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I’ve switched to my laptop, having completed a letter on my typewriter; I’m at my parent’s house/ the house I grew up in for the day in Pennsylvania. The laptop keys are so much lighter, I realize that being able to type, like actually type, is really a skill that only makes sense if you use a typewriter — it takes muscle and focus. And thus it’s better.
I prefer it here, incidentally, in Pennsylvania, which is absolutely bursting with green; New York hasn’t been very interesting lately, I feel like I do the same things, follow the same paths — which is my fault, but nevertheless…. I simply don’t believe the city is good all the time, and lately, I’m wondering if it’s good any of the time. I’m successful there, but I don’t think I’m developing, I don’t find myself growing any wiser in the city; just exhausted.
My childhood bedroom has partly been converted into a library; 90% of all the books I own are here — there must be at least 1,000; I could easily spend my entire summer here, re-reading. I think I would prefer to spend my entire summer here, in fact, re-reading. Going forward all the time, plunging into professional success just uses you up; wears out the soil — re-reading is composting, sewing the earth with nutrient-rich soil. I can almost feel — geolocate— the parts of my brain that are worn-out; that need to be fertilized.
Philosophers puzzle over the miracle of self-awareness; cognitive recursion — but human consciousness is not particularly aware of the systems that give rise to it — the brain and body; the brain/body. We…
