Damn the Keyboard

I used to have a ruled notebook filled with bad verse with a Hero fountain pen. I now have a Parker but have lost the ability to write. I can type of course. If you give me a week in a calm place, away from work and home, perhaps I could light that smouldering fire and burn out the theme of my life on paper, finally and truly grasp for the words and forge them into something that speaks. But on a keyboard? Will I lug this laptop there? Damn. I used to frame words in my mind before putting pen to paper: now I just type, rearrange, cut, paste, undo. Something in the brain has died. No thrill now of lines forming in your brain, and then the frenzy of capturing them. My fingers now move over the keys like deranged mechanic needles, while my brain, like a rusty foot-pedal, drives them. O the fountain pen, and the blue spattering of words on white paper, and the pause after a long series of lines to stretch for the inkpot with smudged fingers...