The Art of Jeremy Mayer: Typewriters Reimagined

I love typewriters. (Like, REALLY love them.)

Part of the appeal, I suppose, stems from nostalgia: I banged out my first childhood stories on a monstrous electric typewriter that weighed almost as much as I did.

The other part is the romance of the typewriter: the mental image of a struggling writer hunched over clattering keys in a cozy attic office (with rain on the roof and endless cups of steaming coffee, natch).

I was admiring the pretty typewriter pictures Google had to offer when I came across the wholly unexpected:

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Says artist Jeremy Mayer:
“I disassemble typewriters and then reassemble them into full-scale, anatomically correct human figures. I do not solder, weld, or glue these assemblages together… I do not introduce any part to the assemblage that did not come from a typewriter.”

He makes the most incredible wildlife, too:

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I find them eerily beautiful.

There are many more stunning pieces where these came from: check out JeremyMayer.com or the artist’s tumblr, which is where these photos were sourced.

All photos in this post are copyright Jeremy Mayer.

This Week in Sniderville: 21

This week I:

-learned that bugs find me delicious:
bugs

-ordered this:
license

-bought this:
cake

and made this:
mail

into this:
mail2

And I still haven’t come up with a title for the new story. I may crumple it up and eat it out of frustration.

How was your week?

This Week in Sniderville: 19

sv19
The cilantro babies are coming in nicely. And actually starting to, y’know, look like cilantro. I mean, I ate one before I was sure, just because I was curious, and it tasted right but looked so, so wrong. I have no idea what I’m doing. But I do know that every time I water them, I whisper sweet nothings about how I’m going to murder them and eat them. Plants like that kinda thing, right?

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This is Zoey. This is what she does all day. This is why she’s fat.

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Today I went to my nephew’s third birthday party, where I spent a good deal of time “tattooing” children. (The one above is on me — can’t let kids have all the fun.) Clearly Auntie Stef is a total badass.

Writing is happening, but there’s nothing new to report. Next week, maybe? God, I hope I have something ready to share soon.

How was your week?

Screw You, Allergies.

I hate my eyeballs.

Maybe that’s a little harsh, out of context. I mean, I guess I don’t, not really: they help me to read and write and I like the lovely things my vision allows me to do. I like the concept of eyes. But the eyeballs themselves, well.

This time of year, every year, they change. No longer are they happy little vitreous globes living inside my face; instead they become squishy jerks, (I’m sure) growing microscopic barbs that reach out to hook airborne pollen like cruel Velcro. I’m pretty sure they hate me. I thought we were friends.

Sure, I mean, they’re not in this alone. My sinuses get in on the action, deciding that all that hydrating water I keep drinking should in fact be flung far from my person, leaving my nose red and rough and raw. And my throat adopts the texture of finely spun glass, dry and parched and scratchy, demanding more water again.

But it’s the eyes, man. They’re the harbingers. They’re the bad kids from the fifties with the switchblades and the leather jackets. They’re the shit disturbers, coaxing the rest of my unassuming body into waging war on my poor brain, who just wants sleep and to not sneeze until it is dizzy. The eyes are how I know the Annual Allergy Apocalypse has begun: watering til I look like I’m crying, itching until I mash my knuckles into them. And all that mascara being ground in can’t be helping, I’m sure.

And this is with the help of modern pharmacology.

So if you see me in the next month or two, and I look like I’m rocking the world’s biggest hangover, rest assured my eyes drooping at half-mast is only because to open them fully is to invite disaster, and not because I am still half-drunk from the night before. Come to think of it, maybe I should adopt that old hangover stand-by of sunglasses worn inside, if only so concerned strangers stop asking me why I’m crying all the time.

nosees tissues skulls

At least my husband understands: he brought me these the other day. For this is no wussy cold, no silly flirtation with pollen, but a FULL-ON BATTLE which requires BADASS ARTILLERY. There are only ten of these tissues; he cautioned that they are to be used for only the mightiest of facial explosions. I’m sure I can ration them out… I just need to breathe through my mouth, keep my head still, not bend over OR lie down —

*sneeze*

This Week in Sniderville: 17

This week I learned that apparently the Internet hates Canadians. My sister-in-law called and asked me to grab something off Amazon for her, since I shop there all the time and have an account already. It was an inflatable pool slide, and she wants it for my nephew’s upcoming birthday. Sure, no problem. It was just over a hundred bucks, not bad considering its size. I plopped it into my cart and went to finalize the purchase.

The item was selling for $114. Any wager on the shipping price?

$205. TWO HUNDRED AND FIVE DOLLARS. What the everloving FUCK, Internet? We’re a good people, I promise. What did we ever do to you?? Needless to say she quickly selected something else instead.

evil one

The Evil One approves.

Last night I went to see The Purge with my friends Dani and Leslie. I’m not sure we all saw the same movie. Dani said it was lame, and Leslie posted a scathing review. I left wishing I’d written it myself.

Today I posted this on Facebook:

“I’M GROUNDED.
In an effort to catch up on my hilariously-behind writing schedule, I’m grounding myself for 24 hours. Effective 5:00PM today, I will not be answering texts, phone calls, or messages on Facebook.

Exceptions are family and if your hair is on fire. And if it’s your hair I’ll require photographic proof. I got shit to do.”

I need to keep reminding myself: if I keep on track with my Big Plan, someday this —

franklin covey back deck

— will be my day-to-day life.

How was your week?