time

For the first time in a long while I'm sitting down at a computer without the constraint of a library limit pressing on the anterior region of my cerebellum, and perhaps somewhere in the cockles of my heart (or maybe even the sub-cockles).

It doesn't make much difference. Computers are inherently time-based demons, and it's a hyper-driven sort of temporality. Keeping up is not only impossible, it's insane. In an ideal world, I would sit on the porch of my cabin by a lake sipping hot tea in the morning. I would commune with the source of it all and meditate, allowing myself to be still and know that there is a God, and that I am not it. Then, eventually, a birdcall would echo across the still surface of the water, bounding through the mist to tickle my tympanum and remind me, somehow, of something else. I would pull out a few sheets of hand-pressed paper, hand-made by my friend Kurt Armstrong, and I would write down a thought or two. When my tea and thoughts were done, I'd hand the sheets to my wife (who'd be creaking very slowly in the hammock next to me), and she would walk inside to our satellite-linked, incredibly-fast laptop discreetly hidden in an alcove by the toilet, and she'd copy it out for me. Because that's what loving wives do - the dirty work.

Fantasies are fun and useful, but in the long run they become the crutch of fools. Love it or not, I'm in this sick sad mad-paced world, so I will chose to accept it and love it and live in it to the best of my ability. However, if anybody has a cabin to loan me, I'm game.