Friday, July 31, 2015


gggggggGggGgggggg Wunderlich or American Typewriter then. Or Chalkduster. No. Unless the font is the message, and it isn't. Sometimes the font is distracting and Chalkduster is that unless Tom is what? selling ice cream on the boardwalk? For what one might use Chalkduster, IDK, I like its g though it obviously can't hear, and I prefer the ear of AT's g that reminds me of a California quail. But looking at Chalkduster, I hear a fingernail scraping on the blackboard in a classroom somewhere early in the twentieth century, and cringing.

Twelve-something with the blue moon at zenith, now two-oh-three. A small glass of milk and back to bed. Or maybe, having worn the battery down nineteen percent, close the thing and doze in the blue lift chair. My mother used to wake in the night, get up, read awhile then turn out the light and go back to sleep. Seems like eighty is old enough, but I’m forty-five days short.

For some reason, yesterday, browsing online took me by Mark Twain, came across Pudd’nhead Wilson, which I’ve never read, so downloaded and read a few chapters. Two baby boys born the same day, a baby boy who’s 31/32 white, and except for the rags or ribbons can’t be told from the supposedly 32/32 boy next to him, is about to be swapped out by his 1/16 slave mama to save him being sold down the river. Samuel Clemens had the dialects down perfect. But I’ll not resume, because the situs shows there’s no reason for an American to be ashamed of just his German heritage. Would 1/32 still be a Jew in Deutschland? Or a slave in America? Mark Twain is poking at our ludicrosity, but has me cringing in shame. 

Friday: a walking day and breakfast.

as in vaylor

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