I typed this today on my 1974 Royal Sabre Typewriter in answer to Daniel Marleau's call for one typed page on this site Typewriter Review. Alas, while I was typing my green ribbon gave out and so I finished it on my iPad Pro.
So I decided this really is my Blog Post for March anyway. Stay safe.
Places in time where you become the blame
There are no descriptions here or details of how to reach these places, or if they exist in all fairness. They are vague and yet here I am in my pajamas with a pashmina around my neck and my hoody covering my head because my hair has been cut so so short, Pixie they call it, and it is the right style for the time.
Time feels slowed and meant to keep us from danger. Danger is all the talk and as things go on it is us who are resented. Us, the ones who everyone now thinks they are being sacrificed for. Well, not so much sacrificed as in being thrown into a volcano so that horrific deities would be satisfied. And not so much sacrificed at all really yet we are still the target. If we would just die everything would come back to “as it was, really really fast.”
But us, we know, have grown to know, that the past is just that, past. It isn’t in the present you are in. It sheds as the next moment fills in. We have a long view that goes beyond the often necessary eye glasses. A view that merges small whiffs of spring grass and the experience of the first taste of vanilla frozen custard; that taste before taste is blunted by the next and following licks.
Who chooses who to hate? And why bother with such bullseye stuff when so many moments spread out and over with weather and wind?
Ah, but it is capital that undoes humanity. The fiction of it. The glory of having and wanting more and dreaming (and many knowing) of the powers therein. We are all caught in the strings.
I am not forgetful and not without bills, by now I know loss and that the shape of losing is more than just the tangible.
This time that we are in is not infinite for any of us. And just as this is said it fades to discomfort and you point and become small minded fear; someone must pay, the ones of age.
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