typeset, honesty, and memory lapse -

i've recently commented over digital airwaves that i think typing is significantly different when done on an antique typewriter. perhaps partly aesthetic, but mostly due to basic structure and function. you have no delete key, letters set in ink, much more force behind each finger, pushes that seem to matter more in weight and metaphor. and metaphor creates the art/life mocking balance. for example:

"A good friend told me there’s no longer any such thing as non-fiction. Perhaps we construct ourselves around stories so much that the lies we live substantiate themselves. Nonetheless, I tell myself that, but for interest rather than comfort. As they say: once you see something in fiction you’re significantly more able to process the idea, making the reality of it that much closer. The daydream catapults the real, I guess. We become the tale told."

i wrote that a while ago, but i put it in quotes this time to distance myself from it because i think it sounds stupid and arrogant now. i typed a "letter" to a woman today, the one i commented "over digital airwaves" to, and all while she was in the room, in bed, never saying a thing while the walls bounced with key clicks. she later read the letter when i was gone, saying that it was well written. my only response was, "i meant it". it was sweet and neutral and changing.

she bought the typewriter for me as a valentines gift. it was quite a gesture. since then, i can't help but be confused due to the density of time.

*the wonderment i experience at alcohol-induced memory lapse lies not in the pleasure-seeking aspects achieved by the brain, (though that helps). the curiosity is mostly with the psychological and philosophical implications of such a state. i like to embellish the positive deviations created by dream, by movement completely devoid of meaning. i've learned to disregard dreaming at night, and rather daydream continually and make movements that are not of the body and still are completely muscle driving bone. mind dead, but mind released. and constantly working through slight fissures in the most simple things, stepping over cracks and trying not to smile at the cutest bartender in chicago. that was a paragraph that could be a thesis, which mocks the fact that it's tiny clumps of pints that could be many many breaths.*