Silly Wednesday (one day early)
I'm sitting at my old-fashioned typewriter (or so I imagine), the one that race-types gorgeously professional type romantically called "Times New Roman". Smartly, it creates little artworks called 'characters' out of thin white space; any of 26 of which when placed in a non-random order communicates stuff. Amaze-in'!
So here I am, at this old Remington, the kind that gurgles and pitches, speaks and whirls, jiivvies and jives at the end of a line…whiiirrrrrl - back to a fresh white line. All that potential, a line has the potential of a life, with everyone having the same 26 letters and various punctuations available to them. With those humble materials, we all fashion a semblance of order on a blank, vacumous space.
What would Shakespeare think of this? Almost 400 years have passed since the Bard of Avon scribed his thoughts painstakingly on parchment with the ink of a sow's breath, upon the scummy tableau of an animal's skin. He once sat upon rustic hills of dank England, breathing the dung of sheep, and producing the most hallucengic prose man has ever seen - the inky, fragrant prose that carried the mind off the English empire to new and heady places.
Note: Obviously the Bard didn't scribble his thoughts using those media. Merely poetic license!