So we’re suddenly on summer vacation, i.e. reunited with each other. We’ve been spending all our time and more capering in the immanent world.
My dear brother gave me a typewriter. It’s fairly new — early 1980s — but what a different experience from the computer keyboard! The sound. The violent physical jolt of the carriage, the motion of the hammers as they swing. It’s electric, but infinitely more mechanical than the one I’m typing from now, the flat grid of buttons on my MacBook. It makes noise whenever its on, even when one isn’t typing — a heaving, buzzing sound, vaguely like breathing.
The typewriter can correct mistakes; there’s the option to switch from the black ribbon to a white one. And it has a little bell that sounds at the end of a line. (These things may well be standard and unremarkable; I know almost nothing about typewriters, except that my parents used them all through college, and that I want to find an Underwood some day, because they’re beautiful.)
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