the outside but which were completely and utterly fantastic on the inside. Stories about funny lunchboxes. Stories about new planets divided into halves: one half looked as life looked here but on the other half … well, you could wake up at night and ride your bike along the tops of the trees; you could say the most outrageous things and it was okay; you could plant gardens in gutters, drink flat lemonade all day and live in the crook of your favourite tree. There was little else as satisfying as pulling the brown case out from under the bed, removing the lid and feeding in new sheet of paper. The conscious and very deliberate act of pressing each key required careful thought and attention - each mark made was permanent. The reward for such care was the distinct sound each key made as the hammer thunked down and that glorious ding of the bell as each row was completed. Finished pages were hand bordered and illustrated with abandon before being carefully glued into a coloured cardboard cover, resplendent with a hand drawn cover image and title. A book was created. Happiness was attained.
And so, when it came to that point in the term where I was feeling uninspired in my teaching practice, and when I could feel the distraction and disinterest of my students setting in, I sought to find a way to reframe my lessons on developing critical thinking and creative thinking. I sought to find a way to introduce the art of noticing, and the art of paying deep and close attention, to these students raised on scanning and scrolling and superficial observations. I brought in my typewriter.