typewriting

today, i typed on the typewriter. it was lovely and provided ever-so-much-scope-for-the-imagination. i typed and i worked and i was efficient and i was paid for it [!] and i was hemingway and smoking a cigar very classily and a secretary, of course, but the very best kind of secretary who knows everything there is to know, and is wonderful, and keeps candy on her desk and also probably a war secretary decoding all of the secret codes from the enemy and and of course anne shirley ooooh, pooh. the other things that i was escaped me, for i was very much other things as well. a typewriter is so frusturating, and romantic and backward. it messes up everytime you try to do something, i think. and you argue with it. and you want to win--you are the boss!--but you cant. it says no emphatically. and you fight it. you do. you want to win, just to win of course. and to feel again the lovely pressure underneath your fingers just typing away but its difficult to type, when it wont cooperate. and i know about that too.
and-- the window was open and i could smell outside.

(6/26/2004 2:19 AM)