327 Market

The Confessions of a Shameless Neo-Luddite.

My life has taken new meaning since I went shopping yesterday. I know I generally try not to be a crass american materialist, but this is an exception. I am sure you will all understand.

I bought a typewriter. I wish I could blog with it. It has The Smell. The Smell, that when it hits my nasal glands, opens the gates of memory. The odors of grease and metal, like an aura, a cloud, allow the words to flow. but not in torrents, becuase the thing takes a lot of skill and muscle to work... there are mysterious levers that need to be pulled, switches thrown, ribbons wound. I find it perversely satisfing to hit a key and watch the mechanisms spring and stretch. Sitting here, in front of H's mighty Machine, I get no such thrill. I tap lightly on the cushiony keys, I see a cursor moving. It could be telepathy for all I know. A typewriter appeals to the senses in ways that a computer cannot. Even the sounds are musical... the ringing bell at the end of the line, the arhythmic pounding of the keys. And the typewriter doesn't know about Control Z, you can't undo anything without busting out the white out. It has color, I can write in red. It has a finger print. A noir movie detective could figure out what was written on my typewriter. It has romance and history. I could sit in a jungle, away from electricity and pound out a masterpiece by candle light.

All of this for $2.

Who says the dollar doesn't have any purchasing power any more?

I also bought a turntable, a receiver and a tape deck. Nearly bought a reel to reel. Does any one know where I can get a cheap set of speakers?