I was going to write another thrilling entry of negotiating the land of blog but if I’m this bored with it, I would guess you guys close to abandoning ship, so let’s forgo that whole thing and start anew shall we? In fact let’s go back to my first true love alas, she no longer exists anymore in this cyberworld, and she is dying a slow and painful death in our day-to-day existence.
An ode to pen and paper whose sensuality and eroticism must makes me name it she.
Whenever I am feeling beaten, overwrought and nothing is making sense anymore I take out my journal and begin lamenting, it soothes me. When I’m excited it’s great to have somewhere to record it. I don’t expect anyone would ever read it, I strongly advise my partners against it and there’s no other reason for doing it other than the sheer release. It is a sanctuary I can take with me wherever I go.
It makes me so sad to realize that the written word is a dying art and everything in this world is becoming so disjointed, so detached, so electronically enhanced, so impersonal. Typing is efficient but impersonal. I am happy I was born in a simpler time and I know what it was like before the advent of the computer era. I’m glad I learned to do cursive writing am able to complete a word without lifting the pen off the paper except to dot an i or cross a t. Most youths today will never know cursive writing and still others will barely know how to print. I wonder what will become of the signature but then I give my head a shake. Come on, we’re all going to be chipped in the very near future anyway. There’ll be no need; a simple scan of your wrist will do the trick.
They call it “social media”, anti-social more like, everyone clicking away on machines, it’s not interacting, it’s disengaging, disconnecting. And a lot of people hide behind pseudonyms and computer screens and all the passive aggressive assholes of the world have found a place to thrive. Now we have cyber bullying and cyber stalking, identity theft but to name a few.
And as I write this I just got chewed out for typing while watching t.v. Does anyone else see the irony there? Exactly how am I supposed to be participating fully in the “activity” do tell. Meanwhile my dogs keep jumping all over my keyboard while I’m trying to type, they too clamoring for my attention. I push them away and I’m angry because I have become one of them. I now do the majority of my “writing” on my computer in a “word processing” program. The writing itself requires little thought or skill, it checks my spelling, shows me grammatical errors and in my blog it even indicates if I’m using a passive voice. Pretty soon it’ll just “write” for me.
There will come a day in the not too distant future when the word write will become antiquated (if it hasn’t already). It’ll be very, oh there’s another way to spell right, wonder why? I pause to pet my dog and am glad that I still have the luxury of slipping between the two worlds.
It’s like the cell phone these days, no longer can you slam down the phone impassioned, somehow hitting end is so unsatisfying. Oh sure you can pick it up and whip it at the wall but who can afford to do that to their multimedia device these days? Same thing with paper, nothing like crumpling up a sheet or tearing it apart in frustration, or better yet writing a whole sputum of b.s. about someone or something that has driven you mad, rip the pages dramatically from your journal, place them in the sink and burn them in effigy – release! Delete, not so much.
Very few today will understand the feat I accomplished by being left-handed and never smearing ink across the page or curling my hand around in that weird looking way that some do. I had the good sense to realize at a young age that I could simply turn the paper instead. Now I just stare at a screen and listen to the faint clicking of the keys and whirring of my computer’s fan.
Good bye dear pen, I’ve loved you so with your different tips, varying thicknesses and a myriad of colours of ink, your infuriating stains on my favourite bag, the way my fingers would cramp after writing for long periods and your constant elusiveness in my bag. The other day, I got an ink stain on my wallet, instead of making me angry I almost cried.