Phew that last one and the typos. Reminder: don't do a bunch of physical work, and then drink beer, and then try to write. But there's also something there.
This is besides the fact that typos don't bother me as much anymore, for reasons I've elaborated on previously. But also, I continue to find the experience of the typo quite odd. You are typing away, and in your head, everything is sounding just fine. The typo interrupts later on as a surprise: oh I didn't mean to type that. But you did, and it is there.
There was something happening in your head that starts to drift away from what is happening in your body, in your muscle memory and the movement of your fingers. The mental experience was enclosed in a bubble with its own internal logic, and the muscle movements influenced by that experience were operating on a plane of their own. In this case, the state of fatigue and inebriation caused a distortion in that process.
And of course this happens all the time: we mean to walk down the sidewalk to go from point A to point B; we certainly don't mean to trip on the seam of that slab that has slightly and slyly been raised by tree roots, which is not a normal occurrence of what is supposed to be a level and seamless sidewalk. And then that seamlessness reinforces itself, establishing standards and expectations, and so the seamlessness must be reproduced.
For that matter, the West glides along drunk on its mythology, increasingly annoyed with all of the misaligned slabs, many of them perturbed by its own activities, rising as stumbling blocks and frustrations to its smooth movement.
The mind does guide and drive in a powerful way, but then the material world it interacts with persists for longer, and can be influenced and shaped by the mind, but only so far: it operates on its own plane with its own logic, and the mind in turn has to adapt to those realities it cannot easily and readily transform.
