Fingers slap the keys in some parody of attention. Europe is wholeheartedly feminized, and there is weakness in it's soft power, it's economics, it's inability to mount a war. Americans, the males, the angry frat boys of the world, splashing missiles and choosing its own path, heedless of everybody and anybody. Schoolyard battles conducted in gray seats, in a wood paneled classroom with a moderator who's supposed to be the arbiter of truth, the broker of understanding, the one who clarifies. And I wonder if it's the language barrier that stops her. She seems like she understands without thinking, that dual power of the multi-lingual to organize the brain in many tracks. Or maybe its that she doesn't want to wield her authority because she's afraid once she does she'll never stop. Then there's those of us that can't resist, that open our mouths almost against our will, wishing we could correct, wishing we could show just how right we are.
I have all these little comments that I want to spawn that slink away the moment my fingers hit the keys. I wonder if I kept a notebook, would they flee as fast? I'm roped, increasingly, to this machine that's half portable and often unwieldy. Can't resist its lure or its clicky-clacky link to the outside world. Machines provoke them though, these random impulses, they're floating up from my surface thoughts when i'm in the car, that two ton machine that somehow inspires me. Or they trickle in through the ear buds of the ipod, sneaking around their musical accompaniment.
Tomorrow? The weekend? at some time in the near distant future, after papers due and presentations given, i'm going to attempt to write fic in this weird and uncomfortable slightly tilted voice and see what comes.