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« The cosmic fox and the ten claws. »
Titanic by German artist Willy Stöwer, 1912
Anything you do can be fixed. What you cannot fix is the perfection of a blank page. What you cannot fix is the pristine, unsullied whiteness of a screen or a page with nothing on it, cause there’s nothing there to fix.
It’s a sort of computery thing: if you’re typing, *putting stuff down* is work. If you’ve got a computer, adding stuff is not work, *choosing* is work. It sort of expands a bit like a gas, if you have two things you could say, you say both of them. If you have stuff you want to add, you add it. And I thought I have to not do that, otherwise my stuff is going to balloon and it will become gaseous and thin.
So what I love, if I’ve written stuff on a computer and I loose a chunk, it feels like I lost work, if I delete a page and a half I feels like that page and a half just went away, and that’s a page and a half’s worth of work I’ve just lost. If I’ve been writing in a notebook and I’m typing it up, and I can look at something and I can go “I don’t need this page and a half” and I leave it out, I just saved myself work, and it feels like I’m treating myself.
L’air chantait / The air was singing