Wers-wers (the missing characters)
READING Evangelista, I picked up the phrase (below) that I thought should have long served as this site’s epigraph:
“Every writer, without exception, is a masochist, a sadist, a peeping Tom, an exhibitionist, a narcissist, an ‘injustice collector’ and a depressed person constantly haunted by fears of unproductivity.” -- Edmund Bergler
But who's the "writer" in this obscure little space? Writer? ...ehem! "Blogger" is most like it.
But what if your keyboard refused to churn out your favorite letters and characters? If binaries become "uninaries"? If zeroes and ones interchanged or snubbed each other? Then the writer should turn into a "wrier"; a blogger into a "blggr".
At a time when Google has googled up (read: devoured) the old blogspot dot com, I have lost pretty much of my keys. AbsenT blogger for so long was I. But even with few keys, i ThoughT it's abouT time to blog again. Blogging wit missing keys is wers-wersing. But thn I must. Wers-wers in this space even more... wers-wers til this blogger drops
Dead.
It’s been a long while (one year) since I las blogged in m hoghs... or wha appeared as. If onl blogging was an exercise ha reqires no more han lierall spiing o words a he pc monior, finding a rg and wiping he LCD screen wold no be a problem. Alas, blogging is wriing, and ha’s where he bigger problem begins. Aha!... wriing, if onl o sbsaniae Bergler's claims abo ha "depressed person constantly haunted by fears of unproductivity,” and if decenc allows it, wers-wersing can also be writing.
Wers-wersing this blogger's wa. No, noT Erap's way -- it's eraption, and it's ugly.
Wers-wersing from memor abo a noonime dream his blgger js had makes he acual dream appears even more nighmarish. IT projecs he dream's images beween he srreal and he morbid... nighmare.
It was srreal. Nreal as i definile cold no happen in an afternoon like his. No on a da in Ma when sligh showers and absent breeze clutter one’s vision of who is speaking across he room. Dlce appeared. Surprised, I cold onl sa “hi, kamsa ka na?” can’ remember hogh if we gave her a hg or even a bzz. Her bro erneso was looking a me over her sholders. And I cold onl greeed him wih he same line. Bablin… eah, she was here, b begged off and rshed awa from s. as if on alibi. Ronnie. Oliz. Ann alone in a able I signaled o follow s. and he did. William, sill wih ha smile. And around a bigger able we chose or seas… and cards! Was i oliz who peeked a m karada? If I was a ck nine game, I wold hink I firs had a six hand, hen picked an ace, hen a seven. Eiiw. Hen ipos reared his head. And here ong girls, all wearing whie, cold be nrses or masseses… whaever… Ahh. I refsed. Even if I ried, for he vale of he rial, in ring o recall where and when I have previosl me one or wo of hem girls. He reall didn’ look familiar. I refsed. And woke p o a srong pounding on m ches… so srong I hogh I felt the bed rock-and-rolled.
I was dying?
Noonime nighmare.
“Every writer, without exception, is a masochist, a sadist, a peeping Tom, an exhibitionist, a narcissist, an ‘injustice collector’ and a depressed person constantly haunted by fears of unproductivity.” -- Edmund Bergler
But who's the "writer" in this obscure little space? Writer? ...ehem! "Blogger" is most like it.
But what if your keyboard refused to churn out your favorite letters and characters? If binaries become "uninaries"? If zeroes and ones interchanged or snubbed each other? Then the writer should turn into a "wrier"; a blogger into a "blggr".
At a time when Google has googled up (read: devoured) the old blogspot dot com, I have lost pretty much of my keys. AbsenT blogger for so long was I. But even with few keys, i ThoughT it's abouT time to blog again. Blogging wit missing keys is wers-wersing. But thn I must. Wers-wers in this space even more... wers-wers til this blogger drops
Dead.
It’s been a long while (one year) since I las blogged in m hoghs... or wha appeared as. If onl blogging was an exercise ha reqires no more han lierall spiing o words a he pc monior, finding a rg and wiping he LCD screen wold no be a problem. Alas, blogging is wriing, and ha’s where he bigger problem begins. Aha!... wriing, if onl o sbsaniae Bergler's claims abo ha "depressed person constantly haunted by fears of unproductivity,” and if decenc allows it, wers-wersing can also be writing.
Wers-wersing this blogger's wa. No, noT Erap's way -- it's eraption, and it's ugly.
Wers-wersing from memor abo a noonime dream his blgger js had makes he acual dream appears even more nighmarish. IT projecs he dream's images beween he srreal and he morbid... nighmare.
It was srreal. Nreal as i definile cold no happen in an afternoon like his. No on a da in Ma when sligh showers and absent breeze clutter one’s vision of who is speaking across he room. Dlce appeared. Surprised, I cold onl sa “hi, kamsa ka na?” can’ remember hogh if we gave her a hg or even a bzz. Her bro erneso was looking a me over her sholders. And I cold onl greeed him wih he same line. Bablin… eah, she was here, b begged off and rshed awa from s. as if on alibi. Ronnie. Oliz. Ann alone in a able I signaled o follow s. and he did. William, sill wih ha smile. And around a bigger able we chose or seas… and cards! Was i oliz who peeked a m karada? If I was a ck nine game, I wold hink I firs had a six hand, hen picked an ace, hen a seven. Eiiw. Hen ipos reared his head. And here ong girls, all wearing whie, cold be nrses or masseses… whaever… Ahh. I refsed. Even if I ried, for he vale of he rial, in ring o recall where and when I have previosl me one or wo of hem girls. He reall didn’ look familiar. I refsed. And woke p o a srong pounding on m ches… so srong I hogh I felt the bed rock-and-rolled.
I was dying?
Noonime nighmare.
posted by totoy.c.c.perpeña | 2:56 AM
