While devices were being charged, couldn’t sleep, nagged by print-based thought, took something to relax, starting reading on my favorite topic: the death of reading, and writing. I say let’s recreate the stylus vibe, a daring detour around entropy as only a trained semiologist would devise. Four collections of essays by Arthur Schopenhauer queued up on Kindle; in turn, my parchment is my horse, and, in turn, turned down another invitation to meet in a public setting for barbecue and beer and music, in order to read about and from the Harlem Renaissance, one of fiction’s many worlds (and did you study, I’ll ask Sue, with Charles May? Whilst I continue at her library. Book after book. Cover to cover. One after another.)
Poetry, too; poetry in the operating instructions on the underside of a washing machine lid. Which is not to say you’ll discover anything similar to, or even approaching, for instance, Blake’s oratorical virtuosity--thoughtful grave, stormy bed, burdened air, seamless grass et al—but there’s no guarantee that later at a garage sale you won’t encounter a recreated illustration from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell made from breath mints or shirt buttons or postage stamps stuck onto a piece of cardboard.
Entropy: a doctrine of inevitable social decline and degeneration.