Saturday, August 24, 2002

I feel like a fish.
Gills inflated with the density of "real" life and the abhorrence of that which many call breath of life,
my fins guiding me toward something entirely different, something subterranean and unearthy--I am not in my element, here.

My brother says everyone writes memoirs these days. I think it kind of disgusts him in hard copy form, but electronic is completely different. Not sure why. Maybe it has something to do with newness. Personal histories and journals are not that novel (excuse the pun), but online, for the masses, for free, that's something different. The revolution begins here, in the chaordic shapeless and unbound, the place of freedom -- freedom.
I process official stuff for a living -- that's not novel. But the means by which I told you would have baffled even the most ingenious less than half a lifetime ago.
Here's to the next 25 years.

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