I mean, really, anything can seem annoying. And, come to think of it, anything can seem sacred. Right now I’m at the Society Library, it’s Sunday, and for some reason I expected it to be unusually quiet. I mean, this library costs money, and part of the rules are that there’s silence and no eating. That leaves a lot of people out. But then this asian woman with grey hair, pearls, and a white collar sticking out of a black crew neck sweater, sat down across from me, rolled out her newer Macbook Pro (newer than mine), and started typing like she was Beethoven playing his Ninth Symphony when he was really mad. It made my teeth hurt.
And yet, just a couple of hours ago, walking up to Bronnie’s dad’s apartment after an excellent yoga class, I saw a little boy walking with his dad; the little boy was wearing huge, bright-red soccer shorts that came down to below his knees, and tiny running shoes, and the way his giant shorts flapped around his spindly white knees in the sunlight like a flag was pure…you know. It was magic.
So what the hell. The sound of typing is the sound of mantra. Sometimes I forget.
Deitch 