Where has this fucking thing gone? I last wrote in December and failed to put that page up here. The scanner is, where is the scanner? I believe the typewriter is on the floor of the dining room with that same sheet from December half-loaded on its roller.
Someday (maybe soon, probably not-soon), I will return the typewriter to a desk where I can sit and write in an absence of clutter, physical, mental, otherwise.
The typewriter, it is a good idea. More than just a soulful fuck-you to messages contained in one-forty character fences. Who wants to write with a countdown on their shoulder?
Who wants to write articles about how the New Communication is done is burps and bleeps?
Hi, my name is Spermicidal Lubricant and I am the new Poet Laureate of Wet Sauce, California: Send me glimpses of your experience in 140 character spurts and I will edit the best into an epic dump.
Society reflected into the computer world was shocking enough. Having the computer world reflect back out again is making my rectum quiver. And not in a good way.
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The typewriter is cold and alone, and I am going to let it remain so. For a month, for two or six months or a year. I am going to type in this box directly.
Because something has to happen here, and it isn’t going to happen on that typewriter.
