Perhaps I need a new cmputer. That wuld be computer. That would be would. The O key sticks. The space bar sticks. And I am a crummy typist anyway, even on the best of keybards. Uh, keyboards. Though a keybard would come in handy. Singing, bardically, everytime I sat down to type. Anyway writing turns out to be a little more work than it might otherwise be, if I had either a keybard or a keyboard that worked. A little more work than the usual ease that Dorothy Parker so well described (“writing is easy, you just sit down and open up a vein”). Oh, yeah, otherwise I’d be churning out those essays and letters and lectures and stories. Yeah. And this blg, blog, whatever, which I must have started because I had so very much spare time on my hands? Nah, I just had some spare outrage on my hands.
Anyway, the outrage is fading into numbness as the catastrophe piles up.
This from Walter Benjamin:
A Klee painting named ‘Angelus Novus’ shows an angel looking as though he is about to move away from something he is fixedly contemplating. His eyes are staring, his mouth is open, his wings are spread. This is how one pictures the angel of history. His face is turned toward the past. Where we perceive a chain of events, he sees one single catastrophe which keeps piling wreckage and hurls it in front of his feet. The angel would like to stay, awaken the dead, and make whole what has been smashed. But a storm is blowing in from
