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The Death of Literacy as we know it [Aug. 6th, 2008|02:10 pm]
Nikola Tesla
The summer returns to this land. The blazing heat of the sun that humanity has yet to conquer. Finally my typist's school is finished allowing me to write. I plan to write weekly if not daily for the sake of those reading it. 

Case in point, my typist was out buying groceries. I accompanied her as usual, it's unfit for a lady to out on er own. Especially with the riff raff that openly walks the streets in this day and age.  On her way to the store she happened to read over the shoulder of the woman next to her who was reading the newspaper. The lady noticed her and my typist apologized for reading over her shoulder.

"Oh, it's alright." The lady said, "I don't read." 

Don't read? Don't read what? The newspaper?

As my typist explained to me later it seems that literature has fallen  out of style. People prefer to watch things.

"Things?" I inquired.

"Well, yeah." She replied, "It's not really entertainment, I mean everyone admits that it's trash,  so it's 'things.'"

"But reading is fundamental." I explained.

"Yes," She agreed, "But it's not fun."  What is that some kind of pun? 

Apparently no but she found in amusing all the same.  People of the free world, I emplore you to read! For the millions *cough*my mother*cough* who will never have that glorious opportunity.

I need a bagel.
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[Deadmentalking] The Prestige and other observations [Oct. 26th, 2006|02:31 pm]
Nikola Tesla
[Tags|, , ]
[Current Location |San Francisco, California]
[mood |contentcontent]
[music |Claire de Lune -Debussy]

My typist today has accompanied me to see this film that she has become very excited about. It was based on the book called The Prestige. When I asked her why she didn't leave me at home as she usually did I was informed that I was in it. I grabed my hat and my coat and we were off. For a movie I found it strangly excellent. On the matter of obessions and the drive that causes man to complete his goal, no matter what the personal cost, was presented accurately as was I. I was portrayed by a songwriter named David Bowie. I began to applaud at the end when my typist grabbed my hands. Apparently people do not clap anymore at the end of a performance. Thankfully she also had the forethought to bring some anti-bacterial with her as well.

"I have OCD tambien." She said adding in random bits of spanish.

"What?" I asked her.

"Obsessive Compulsive Disorder." She explained, "Like the way you always feel better when you don't shake hands or you chew every bite nine times."

At that moment her cousin had accidently brushed some chocolate onto her hand. She slammed on the breaks, nearing getting into an accident, jumped out of the car and immediantly preceaded to the nearest restaurant. Her cousin shouted some spanish at her, shouted some more at me, and than sent me after her to the chorus of impatient drivers. I eventually found her, hands bent over the sink, scrubbing her skin raw with a strange brishle brush that she always carried in her purse.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm scrubbing the chocolate off. I'm allergic to chocolate."

"I thought you were alergic if you eat chocolate."

"I am."

"That's the stupidest thing I ever heard of. A little chocolate won't kill you." With the speed that I have rarely seen a women to posses she had grabbed that filthy plunger that was residing in the corner and backed me into a corner with it.

"What now?" She asked her eyes daring me to defy her, "What now?!"

"For God's sake it's been in a toilet!"

"A little germ water won't kill you." She replied, "Not in this age. There's a hospital just down the street." She glared at me and through the hideous thing back into it's corner. I turned expecting her to come but I heard the water turned on.

"Aren't you comming?" I asked her.

"Well," she was blushing, "I DID touch a plunger..." I let the matter slide but smiled as if to tell her, I told you they were filthy. All the way home we sat in the back in a comfortable understanding silence as her cousin drived us home.
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[Deadmentalking] [Oct. 10th, 2006|10:54 am]
Nikola Tesla
[Current Location |Library]
[mood |worriedworried]
[music |the turning of pages, the expansion of thought]

Something has happened to this world. I find it much colder than when I was first alive.
My typist had been asking about the pigeon who used to find me wherever I was. My white pigeon whom I have difficulty speaking of since my last interview about her. I snapped at her though I instantly regretted it and said something that was rather cruel. Not only cruel but crude enough that I can not type it upon this page. She paused and, to my horror, her eyes started to water. In a moment she had locked herself up in her room and refused to come out or speak to me. She had left the television on and, I shudder to write it, I turned to the news. My poor beautiful country, my America, was ran over with men who had a rather sick interest in children. It saddened me but I had realize this before when I had looked out the window and found that the streets are unbearably empty. Deserted even.
I have also noticed this in my typist's behavior. She seems distracted, even paranoid when we walk together on our own. I sense there is a deep fear of strangers and an even deeper, if not a detest, for foreigners. I find it distressing but what's even more distressing is that there seems that there is nothing I can do to change that. This fear, this paranoia, this madness has become such a fact of life that people have come to accept it as everyday normality. A gentleman once asked us for directions one morning and my typist grabbed my hand and ran. As we ducked around a store corner she begged me to be silent until he past. We lost him but I will never forget the look in her eyes. Like that of a small bird being chased by some hawk.
It has been a couple of days since the incident and I've noticed this coldness being directed toward me from my typing companion. She looks at me and than looks down and refuses to be in the same room. If she talks to others she speaks in Spanish or Latin and I do speak Latin. She said, "I'm worried about him. About what he's going to do." and I equally worry what this "do" she thinks of is. Probably another perversion. In some ways I wish I could relax her or calm her but I do not know how to get that task accomplished. I hardly lived with anyone, save for my family, that I've been out of contact of human nature. I never thought much about the matters of the human heart and I still don't but it's difficult to watch the world suffer like it does. Especially since one of those inhabitants dictates everything that I say.
I wish I could help her, and the world, heal but I do not know how.

N. Tesla
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