The next book in the field is The Gift Of The Jews by T. Cahill. I hope the rest of it reads as well at the first seventy or so pages have read. The weather had a small dip today, and I still need to grab some ba-hoopies from the office supply store. Pangle has been fed, and there still isn’t enough firewood yet. It seems that I might have found another part-time oddball gig. Maybe not.
Writing the word done gone big time. I still find that the cadence of using a manual typewriter changes my written voice dramatically. Writing in an editor like vi or textmate makes changes almost too easy. I do say almost, though. The thought of single correction feature being white-out or correction tape is really an echo of a nightmare at this point.
But I do miss my notebooks. I miss sitting down at a random spot, and writing down everything I can see around me. I don’t do that sort of silly, game-like writing that I did with notebooks. But now it is so easy to yank and put text anywhere.
This sentence was written up there, and then put down here.
But I think the vapid, self-involved personality broadcasting that social networking and asynchronous communication channels could be the venue for some things that are useful to us post-post-post modern folks. Everyone is starting to write.