« Testing. | Main | »
July 29, 2003
M.A.S.H. game
It seems almost unbelievable that when I was kid, I could open up a notebook with its fresh shiny spiral wire binding, and write in it for hours, and there it would be, the next day, a record of me in that moment. Scrawling or carefully scribing in bubbled blue ballpoint about the best friend who hates me, the new shirt I bought with allowance, the boys (oh the endless) I am crushing on ... ad nauseam!
After a while, I'd start to worry about someone finding that notebook. That singular romance of unblemished bright red or orange or yellow cover marred with ink smears or doodles or scuff marks. The promise of spiral wire dulling and bending and flattening - in the worst cases becoming rusted and the top crimped bit coming undone and snagging at sweaters, poking into your fingers when you pull it from your bag.
And now, this. My own computer, brightly glowing into the night, the only sounds are me and my breath and the ice cubes slowly cracking in the glass, tip tapping of keys, and me me me, all over the screen. This self-indulgence is slightly addictive, I admit, and I wonder why it's double-spacing the lines, and I wonder why this is so complex and yet so easy. In one instant, in a saucy little click of the mouse, I have shared with the outside world.
This translation of my words through machine is a wonder, but I can't help but think back to those poor battered notebooks, stacked in some plastic bin somewhere, turning yellower with each passing year - we didn't know about archival paper in the 70's and 80's did we? We kids? We of the mighty four-color ballpoints and the neon sneakers. Our legacy seems to be pointed directly at our future.
So here I sit, pixels on the screen before me, geometric and unforgiving squares that we call 'pages,' when they are really anything but.
np: The Child is Gone, Fiona Apple
Posted by dina at July 29, 2003 4:05 AM