After a year of neglect my typewriter has decided to rebel against me and refuse to work when I ask it to. This is a shame as I actually have a use for it now. The theory that caused me to buy it has been proved true, that is I find it difficult to write in front of a computer screen and that I print to slow by hand to fully keep up with my thoughts. This failure to keep up leads me to become disinterested and give up. I am not sure why I find writing with a word processor so difficult but it is now a difficulty I must live with, and ultimately overcome.
I learnt to type in my first year of highschool and practised and refined this skill for the next two years when the Internet (and IRC and Instant Messaging) arrived causing me to unlearn what I had been taught about proper hand positioning and ... so on. I had no real desire to lean how to type and I chose to take this class because I did not want to learn music or devote the time and effort required to learn a language, plus both of these choices would have meant I was commited for the next three years to these subjects, something I did not want. The fact that I would be using a computer was the reason my parents and sister thought I had chosen the subject and I had no desire to correct this assumption.
The first year of my word processing (I think that was the name given to the subject) class was taken in a classroom which contained a mixture of computers and typewriters. It seems strange to me now that in 1996 there was not enough computers in a classroom for each student to have one. Somehow I ended up with a computer and I jealously guarded it for the first few weeks as we all got into the habit of sitting at various machines. I am not sure where I was going with this.
This was meant to go in Monday's entry.
Sunday while in the supermarket the power went out. Instead of being left to my own devices inside my friends apartment I had been dragged through the tree lined streets to a very trendy and white supermarket. No sooner had we failed to find the sour cream than the stores fans ground to a halt and the lights went out plunging the store into darkness. We were then rounded up from the dark abysses of the store and ushered through the checkout aisles and out the door. Milling around outside wondering what to do next I began to remember how it felt to be an outsider. Strangely I felt no sense of resentment or shame just uncomfortable. I suppose this could be considered progress.
I will have to keep a close eye on my friend when he is over in future. His reason for not allowing me to stay at his apartment was the fear that I would rummage through his papers and possessions. As I am a great believer in the idea that we imagine others will behave how we would in a given situation, I can only assume he can not be trusted alone now.
I wish I knew where I wanted to go when I started this entry.
That is all.
