Memior Project - Introduction
What are you afraid of?
Most everyone in this country lives in fear. I see this in just about-everyone I know. Even close friends find themselves in fear. They fear the consequences of leaving the light on overnight, of leaving the door unlocked, of missing
the begining of class. These people live in perpetual fear and it's not their fault.
Their fear of harm, of even breaking the status quo is a product of their upbringing and other outside influences. America runs on fear, it's how people make their money. I find this current subject trite and I feel unprepared
to further state my opinion. Therefore, I yeild the rest of this entry to other pursuits
I have been completley sober today. Not so much as a drop or a puff for me. Though I find myself in a welcome state of clarity and alertness, I long for the carefree abandon of narcotic consumption. I find my sobriety to be an agent in my writers block as I have managed to already waste ¼ of the page with nonsence and trivia. Though I rather enjoy the symbol I made in the above line.
Perhaps I should explain my project, let's call it my memior project. I plan to, as dilligently as I can, type out an entry of my thoughts every evening. After a brief re-read of my work, I will enclose it in an envelope, not to be opened until the completion of said project. Though I am excited for the findings of this experiment, I worry that drugs may be my muse; that, outside of an altered state, I will be unable to create anything of substance. It is significantly easier to keep track of my thoughts while sober.
Nothing upsets me more than people who make their fortunes by exploiting the ignorance or inexperience of other people.
What is the definition of memoir? Would this undertaking be more accurately refered to as a manuscript?
I hope I have answers for these questions when all is said and done. there are answers.
I hope
So when to call it an end? Perhaps when I run out of typewriter ribbon? No, that will be a few days at this rate. Paper? No, I've got hundreds of sheets. I suppose I will just have to decide when I am finished. I hope they still make ribbon for this typewriter. Do they even use typewriters anymore? Sometimes I wonder if I am typing this for the mere thrill of using this device. Upon the completion of each line, the machine lets out a loud hum and scream, as the carrier slides across the sheet. Magically, behind the carrier is the stream of letters I just typed. It's more beautiful than any text ever made
by computer. Every letter is slightly unique, with the subtle imperfections that only a mechanical device can bring to paper. This is by no means the homogenized product of the computer word processor. As the carrier reaches the end of the page, it halts and lets out a click. The thermal transfer iron is removed from the page. The drive motor reverses direction, and the carrier hurries back to it's return position. At the end of it's journey, it actuates a return switch that tells the motor to stop. Another motor scrolls the paper and the Canon Typestar 3 is ready for it's next line.
Yes, I enjoy this typewriter far too much. I also enjoy watching the ribbon casette gradualy unwind, indicating the progress I have made. Ass my page is coming to and end, so will this entry. I fear that an entry longer than two pages will leave me typing 'till sunrise. So I bring this entry to a conclusion. Regards All.
12/6/2004
Most everyone in this country lives in fear. I see this in just about-everyone I know. Even close friends find themselves in fear. They fear the consequences of leaving the light on overnight, of leaving the door unlocked, of missing
the begining of class. These people live in perpetual fear and it's not their fault.
Their fear of harm, of even breaking the status quo is a product of their upbringing and other outside influences. America runs on fear, it's how people make their money. I find this current subject trite and I feel unprepared
to further state my opinion. Therefore, I yeild the rest of this entry to other pursuits
I have been completley sober today. Not so much as a drop or a puff for me. Though I find myself in a welcome state of clarity and alertness, I long for the carefree abandon of narcotic consumption. I find my sobriety to be an agent in my writers block as I have managed to already waste ¼ of the page with nonsence and trivia. Though I rather enjoy the symbol I made in the above line.
Perhaps I should explain my project, let's call it my memior project. I plan to, as dilligently as I can, type out an entry of my thoughts every evening. After a brief re-read of my work, I will enclose it in an envelope, not to be opened until the completion of said project. Though I am excited for the findings of this experiment, I worry that drugs may be my muse; that, outside of an altered state, I will be unable to create anything of substance. It is significantly easier to keep track of my thoughts while sober.
Nothing upsets me more than people who make their fortunes by exploiting the ignorance or inexperience of other people.
What is the definition of memoir? Would this undertaking be more accurately refered to as a manuscript?
I hope I have answers for these questions when all is said and done. there are answers.
I hope
So when to call it an end? Perhaps when I run out of typewriter ribbon? No, that will be a few days at this rate. Paper? No, I've got hundreds of sheets. I suppose I will just have to decide when I am finished. I hope they still make ribbon for this typewriter. Do they even use typewriters anymore? Sometimes I wonder if I am typing this for the mere thrill of using this device. Upon the completion of each line, the machine lets out a loud hum and scream, as the carrier slides across the sheet. Magically, behind the carrier is the stream of letters I just typed. It's more beautiful than any text ever made
by computer. Every letter is slightly unique, with the subtle imperfections that only a mechanical device can bring to paper. This is by no means the homogenized product of the computer word processor. As the carrier reaches the end of the page, it halts and lets out a click. The thermal transfer iron is removed from the page. The drive motor reverses direction, and the carrier hurries back to it's return position. At the end of it's journey, it actuates a return switch that tells the motor to stop. Another motor scrolls the paper and the Canon Typestar 3 is ready for it's next line.
Yes, I enjoy this typewriter far too much. I also enjoy watching the ribbon casette gradualy unwind, indicating the progress I have made. Ass my page is coming to and end, so will this entry. I fear that an entry longer than two pages will leave me typing 'till sunrise. So I bring this entry to a conclusion. Regards All.
12/6/2004
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home