Having just thirty minutes of internet time here at the main branch of the Brooklyn Public Library; I find myself typing words from a hand-written piece of paper, dictating on this modern version of the typewriter, words that were crafted the ancient way—one letter at a time—some in cursive, others in standard, elementary print—my free-flowing thoughts captured as if by Polaroid—this is the best way for any writer to put thoughts to print. Only so fast can we write by hand—not seventy words per minute—capturing every remote thought—leading ourselves astray from what it was initially we intended to write about with the power of a keyboard.
How rare it is to write with pencil or pen in this new age where cell phones have stolen our hearing and blackberries have killed our taste for effective prose.
The written word is sweet when crushed like grapes under feet for wine, so I write with my hands.
No longer an internet connection at home—just thirty minutes a day here at the library. No longer do I awake at night to hit refresh buttons—waiting for nothing but the written word in a time when words no longer hold true meaning when they are written so thoughtlessly, fast, by computers.
Cannot write from in here—so many other New Yorkers in the library putting on airs of silence. Got to put words down the hard way, and just type them from one of these government machines—for free, or so it seems.
Seek clarity of mind before using Twitter and make your children learn to read before they see their first pop-up! That’s my only advice.
Notice how machines have stolen the ancient art of creating page- long paragraphs where one can go on and on as a poet without boring the reader or using a coma or a semicolon and still somehow manage to keep the attention of on-line readers who typically cannot sit still long enough to keep one thought process lasting without being distracted by some ungodly blinking light in some far reaching corners of the night sky that is to all of us that temptation to click here.
Just get away from it all. That’s what I’ve learned from having my time limited from this world called the internet. Free yourselves of this mess that I call a waste of time—even if it is just thirty minutes a day.
Only paper can capture the true essence of the poet’s soul. When we write, off-the-cuff at these machines, we lose a part of what is ourselves as writers of a true language, and for some reason, it seems that comprehension is more likely when grafted from written words on paper—like within the hardcover books here at the Brooklyn Public Library.
I’ve read so many this summer and there is still so much to catch up on as a writer if ever I wish to write something like:– East of Eden, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Dracula, Psychic Pets by Sylvia Browne and St. John of the Cross.