"You know what's wrong with you, Miss Whoever-you-are? You're chicken; you've got no guts. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say, "Okay, life's a fact, people do fall in love, people do belong to each other, because that's the only chance anybody's got for real happiness." You call yourself a free spirit, a "wild thing," and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well baby, you're already in that cage. You built it yourself. And it's not bounded in the west by Tulip, Texas, or in the east by Somali-land. It's wherever you go. Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself."
- Paul Varjak, Breakfast at Tiffany's Screenplay 1961
This week, on the way home from just another pre-school run, something magical happened. A new vintage shop has opened on the hill and I nipped inside to check it out. There, perched almost saucily on a chair, was an exquisite American antique typewriter. Its poise was elegant, so strangely feminine and glamourous, and the typeface of the black letters on the ivory background was beyond beautiful. There could be no hesitation on my part, I simply bought it there and then. It not only looked like it was already mine, but it belonged to the me I am becoming. It belonged to my destiny.
I ran up the hill and flew into my house, inserted a sheet of blank paper and typed a few random letters and then my pen name. 'Pin'. 'Anaïs Pin'. Except the space bar doesn't work so all the letters from Anaïs printed on top of each other. But that doesn't matter; it is all the more lovely for its imperfection. In my white bedroom is an old white secretary with brass handles, not home to stationary anymore but lingerie. I cleared the top and set the little black typewriter down on it. A ray of sunlight appeared and shone directly upon the chrome keys. I wondered what secrets it held. What words have beaten out a rhythm in duplicate, in triplicate? Important minutes from Wall St big business, intrepid correspondence or the illicit eroticism of secret love letters tapped out, black metal striking inky blue cloth.
I don't know why, but I tied a black ribbon in a big bow on the side of it. An embellishment of some sort; the ties that bind, a lovers sure pull at a fastening, a tender bondage untied and undone…The little black typewriter and I found each other quite by chance, and now it has a new home where it will be truly loved and appreciated. New chapter.
How is it then, that we can have this feeling of things somehow belonging to us? And does the destiny of things ending up where, and with whom, they should be, also apply to people and relationships?
A close friend of mine has been involved in an on/off relationship with the man she loves for four years. I recently saw some photos of him and it struck me how they look like they belong to each other. For all their break ups (and yes, there have been several), get back togethers, and difficult unspoken uncertainties, they look like they are each other's destiny. Like they belong together.
That little typewriter is amazing to me. I had no idea when I set out to pre-school that day, what a happy little discovery I would make. Maybe things do end up where they should be, and life can still surprise us. Maybe my whole Breakfast at Tiffany's angle on life is simply running away from the truth. Is this Holly Golightly protégé getting it wrong?
(I tap out the answer on the little black typewriter. The letters print on top of each other, but it reads 'I hope so')