Ideas are not birthed, they are captured. Elusive and fickle, thought frolics like a kid straight out of school. Machines did not equip us with ideas; they merely help us capture them. Spear them down with safety pins, a grotesque abdomen of exposed entrails. Our thought is repulsive but honest, instinctive and pure.
The typewriter is the remaining bastion of expression hunting. Not reliant on electricity, the mechanical cornucopia smashes its appendages on a miniature canvas, splattering emotion in precise linear shapes. The machine asks no questions and is supremely subservient to its owner.
Documenting ideas has become more efficient as technology trudges into the electronic age. The typewriter challenges efficiency by introducing an element of savoring. The process tactile and the sensation tangible, keys clatter with purpose. There are no aids, only obedient marks summoned by an uncensored consciousness.
Those bathed in admiration of the typewriter prefer a partner in their creation, and not a lifeless red squiggle or an absolute backspace bar. Mistakes are reduced to creative quirks and ink elevated to spilled blood. A dialogue forms between person and machine, and incubation of meaning initiates.
Obsession always has noble causes. To outsiders a person's passion might seem overtly sensual or nonsensical, but admiration's roots grow deep in sentimental soil. Faced with a chaotic existence, a focal point for creativity provides a saving grace for those manic and compulsive.
Being particular is becoming less praised in a multitasking world. Satisfaction slowly aligns with speed. A hollow qualification of accomplishment, completion overrides process. The typewriter stands stoically in the stream of this devolution. The journey is the creation, and the creation is the sum of one's creative missteps. Concrete are the symbols of this machine's language: Romantic and dying.
The typewriter is the remaining bastion of expression hunting. Not reliant on electricity, the mechanical cornucopia smashes its appendages on a miniature canvas, splattering emotion in precise linear shapes. The machine asks no questions and is supremely subservient to its owner.
Documenting ideas has become more efficient as technology trudges into the electronic age. The typewriter challenges efficiency by introducing an element of savoring. The process tactile and the sensation tangible, keys clatter with purpose. There are no aids, only obedient marks summoned by an uncensored consciousness.
Those bathed in admiration of the typewriter prefer a partner in their creation, and not a lifeless red squiggle or an absolute backspace bar. Mistakes are reduced to creative quirks and ink elevated to spilled blood. A dialogue forms between person and machine, and incubation of meaning initiates.
Obsession always has noble causes. To outsiders a person's passion might seem overtly sensual or nonsensical, but admiration's roots grow deep in sentimental soil. Faced with a chaotic existence, a focal point for creativity provides a saving grace for those manic and compulsive.
Being particular is becoming less praised in a multitasking world. Satisfaction slowly aligns with speed. A hollow qualification of accomplishment, completion overrides process. The typewriter stands stoically in the stream of this devolution. The journey is the creation, and the creation is the sum of one's creative missteps. Concrete are the symbols of this machine's language: Romantic and dying.