The Hafwit’s Diary — 17

February 1, 2021

A notification appears in a small box at the upper right corner of my computer screen

I am informed my daily average screen time — the time my computer is linked with the Internet — is 8 hours, 6 minutes.

I close the box.

Location: a screened-off section in a large “multipurpose room.”

The room is part of the Siberia With a View Community Center and serves as a gymnasium for local youth programs, complete with basketball backboards and hoops, and small portable bleachers. Continue reading

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The Hafwit’s Diary — 16

I’m seated on the toilet in the bathroom at my house in Siberia With a View, plaid PJ pants at my ankles, book in hand.

I’m re-reading one of Nabokov’s lectures on literature, the piece on Ulysses, thrilled that I still remember Boody, Dilly, Katey, and Maggy. I regret I’ve not known a woman named “Dilly.”

I’m reminded of Nabokov’s theory about the identity of the man in the brown Mackintosh.

He’s probably right. If anyone knows what Joyce is up to, it’s Vlad.

Joyce spent 15 years in Trieste, so I think about Italy. Continue reading

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The Hafwit’s Diary — 14,15

December  21, 2020

A notification appears in a small box at the upper right corner of my computer screen

I am informed my daily average screen time — the time my computer is linked with the Internet — is seven hours, thirty-one minutes.

I close the box.

Algo continues to supply videos it/he/she/they (a plethora of pronouns is the safe bet these days) reckons that I’ll enjoy.

In its/his/her/their ongoing effort to obscure the ruthless and relentless math, render the system familiar and comfy, and secure my trust, Algo steps up the pace as the quarantine continues, pandemic sweat flows freely, and the solstice arrives. Continue reading

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The Hafwit’s Diary — 12,13

December 11, 2020

A notification appears in a small box at the upper right corner of my computer screen

I am informed my daily average screen time — the time my computer is linked with the Internet — is seven hours, seven minutes.

I close the box.

It’s clear my fylgjurs are intoxicated and barely conscious, and have been since the day I was born. Perhaps from the time sperm collided with egg shortly after Dad leapt from the troop train at Denver’s Union Station in 1945 after two years away in the North Africa and Italian campaigns, and jumped Mom’s bones in the back seat of the taxi on the way home.

There’s no other explanation. Continue reading

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