A nice brisk Colorado morning. Bitter, cold coffee. My fingers wrapped around the spines. A ponderous day. Cracked slowly, bent until comfortably worn. Our love was like that. My book and me. Mine. The Best American Non required Reading. Nice, neat, pages. Seven dollars and fifty cents. Up to my itching, allergic, seasonally aware nose. The smell, familiar. Nearly unsteadied my conscious. Steady// The first few breathes and sighs. Contextual. A thought. On technology; On my life.
Friday. Swift, sensual piece of art. Humans will leap. Leap into its arms like swaddled infants. Consumed. Consensual. Consummation. The marriage between technology and human heart—wild and free. Dangerously friendly. Tugging. Staring through the peephole. Left sleepless, then offered a bed. One eye open. Creative license. License to kill. Slowly.
What does it mean for literature? For me? Captivating. No competition. Words, Words, Words. No sparks//No flare. Color. But vacant. Not seen, but felt. In this. Technological age, upstaged by saturation. A book, your design. Mechanics, (no effort). A thrill ride. It says something, speaks about the times. In a whisper, only some can hear. Or choose to listen. What will happen to the depth of language? This. Why (some days) awoken OK. Sleepy eyes, eye the spine. Ok? That broken spine. broken spirit. (metaphysical leap). And here I am, hands red. Is the medium the message? John Fiske, are you there? The praxis of hegemony. No, keep them both in your mind. Cognitive dissonance.
I already miss the smell.